Elisabeth

I can still remember the first time I met her. I had traveled to Switzerland for Christmas to meet my boyfriend's family. It was the first time I had spent Christmas away from my own family and my anxiety levels were off the charts as we rode from the airport to their home outside Zurich. Would they like me? Would I like them? Would we have anything in common? Would we be able to communicate? And, most importantly, would I come back from this trip with a ring on my finger?

She was waiting in the kitchen. Tall, impossibly thin, with perfectly coiffed jet black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen, she interrupted whatever cooking, baking, canning, cleaning she was up to, smiled warmly, and welcomed me.

I have never been so intimidated by anyone in my life. . .before or since.

My mother-in-law, who passed away yesterday, was truly one of a kind. In her eighty-nine years on earth she worked as a nurse, a seamstress, and a writer. Her home could have (and should have) graced the pages of House Beautiful. She almost single-handedly raised three boys, maintained a garden that would have turned Martha Stewart green with envy, and created culinary dishes worthy of a five star chef.

No wonder I was intimidated.

Our first encounter set the stage for the next thirty years. Seeing a romantic New Year's Eve listening to church bells ring as we stood overlooking a twinkling Swiss village as the perfect opportunity to pop the question, I was devastated that my eventual husband hadn't gotten the memo. Turning to the only female within view, I poured my disappointed heart out to my future mother-in-law only to have her respond with the less than sympathetic, "Last year he brought Nancy, this year he brought you, who knows who he'll bring next year."

That was my mother-in-law - always direct, always honest, rarely tactful. She spoke her mind and had an opinion about everything, which often led to someone's (my) feelings getting hurt. But over time, I saw her softer side and after I presented her with the one thing she always wanted, a baby girl, my standing in her eyes instantly elevated.

Over thirty years we grew to understand one another; to accept one another; to appreciate one another. Yes, she could be tough, distant, and stubborn. Yes, she could be infuriating and frustrating. But she could also be incredibly generous, extremely loyal, and funny as hell. Oh, and there was one other thing she never was. She was never, ever boring.

So, get ready, God. Put up your feet and grab a bowl of popcorn. Elisabeth is on her way. Be sure to ask her to make you one of her famous plum kuchen. You won't be disappointed.

And Two Shall Become One

It's hard to believe that our daughter will soon celebrate five months of wedded bliss. Seems like those champagne glasses were clinking just a couple of weeks ago. Although quite a bit of evidence remains that she once lived here (like that bedroom closet and the steady stream of mail with her name on it), she has moved most of her stuff out of the family homestead and settled happily into life as a married woman (and soon to be mom). It's hard not to have her around every day but I know she's found a partner that will love and care for her as long as he has breath in his body and who could ask for anything more than that?

The one thing I wasn't looking forward to dealing with once she said "I do" was having to share my child with another family. Oh, I didn't mind the idea that she would be having dinner or catching a movie with the in-laws every now and then, I just didn't want to haggle over who was going to get who for Thanksgiving or Christmas morning. I've watched my sister struggle with her sadness over empty holiday chairs and I knew I wasn't going to handle it very well. And the alternative? Melding the two families for holiday celebrations? Well, that worried me too. What if our traditions bit the dust? What if the new family's Thanksgiving stuffing sucked? Or, even worse, my girl liked it better than mine? Petty, I know, but this is the stuff that keeps me up nights.

Not to worry. Yesterday, the first big holiday since my daughter's wedding, we were invited to her in-laws for Easter dinner. Her second mama made a ham on the grill, laid out a beautiful table and welcomed not only my husband and me but our son, his girlfriend and my parents. Enjoying the first truly beautiful day of Spring, we sat out on their spacious deck, drank several glasses of wine, and shared our stories. We talked (and laughed) about our holiday traditions, our families, our jobs, and anything else that could comfortably be discussed in that kind of mixed company. (I'll have plenty of time to shock them with what I'm capable of talking about later.) It was surprisingly effortless and a whole lot more fun than I originally thought it would be.

And those traditions I was so worried about? I came armed with our world-famous Easter egg cookies and Mama #2 made her husband's favorite Polish sausage with sauerkraut (which my hubby eagerly devoured). I made a variation of my mom's revered mac and cheese and our go-to sweet potato recipe got a sensational make-over by the newlywed that had all of us asking for more.

