When I was a kid, I loved sleepovers. My mom didn't let us have them all that often but when she did, she always made them special events filled with games to play and snacks to devour. They were always great fun; noshing on pizza, watching TV and giggling with my best buddies until my mother couldn't take it anymore. Having a good time and driving your mother crazy - what could be better, right?
Until recently, I honestly thought my days partying with an overnight visitor other than my husband were behind me. But I was mistaken. I now have the best sleepover buddy ever, one that puts those popcorn-eating, gossipy fifth-grade playmates to shame.
His name is Jack. He takes up half of a king-size bed, he frequently smacks me in the head with his elbow or fist, and he relishes repeat readings of Fox in Socks. He eats my pizza, wants to watch Toy Story instead of Say Yes to the Dress, and rewards me with disgusting presents in his pants. While his behavior doesn't sound like anyone you would want to spend time with, his bedtime antics don't do much to insure a good night's sleep, and he has the nerve to wake me earlier than any of my previous overnight guests, he is welcome anytime. As long as he accompanies all of the above with that omnipresent smile and incessant need to cuddle up next to me as closely as humanly possible, he can bunk with me anytime he wants to.
Before anyone has the nerve to go there, I know he should be safely tucked away in a crib (which we do not own) or, at the very least, the portable play yard that lives in his uncle's abandoned bedroom but I just can't seem to give up the opportunity to snuggle up with this heat-seeking, footie-pajama-wearing love bug any chance that I can get. Having raised a couple of kids I know all too well how soon he won't want (or be legally able) to share a bed with his Nana,
Until then, I'm going to enjoy every last snuggle I can.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Until You Use Me Up
It's no secret that America is known to be a little bit wasteful. From food to fossil fuels; water to electricity we have (rightfully) gained a reputation around the world as a nation who squanders its resources with little regard for the consequences. As a public service I have decided to do something about it - I have resolved that 2016 will be the year that I will not purchase any additional toiletries, cosmetics, or personal care items until I finish every one of the one hundred and twenty-seven partially used items that now dwell in my bathroom cabinet.
Okay. I know this grandiose pronouncement isn't going to challenge Al Gore's or Bill Gates's contributions to our environment but everyone has to do their part, right? And think about all the time I'll save not clipping coupons or searching for the "perfect" lipstick when I can combine any of the seventy-eight colors residing in my fourteen make-up bags into a different color every day. Think of the gas I won't be wasting driving to Ulta to "buy two/get two free" or the money I'll save not being hoodwinked into thinking that the latest gel foundation will finally make my skin look flawless or that expensive under-eye cream that Cindy Crawford swears by will return me to me twenty-something glory.
Yes, while others may fall prey to the constant encouragement to indulge in conspicuous consumption, I know what I will be doing. I will be finishing that quarter bottle of Tresemme on the shelf and polishing off the last remnants of that hotel conditioner that smells like coconut. I will be sorting through and consuming any product I find that hasn't been in that cabinet since the nineties. And I will be reveling in every tube, jar, and bottle that I can deposit in the recycling bin.
And then? It might be time to start clipping those coupons again.
Okay. I know this grandiose pronouncement isn't going to challenge Al Gore's or Bill Gates's contributions to our environment but everyone has to do their part, right? And think about all the time I'll save not clipping coupons or searching for the "perfect" lipstick when I can combine any of the seventy-eight colors residing in my fourteen make-up bags into a different color every day. Think of the gas I won't be wasting driving to Ulta to "buy two/get two free" or the money I'll save not being hoodwinked into thinking that the latest gel foundation will finally make my skin look flawless or that expensive under-eye cream that Cindy Crawford swears by will return me to me twenty-something glory.
Yes, while others may fall prey to the constant encouragement to indulge in conspicuous consumption, I know what I will be doing. I will be finishing that quarter bottle of Tresemme on the shelf and polishing off the last remnants of that hotel conditioner that smells like coconut. I will be sorting through and consuming any product I find that hasn't been in that cabinet since the nineties. And I will be reveling in every tube, jar, and bottle that I can deposit in the recycling bin.
And then? It might be time to start clipping those coupons again.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Four Days, Three Nights
We knew for weeks that he would be coming. His name was prominently displayed on our calendar from the day after Thanksgiving until Cyber Monday. We did everything we could to prepare ourselves. We stocked up on his favorite foods, his favorite playthings, and all the supplies we could possibly anticipate needing. We were ready.
What we weren't ready for was how hard it was going to be to let him go.
We already knew what a special grandson we have. We knew he was impossibly sweet, good-natured, easy-going, and flexible. What we didn't know was how our sixty-something year-old bodies were going to hold up taking care of that bundle of energy for four days. Easy baby or not, we were still going to have to get up and down off the floor (a lot), carry him up and down the stairs (a lot), wrangle him to change diapers and clothes (a lot), and get him in and out of that car seat (as little as possible). So how did it go? Well, let's just say that while our backs and knees might disagree, my husband and I were ready to take him back an hour after our daughter picked him up.
