I come late to the party. . .a lot. While everyone was raving about HD-TV and the joys of owning a DVR, I was still holding on to a 25 inch TV I bought when Reagan was President. When everyone was walking out of the Apple store with a new i-Pad, I was struggling with a desktop that accessed the Internet in the same time it took for Dominos to deliver a pizza. And don't even try to text me - I still have a flip phone in my purse. It's not that I'm afraid of technology or don't like to have the newest, trendiest gadget before anyone on my block (I actually was the first person I knew to have a VCR - how else was I going to see what happened on All My Children?), it's just that, most of the time, I walk into the pool rather than diving in.
The latest example of my joining the parade as it rounds the last corner is a little game called Candy Crush Saga. This devious, diabolical time-waster has been around for quite awhile. I've had plenty of invites on Facebook to join in on the fun but was never interested. I saw my son waste a few years of his life playing video games and had no intention of getting hooked on anything that would only encourage me to procrastinate more than I already do (see many of my previous blogs for more on that subject).
But then, my Kindle and I went to Mexico. I loaded up a couple of books and verified my web version of People magazine was up to date. That should have been enough but, no, I had to press on. Having tired of my earlier obsession with Angry Birds (another late-to-the-party discovery), I decided to check out free game downloads. After trying and failing to load Free Cell on the darn thing, I noticed that Candy Crush was available.
And you can probably guess the rest.
I'm now on Level 85. I've seen more of those insipid cartoon characters talking about the Marshmallow Swamp or Licorice Lagoon (or whatever the hell those little cartoon interludes are rambling on about) than I want to admit. I still haven't spent a dime playing it (and when I do, it's time for my credit cards to be taken away from me) but I have spent way too much of my precious time on earth trying to figure out how to get rid of all the jelly or bring all the ingredients down. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky.) But I'm not addicted, no matter what my husband says. I can stop anytime I want to. In fact, I haven't played it once today. Not once.
And I don't think the fact that I have to wait 24 hours to get another quest has anything to do with it.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
My Valentine
When you've been married for more than thirty years, Valentine's Day doesn't always get the attention that it used to get. Those expensive dinners, long-stemmed roses, and two pound boxes of chocolates are nice memories but I have to admit, I like the pressure being off. It feels good not to have to succumb to the madness of picking out just the right $5.95 Hallmark ditty or think of something heart-shaped that my husband will actually want to use. (I scoured Home Depot to find tools with heart embellishments and came up empty and "Be My Valentine" boxers are definitely not my guy's style.)
So what does it say about us that this year Valentine's Day went relatively uncelebrated? For the first time, we did nothing on the actual day - no card, no flowers, no nothing. And do you know what? It was one of the best ever. The night before, we ventured out into the cold (because only those trying to impress or don't mind waiting for hours and dropping a couple days pay go out to dinner on the real Valentine's Day, right?) to have dinner at our local Olive Garden. Say what you will about the place, you get a lot for your money. We tried a couple of their new specials (the Parmesan crusted tortellini actually tasted very similar to a dish I had in Italy so all you Olive Garden haters can bite me), shared a quartino of wine (Chianti Riserva, if you're wondering. Good but gave me a headache. Next time will stick to the Shiraz or Malbec), and polished off a piece of the should-be-illegal white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.
If all of this sounds like we're getting old, we are. If all of this sounds like we've given up, we haven't. It was a really sweet evening of conversation about our kids, memories of our travels together, and making plans for our future.
And if that's not celebrating Valentine's Day, I don't know what is.
So what does it say about us that this year Valentine's Day went relatively uncelebrated? For the first time, we did nothing on the actual day - no card, no flowers, no nothing. And do you know what? It was one of the best ever. The night before, we ventured out into the cold (because only those trying to impress or don't mind waiting for hours and dropping a couple days pay go out to dinner on the real Valentine's Day, right?) to have dinner at our local Olive Garden. Say what you will about the place, you get a lot for your money. We tried a couple of their new specials (the Parmesan crusted tortellini actually tasted very similar to a dish I had in Italy so all you Olive Garden haters can bite me), shared a quartino of wine (Chianti Riserva, if you're wondering. Good but gave me a headache. Next time will stick to the Shiraz or Malbec), and polished off a piece of the should-be-illegal white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.