When we packed up the leftovers and headed for home, it dawned on me that sharing my daughter with another generous, loving family that's almost as crazy about her as I am might not be nearly as hard as I feared it would be. The food was great, the conversation was lively and I didn't have a sink full of dishes to wash.

Always looking for that silver lining.

You Cannot Be Serious

Forty-eight hours ago, my husband, son, and I were helping my parents with some yard work. The sun was shining, the temperatures were in the upper seventies and I was a little bit tempted to break out the shorts.

So glad I didn't fall for that one.

It is now snowing. Snowing. Two days ago I was actually contemplating baring very white, not to mention hairy, legs to the world and now I'm sitting here watching frozen dandruff fall out of the sky on my poor little daffodils.

When is it ever going to end?

My hometown has a lot going for it. The pizza is awesome (despite what Jon Stewart says), Lakeshore Drive is breathtaking, and The Magnificent Mile is, well, magnificent. If it wasn't perpetually entrenched in the throes of a new Ice Age, Chicago would be a great place to live. If San Diego's weather could somehow be miraculously imported (c'mon, global warming - where the heck are you?), maybe I could even stop daydreaming about living in Italy. Okay, maybe not but I'm frustrated enough at this point to entertain such an idea.

All I know is, I've had enough. And I know I'm not alone. Even the die-hard winter fans I know have had enough. Spring, stop teasing us and get your butt back here.

And stick around this time, will you? Please.

The Taxman Cometh

Aaaah, Spring. Soft rain showers, colorful tulips, buds on the trees, temperatures (occasionally) above freezing. It's one of my favorite times of the year - a time of rebirth and growth; a time to come out of hibernation and join the world of the living. It would be just about perfect except for one teeny, tiny thing - the ever-looming Ides of April, the dreaded day of reckoning with Uncle Sam and his IRS henchmen.

Whenever I hear anyone talking about their joy at receiving their tax refund, I smile wistfully and try to remember those days. Refund? Refund?(As the cranky father in the movie Breaking Away would ask - I know it's an obscure reference but some of you out there might get it). What the heck is that?

The memories are hazy but I'm pretty sure there actually was a time when we did our taxes immediately upon receiving our W-2s; when we eagerly awaited that "found" money that arrived just in time to buy a new couch/TV/patio furniture. But those days seem very, very far away. Now, while others are out spending their interest-free bounty from the Treasury Department, we now belong to the club that does everything they can to stave off the inevitable "balance due" for as long as possible.

Today, knowing our return was going to be a little more complicated than usual, I finally got started. After several hours of number crunching, investigation into stock prices from 1983, and sifting through various 1099s, 1098s and several other 10 something or others, my head was ready to explode. Why does this have to be so hard? Why is the instruction manual 250 pages long? Why are my notes scribbled on multiple pieces of paper and as cryptic as hieroglyphics on some caveman's wall?

And why didn't we hire someone to do this a couple of months ago?

Spring?

I haven't seen a daffodil or tulip outside my window (although they have popped up in my local Trader Joe's). The trees are still bare (or, in the case of the dogwoods outside my living room window, dead.) And we still have a couple of mounds of snow at the end of our cul-de-sac. But, I didn't care.

I broke out the barbeque grill.

Yesterday, when the temperature hit a balmy sixty degrees, I couldn't resist the urge to dust (chisel) off the old Weber and throw a couple of pieces of chicken and a mammoth Costco strip steak on the weathered grate. If I had known how to whistle, I'm sure I would have done so as I cleaned out the ribs-we-had-last-October's ashes still residing in the bottom of the kettle. (What? You clean your grills at the end every season?) As I readied the black giant for duty, I didn't even care that I was doing all this work for a single meal. I knew this sunshine tease was scheduled to last all of forty-eight hours with the weather gurus promising a return to the forties (and possibly yet more snow) later in the week. But none of that mattered. The winter that seems determined to never end had given me a break. There was no way I was going to let it slip through my fingers.