It was the silence that hit us first. Where was that contagious little laugh? Or those silly little sounds that mean something only to him? Or that pitter-patter of hands and knees on the kitchen floor? Of course, there were a couple of sounds we didn't miss - like the wail of his crying when he toppled over on that nasty wooden floor or that chug-a, chug-a big red Wiggles car that he incessantly wheels across the room. But by the time dinner rolled around (without anyone sitting in that high chair), we were even missing that. A little.
Now that he's back in the arms of his mommy and daddy I'm just sitting here wondering - who's going to help my husband make coffee? Or help me make banana bread? Or toss that tennis ball in our general direction?
And even more importantly, who's going to cuddle up with me under that blanket and make waking up at 7:00 a.m. so much fun?
What we weren't ready for was how hard it was going to be to let him go.
We already knew what a special grandson we have. We knew he was impossibly sweet, good-natured, easy-going, and flexible. What we didn't know was how our sixty-something year-old bodies were going to hold up taking care of that bundle of energy for four days. Easy baby or not, we were still going to have to get up and down off the floor (a lot), carry him up and down the stairs (a lot), wrangle him to change diapers and clothes (a lot), and get him in and out of that car seat (as little as possible). So how did it go? Well, let's just say that while our backs and knees might disagree, my husband and I were ready to take him back an hour after our daughter picked him up.
It was the silence that hit us first. Where was that contagious little laugh? Or those silly little sounds that mean something only to him? Or that pitter-patter of hands and knees on the kitchen floor? Of course, there were a couple of sounds we didn't miss - like the wail of his crying when he toppled over on that nasty wooden floor or that chug-a, chug-a big red Wiggles car that he incessantly wheels across the room. But by the time dinner rolled around (without anyone sitting in that high chair), we were even missing that. A little.
Now that he's back in the arms of his mommy and daddy I'm just sitting here wondering - who's going to help my husband make coffee? Or help me make banana bread? Or toss that tennis ball in our general direction?
And even more importantly, who's going to cuddle up with me under that blanket and make waking up at 7:00 a.m. so much fun?
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Harder Than I Thought
Vacations are a wonderful thing . . . until they're over. You spend months planning them, waiting for them, anticipating them - and then they're over before you know it. In other parts of the world, it's not uncommon for even entry-level workers to get four to six weeks of downtime but in our neck of the woods, most of us have to settle for a measly two weeks a year to recharge our batteries. Just when we start to relax, it's time to head back to reality and, as everyone knows, that is highly overrated.
My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?
It isn't any better.
At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.
And then it was over.
Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.
I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:
How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?
My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?
It isn't any better.
At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.
And then it was over.
Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.
I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:
How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?
Monday, September 14, 2015
Taking a Second Look
We have a close friend who is in his mid-fifties, divorced with no kids. He confided to my husband recently that he was burned out, tired of working, and finding it harder to get motivated about life in general. When my husband relayed bits of the conversation (husbands never reveal the whole conversation; they've usually run out of their daily word allotment by then), I couldn't help but feel sorry for our friend. Oh, he may find a way to shake off the funk he's feeling but there's no way he's going to be able to take advantage of one of life's greatest elixirs.
He's never going to become a grandfather.
As we approach our grandson's first birthday (was it really a year ago that I raced over to that hospital?), I can only say thank you to God (as well as our wonderful daughter and her almost equally wonderful hubby) for allowing this little guy to come into our lives. Thanks to him, his grandfather and I will never be bored; never take anything for granted; never cease to be amazed by the world around us. Because of one tiny human being, we are getting the chance to see the glories of our surroundings for the very first time all over again - through his impossibly blue eyes.
Simple things like crawling in the grass, seeing an airplane in the sky, hearing the hum of my Kitchen Aid mixer send him into squeals of delight which, of course, send all of us who love him into even louder squeals of delight. His enthusiasm for every activity (if not every food - his rejection of my homemade mac and cheese hurt, I have to admit) is so contagious that it makes his sixty-something grandparents feel like a couple of kids (if those kids were unlucky enough to have a couple of bad knees and sore backs).
We wake up every morning hoping for the chance to spend a little time with him and we go to bed every night grateful for every delicious moment he graces our lives with his presence.
Our friend has absolutely no idea what he's missing.
He's never going to become a grandfather.
As we approach our grandson's first birthday (was it really a year ago that I raced over to that hospital?), I can only say thank you to God (as well as our wonderful daughter and her almost equally wonderful hubby) for allowing this little guy to come into our lives. Thanks to him, his grandfather and I will never be bored; never take anything for granted; never cease to be amazed by the world around us. Because of one tiny human being, we are getting the chance to see the glories of our surroundings for the very first time all over again - through his impossibly blue eyes.