If all of this sounds like we're getting old, we are. If all of this sounds like we've given up, we haven't. It was a really sweet evening of conversation about our kids, memories of our travels together, and making plans for our future.
And if that's not celebrating Valentine's Day, I don't know what is.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Let the Games Begin
If you know me at all, you know that I don't have to have an excuse for putting off what I should be doing at any given moment. Cleaning, organizing year-end financial info, going through the boxes in the basement that haven't been opened since 1992; you name it, I'll find a way to avoid doing it. As you might imagine, this admission does not do much for my self-esteem but maybe I wouldn't feel as bad about owning up to this character flaw if I actually had a good reason for putting all those tasks on the back burner.
For the next two weeks, I do. I actually have a half-way decent excuse to leave those dishes in the sink; I actually do have a semi-acceptable reason to ignore the dust bunnies gathering on the baseboards; I actually can justify the fried chicken I hastily purchase on my way home from work rather than putting a home-cooked meal on the table. For the next two weeks, I have something more important to do.
I have to put on some comfy clothes, whip up some hot chocolate, and watch The Olympics.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved this once-every-four-years-now-every-two-year event. When I was younger, I slid around the kitchen floor pretending I was Janet Lynn. Later, I sat on the edge of my chair as a bunch of college students beat the Russian hockey team and cheered as Dan Jansen skated around the rink with his daughter after finally winning a gold medal. Now, I spend most of my viewing time saying things like, "How do they bend their knees like that?" or "That hurts just looking at it". After all this time, I've reluctantly made peace with the fact that I'll never be an Olympian but would it be too much to ask to be able to do a squat without pain?)
I'm as nationalistic as the next guy but, for me, The Olympics isn't just about flag-waving patriotism. It's about effort; it's about determination. I'm in awe of anyone, no matter what language they speak, who works as long and hard to achieve a goal as Olympic athletes do. (And let's not forget those sacrificing parents who got them to the gym/mountain/ice rink at 6:00am - I'm not sure I could have done that either). While it's fun to see U.S. athletes win a bunch of medals, it's hard not to get emotional when you see anyone (unless they're from one of those smug, arrogant countries that deserved to lose) fulfill a life-long dream.
So, okay, it's not the pure-spirited haven for amateur athletics that it was originally designed to be (don't the NHL and NBA players already have a venue to promote their talents?). Yes, it's dished out in manipulative ways by greedy TV networks and often tainted by corrupt judging. But you know what else it is? It's inspirational. And that's why I'll be watching.
Those dust bunnies can wait until February 24th.
For the next two weeks, I do. I actually have a half-way decent excuse to leave those dishes in the sink; I actually do have a semi-acceptable reason to ignore the dust bunnies gathering on the baseboards; I actually can justify the fried chicken I hastily purchase on my way home from work rather than putting a home-cooked meal on the table. For the next two weeks, I have something more important to do.
I have to put on some comfy clothes, whip up some hot chocolate, and watch The Olympics.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved this once-every-four-years-now-every-two-year event. When I was younger, I slid around the kitchen floor pretending I was Janet Lynn. Later, I sat on the edge of my chair as a bunch of college students beat the Russian hockey team and cheered as Dan Jansen skated around the rink with his daughter after finally winning a gold medal. Now, I spend most of my viewing time saying things like, "How do they bend their knees like that?" or "That hurts just looking at it". After all this time, I've reluctantly made peace with the fact that I'll never be an Olympian but would it be too much to ask to be able to do a squat without pain?)
I'm as nationalistic as the next guy but, for me, The Olympics isn't just about flag-waving patriotism. It's about effort; it's about determination. I'm in awe of anyone, no matter what language they speak, who works as long and hard to achieve a goal as Olympic athletes do. (And let's not forget those sacrificing parents who got them to the gym/mountain/ice rink at 6:00am - I'm not sure I could have done that either). While it's fun to see U.S. athletes win a bunch of medals, it's hard not to get emotional when you see anyone (unless they're from one of those smug, arrogant countries that deserved to lose) fulfill a life-long dream.
So, okay, it's not the pure-spirited haven for amateur athletics that it was originally designed to be (don't the NHL and NBA players already have a venue to promote their talents?). Yes, it's dished out in manipulative ways by greedy TV networks and often tainted by corrupt judging. But you know what else it is? It's inspirational. And that's why I'll be watching.
Those dust bunnies can wait until February 24th.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Super Sunday
Well, the NFL season is over for another year. The playoffs have played out (without my favorite team anywhere in the vicinity) and the last two teams standing, Denver and Seattle, finished off the season in a less-than-epic battle yesterday. Despite the lopsided score, it was a great day. Not for Peyton Manning, I'll grant you. But for me, definitely.
Never a huge fan of the Super Bowl when I don't have a rooting interest, I still attempted to host a little get together. My parents were the first to bow out. With the Arctic cold and mountains of snow we've had to deal with, I can't say that I blame them. I'm twenty-three years younger than they are and I don't want to go out in it. Other friends we invited were heading to other parties (bet they didn't have the variety of Trader Joe's appetizers that I assembled) or otherwise engaged (working on a Sunday? Nice try.). In the end, it was just the six of us - my hubby, our kids and their significant others. I couldn't have planned it any better.
To have all of us in the same place for more than a couple of minutes is as rare as Justin Bieber having a quiet night at home. Despite the fact our son has temporarily moved back in, New Year's Eve was the last time we all managed to coordinate our schedules to be together. We talked, laughed, ate, ate some more and, oh, yeah, watched the game. Between critiques of the commercials (the Dorito spot was our fave; the 24 teasers were greeted with anxious anticipation) and critiques of the food (coconut shrimp, yes; chicken Parmesan lollipops, no), I reminded myself to savor every moment of all of us being under one roof - even if it was under the pretense of watching a pretty lousy football game.
It may not have been much fun in the Manning household but in ours, it really was a Super Sunday.
Never a huge fan of the Super Bowl when I don't have a rooting interest, I still attempted to host a little get together. My parents were the first to bow out. With the Arctic cold and mountains of snow we've had to deal with, I can't say that I blame them. I'm twenty-three years younger than they are and I don't want to go out in it. Other friends we invited were heading to other parties (bet they didn't have the variety of Trader Joe's appetizers that I assembled) or otherwise engaged (working on a Sunday? Nice try.). In the end, it was just the six of us - my hubby, our kids and their significant others. I couldn't have planned it any better.
To have all of us in the same place for more than a couple of minutes is as rare as Justin Bieber having a quiet night at home. Despite the fact our son has temporarily moved back in, New Year's Eve was the last time we all managed to coordinate our schedules to be together. We talked, laughed, ate, ate some more and, oh, yeah, watched the game. Between critiques of the commercials (the Dorito spot was our fave; the 24 teasers were greeted with anxious anticipation) and critiques of the food (coconut shrimp, yes; chicken Parmesan lollipops, no), I reminded myself to savor every moment of all of us being under one roof - even if it was under the pretense of watching a pretty lousy football game.
It may not have been much fun in the Manning household but in ours, it really was a Super Sunday.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Anywhere but Here
When I was sixteen, I saw California for the first time. I remember being blown away by the mountains, the climate, the ocean. After a week in la-la-land, I was convinced that someday it would be my home; that I would hightail it out of flat, frigid Illinois as soon as I was able. California had palm trees, movie stars, sandy beaches. In my teenage eyes, it was paradise. And I was determined I would one day take up residence.
Decades later, I'm still in the state of my birth and I can't explain why.
Don't get me wrong. Chicago is a great town - beautiful skyline, cultural opportunities up the wazoo and, despite Jon Stewart's tirade to the contrary, the best pizza this side of Naples. I love it. . .from April through October. After that, it slides down to Number 182 on my list of places in which I actually want to live, falling somewhere in between India and Iraq.
Today, the schools are closed for the third time this month, not for a snow day (although there's a ton of that on the ground) but for sub-zero temperatures. I believe the high will top out at -4 and the low will be a fit-for-polar-bears only -18. And like a bear, all I want to do is hibernate. I put on my three sweaters and long underwear (even if I do not intend to venture out, it's the only think that keeps me warm) and spend as much time as I can huddled under a down comforter, pulling my hands out from under the covers only to change the channel on the remote or sip my hot chocolate.
This is no way to live - except for the hot chocolate.
After being lucky enough to have spent a week in Mexico, I know January doesn't have to look like this. There are places in this world whose residents never have to dig their way out of a two foot snow drift. I want to live in one of them. There are people in this world who get to wear shorts and walk on the beach almost every day of the year. I want to be one of them (except for the shorts thing - with my varicose veins, I should make it capris). There are better things to do than trying to figure out a way to get feeling back in my fingertips after walking to the mailbox. And I want to do them.