Simple things like crawling in the grass, seeing an airplane in the sky, hearing the hum of my Kitchen Aid mixer send him into squeals of delight which, of course, send all of us who love him into even louder squeals of delight. His enthusiasm for every activity (if not every food - his rejection of my homemade mac and cheese hurt, I have to admit) is so contagious that it makes his sixty-something grandparents feel like a couple of kids (if those kids were unlucky enough to have a couple of bad knees and sore backs).
We wake up every morning hoping for the chance to spend a little time with him and we go to bed every night grateful for every delicious moment he graces our lives with his presence.
Our friend has absolutely no idea what he's missing.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
The Role(s) of a Lifetime
When I was in my twenties I was lucky enough to be cast as Maria in our community college's production of West Side Story. If you know the show (and who doesn't?) you know that it's a fantastic part, one that I had always dreamed about playing. For months of rehearsals and two weekends of performances, I pranced around in my made-for-me costumes singing classics like I Feel Pretty and Tonight before bawling my eyes out after that revenge-seeking Chino (spoiler alert) killed the love of my life. It was almost forty years ago and I can still remember how great it felt to be standing on that stage doing something I loved to do and how incredulous I was when a few kids actually came up to me after the show looking for my autograph. (I sure hope those guys aren't too disappointed that it never turned out to be worth anything on e-Bay.)
At the time, I fantasized about heading out to Hollywood (Broadway would have been okay too but movies were always my thing and hey, that's where the real money was) to fulfill my life-long dream to be an actress but nothing ever went much beyond that community college stage. I guess my fear of rejection and your basic everyday set of insecurities stopped me from ever pursuing anything beyond local recognition but that didn't stop me from feeling a tinge of regret anytime I saw some newly discovered starlet walking the red carpet or some breathless ingenue clutching her first Oscar with tears streaming down her face.
Could that have been me? Did I miss out on my chance to be worshiped and adored?
Not by a long shot. Oh, sure. Maybe I could have been an actress. Maybe I could have gotten a recording contract. Maybe I could have even walked away with one of those gold, naked men. But if any of that had happened, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have found the time to be the kind of mom (and now Nana) that I believe I was truly destined to be.
When I think about the moments when my children looked at me as if I hung the moon, I know that I wouldn't have missed them for all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And when my little grandson's face lights up when I come around the corner or laughs at some silly face I make, I know that there is nothing that could come close to the joy I feel; not even George Clooney reading my name off that list of nominees (okay, that might be closer than I want to admit).
Playing Maria was fun. It was a fantastic time in my life that gave me a lot of confidence and I'm so grateful to have been able to fulfill my performing dreams, even if it was on a smaller scale than I would have liked.
But being a mom and a grandmother? Now, those are the roles I was born to play.
At the time, I fantasized about heading out to Hollywood (Broadway would have been okay too but movies were always my thing and hey, that's where the real money was) to fulfill my life-long dream to be an actress but nothing ever went much beyond that community college stage. I guess my fear of rejection and your basic everyday set of insecurities stopped me from ever pursuing anything beyond local recognition but that didn't stop me from feeling a tinge of regret anytime I saw some newly discovered starlet walking the red carpet or some breathless ingenue clutching her first Oscar with tears streaming down her face.
Could that have been me? Did I miss out on my chance to be worshiped and adored?
Not by a long shot. Oh, sure. Maybe I could have been an actress. Maybe I could have gotten a recording contract. Maybe I could have even walked away with one of those gold, naked men. But if any of that had happened, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have found the time to be the kind of mom (and now Nana) that I believe I was truly destined to be.
When I think about the moments when my children looked at me as if I hung the moon, I know that I wouldn't have missed them for all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And when my little grandson's face lights up when I come around the corner or laughs at some silly face I make, I know that there is nothing that could come close to the joy I feel; not even George Clooney reading my name off that list of nominees (okay, that might be closer than I want to admit).
Playing Maria was fun. It was a fantastic time in my life that gave me a lot of confidence and I'm so grateful to have been able to fulfill my performing dreams, even if it was on a smaller scale than I would have liked.
But being a mom and a grandmother? Now, those are the roles I was born to play.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Quality Control
This is going to sound like the rant of an old person (okay, maybe it is) but I'm getting a little tired of paying more and getting (a whole lot) less. Maybe it's because I remember when sugar actually came in five-pound bags instead of four or ice cream that came packed in half-gallon containers instead of whatever the heck size it's packed in now or maybe it's because I've been on the phone all day with businesses who have taken (or are trying to take) a good deal of my money and are dead set on giving me very little in return.
Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.
After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).
Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.
I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.
Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.
Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.
After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).
Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.
I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.
Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.
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