I know my California dream is dead - I refuse to spend $650,000 for a two bedroom bungalow that needs some TLC anyway. I know moving west was a foolish, young girl's dream. But this foolish, old girl still dreams. She dreams of escape - from December 26 until somewhere around April 1.
Spring, Summer, Fall. Escape. Those are four seasons I think I can live with.
Decades later, I'm still in the state of my birth and I can't explain why.
Don't get me wrong. Chicago is a great town - beautiful skyline, cultural opportunities up the wazoo and, despite Jon Stewart's tirade to the contrary, the best pizza this side of Naples. I love it. . .from April through October. After that, it slides down to Number 182 on my list of places in which I actually want to live, falling somewhere in between India and Iraq.
Today, the schools are closed for the third time this month, not for a snow day (although there's a ton of that on the ground) but for sub-zero temperatures. I believe the high will top out at -4 and the low will be a fit-for-polar-bears only -18. And like a bear, all I want to do is hibernate. I put on my three sweaters and long underwear (even if I do not intend to venture out, it's the only think that keeps me warm) and spend as much time as I can huddled under a down comforter, pulling my hands out from under the covers only to change the channel on the remote or sip my hot chocolate.
This is no way to live - except for the hot chocolate.
After being lucky enough to have spent a week in Mexico, I know January doesn't have to look like this. There are places in this world whose residents never have to dig their way out of a two foot snow drift. I want to live in one of them. There are people in this world who get to wear shorts and walk on the beach almost every day of the year. I want to be one of them (except for the shorts thing - with my varicose veins, I should make it capris). There are better things to do than trying to figure out a way to get feeling back in my fingertips after walking to the mailbox. And I want to do them.
I know my California dream is dead - I refuse to spend $650,000 for a two bedroom bungalow that needs some TLC anyway. I know moving west was a foolish, young girl's dream. But this foolish, old girl still dreams. She dreams of escape - from December 26 until somewhere around April 1.
Spring, Summer, Fall. Escape. Those are four seasons I think I can live with.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Not Fearing the Worst
I've never been what you might call a brave person. I watch in awe as people schuss down mountains at warp speed, jump off bridges with nothing separating them from certain death but a giant rubber band, and get behind the wheel of a vehicle going three times the legal speed limit. After a lifetime of walking on the safe side of the street, it's a pretty safe bet that I'm not going to morph into some kind of risk-taking daredevil just because I have fewer years ahead of me than behind me. That would be too much to ask. No, all I can reasonably hope for is that I will stop giving fear the power to keep me from doing something I really want to do.
It's funny how many of those "getting out of your comfort zone" moments come while you're on vacation. Stepping away from your daily routine presents you with a boatload of opportunities to push yourself into uncomfortable territory. All of a sudden para-sailing sounds like a great idea and dining on grilled octopus sounds preferable to a perfectly seared New York Strip. Oh, sure, you can grab a Big Mac while walking down the Champs E'lysee or hire a driver with an air-conditioned car to show you the sights you could explore on your own but chances are you'll regret it if you do.
On the fabulous winter getaway I wrote about last week, I went snorkeling. A non-swimmer and fearful of deep water, I was determined not to let that stop me from joining my friends on their afternoon excursion. Seeing the tiny boat that was going to transport us out to the reef, I almost bailed. Learning that I would have to jump off the side of said boat into the open sea was almost a deal breaker (I don't know how else I thought I was going to get in with those damn fins on my feet) but, with the help of my very supportive friends and an amazingly patient guide, I did it. I freaked out a few times and swallowed enough sea water to earn a set of gills but when it was all over, the rush of having conquered one of my most deep-seeded fears stayed with me for the rest of the day and even now is helping to convince me I'm not quite the wuss I thought I was.
So, what now? What scary activity will my new-found maturity and wisdom enable me to cross off my "To Don't" list next? Sky-diving? White-water rafting? Bungee jumping?
If I were you, I wouldn't bet on any of the above. I may be trying to conquer a few fears but I'm not crazy.
It's funny how many of those "getting out of your comfort zone" moments come while you're on vacation. Stepping away from your daily routine presents you with a boatload of opportunities to push yourself into uncomfortable territory. All of a sudden para-sailing sounds like a great idea and dining on grilled octopus sounds preferable to a perfectly seared New York Strip. Oh, sure, you can grab a Big Mac while walking down the Champs E'lysee or hire a driver with an air-conditioned car to show you the sights you could explore on your own but chances are you'll regret it if you do.
On the fabulous winter getaway I wrote about last week, I went snorkeling. A non-swimmer and fearful of deep water, I was determined not to let that stop me from joining my friends on their afternoon excursion. Seeing the tiny boat that was going to transport us out to the reef, I almost bailed. Learning that I would have to jump off the side of said boat into the open sea was almost a deal breaker (I don't know how else I thought I was going to get in with those damn fins on my feet) but, with the help of my very supportive friends and an amazingly patient guide, I did it. I freaked out a few times and swallowed enough sea water to earn a set of gills but when it was all over, the rush of having conquered one of my most deep-seeded fears stayed with me for the rest of the day and even now is helping to convince me I'm not quite the wuss I thought I was.
So, what now? What scary activity will my new-found maturity and wisdom enable me to cross off my "To Don't" list next? Sky-diving? White-water rafting? Bungee jumping?
If I were you, I wouldn't bet on any of the above. I may be trying to conquer a few fears but I'm not crazy.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Same Time Next Year
The rest of the world thinks we're nuts. That's right. Nuts. Countries from Austria to Zambia shake their collective heads in disbelief at a lot of stuff they see us do but one of the things that dumbfound them the most is the limited vacation time allotted to American employees. While other workers on this planet start their employment with three to four weeks vacation time and work their way up to as many as six, we settle for one measly week until that magical one year anniversary at which time we're lucky enough to get handed one more.
This is something our fellow Earthlings can not understand. And I can't say I blame them.
Yesterday, I was walking on the beach in my shorts, sipping a Pina Colada. Today, I'm back to temperatures in the teens, putting away the last of the Christmas decorations. I had seven days to get away. And while it sucks to be back, I know how lucky I am to have had the week I had.
For the first time, my husband and I got the chance to spend seven mostly sunny, laugh-filled, tropical drink-laced days with our six closest friends. The eight of us have shared everything from our own engagements to the weddings of our children. We've been there to support each other through job changes, miscarriages, marital struggles and the losses of parents. This week was a long time coming. And we were going to savor every minute of those seven days.
So maybe that's how we do it. Since we don't have the luxury of three or four weeks off at a time like our European counterparts, we have to be creative about making our time off count. And if you have a group of friends like I do, it's easy. It really wouldn't have mattered if we had hunkered down for a week at the Springfield Holiday Inn (although I have to say that Mexico was a lot prettier and a whole lot warmer). We would have had a blast wherever we went and we would have come back relaxed, recharged and eternally grateful to be blessed with people in our lives that always have had and always will have your back.
And if any of my fellow Earthlings want to see what one puny week away can accomplish, head south of the border next year around this time (oh, yeah, we're doing this again) and watch us in action.
We'll be floating together somewhere in the vicinity of the swim-up bar.
This is something our fellow Earthlings can not understand. And I can't say I blame them.
Yesterday, I was walking on the beach in my shorts, sipping a Pina Colada. Today, I'm back to temperatures in the teens, putting away the last of the Christmas decorations. I had seven days to get away. And while it sucks to be back, I know how lucky I am to have had the week I had.
For the first time, my husband and I got the chance to spend seven mostly sunny, laugh-filled, tropical drink-laced days with our six closest friends. The eight of us have shared everything from our own engagements to the weddings of our children. We've been there to support each other through job changes, miscarriages, marital struggles and the losses of parents. This week was a long time coming. And we were going to savor every minute of those seven days.
So maybe that's how we do it. Since we don't have the luxury of three or four weeks off at a time like our European counterparts, we have to be creative about making our time off count. And if you have a group of friends like I do, it's easy. It really wouldn't have mattered if we had hunkered down for a week at the Springfield Holiday Inn (although I have to say that Mexico was a lot prettier and a whole lot warmer). We would have had a blast wherever we went and we would have come back relaxed, recharged and eternally grateful to be blessed with people in our lives that always have had and always will have your back.
And if any of my fellow Earthlings want to see what one puny week away can accomplish, head south of the border next year around this time (oh, yeah, we're doing this again) and watch us in action.
We'll be floating together somewhere in the vicinity of the swim-up bar.
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