Tomorrow, I might have to crack out the crock pot again. Or I might be forced to defrost the chicken soup in the freezer just to get warm. But, for one glorious moment, I had a meal that didn't involve comfort food; that didn't involve scrubbing a frying pan or a hefty enameled Dutch oven; that actually did involve a salad.

Summer can't be far behind.

No Place for My Stuff

One of my favorite comedians, the late, great George Carlin, had a hilarious routine about stuff; how we accumulate it, why we can't get rid of it, and the need to store it all somewhere. Like most of his musings, it was so on the money, hitting a nerve of embarrassing recognition. I'm not sure when stuff started taking over my life, I just know it has. But unlike the hapless hoarders that Carlin ridiculed, I'm determined to do something about it.

I honestly never thought of myself as much of a "conspicuous consumer". I've always seen myself as an inveterate bargain hunter; someone who values a good deal above almost anything else in life. But that's not really the issue. It doesn't matter how much you spent for the stuff that's taken up permanent residence in your closets, the only thing that matters is that you own things you haven't used since Madonna was married to Sean Penn.

My "ah-ha" moment happened on Sunday. I was looking for my old laptop, the sluggish dinosaur I had replaced with the shiny, new number on which I'm composing this blog. I needed my ancient friend to retrieve my old tax records and despite a thorough search of every room, it was nowhere to be found. As I deepened the search, I started to open every drawer and closet door. That's when I knew I was in serious trouble. You know those TV characters that open a closet and everything in it comes tumbling down on top of them? Not quite but close.

So, before basketballs and tennis racquets start raining down on my head, I'm stepping into action. I wish I could be as ambitious as the go-getter I saw on Facebook touting the virtues of digital garage sales. I read a couple of paragraphs before coming to the conclusion that that option was not for me - too much work for too little reward.

I've also ditched the whole e-bay idea. I've gone that route a few times but, again, not a fan of all that effort. Taking pictures, writing descriptions, tracking bids, packing boxes, and trekking to the post office can only be worthwhile for items whose sale might result in a nice meal at Olive Garden. 

So, that leaves me with only two options - giving stuff away or throwing stuff away. Since I can't deal with the guilt of tossing perfectly usable items into the trash, I think I'll have to fall back on my old standby, saying "yes" to every charitable organization that calls looking for "clothing or small household items" for donation and entering all those tax deductions (yes, I finally found that elusive computer underneath a table in the basement.)

I may have to pay for my own Fettuccine Alfredo but it's the only way I can ever be certain I'll see the walls of my closets again.

Stage Presence

You can get out of a lot of parenting duties if you really want to. You can find a nanny to change diapers and take your kids to the park. You can hire a tutor to help them with their homework. You can bring in a maid to pick up all those Legos. (Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that you have to be a lottery winner to pull off the above but hey, it can be done.) What you can't get away from is the certainty that, before your kid puts on a cap and gown, you will have to park your tush a couple of hundred times in an uncomfortable seat and watch them perform. From Christmas concerts to baseball games; spelling bees to recitals, there's no escaping the fact that your presence will be required on a regular basis.

Not that this is a bad thing. Getting the chance to prove, once and for all, that your child is indeed the most talented human being on the planet is a worthwhile way to spend a couple of hours. Watching my daughter knock the audience's socks off when she belted out a Celine Dion-worthy rendition of a song or my son rip a forehand past an unsuspecting opponent are memories that I'll treasure forever.

But it doesn't always work out that way.

Sometimes you sit there on that cold, hard chair and watch your child falter. And there's nothing worse than that. More often than not, you end up suffering through two hours of less than scintillating entertainment just to catch your kid's two minutes of magic. You tell yourself you have to stay; that it would be rude to leave just as little Cody is getting ready for his clarinet solo. So, even though all you really want to do is grab your little darling and head home for that latest episode of Homeland, you stay.

This week, despite the fact that my own children are in their twenties and my future grandchild's arrival is months away, I found myself back on those hard chairs. . .twice. My nephew, about to exit Junior High, performed in both a jazz band concert and a production of High School Musical. While not everyone involved in the events had been blessed with his innate abilities (we're still trying to find something this kid can't do), you couldn't help but appreciate the time and effort that each of them had given, regardless of their talent level.

So there were a few missed notes; so there were a couple of missed lines; so some of them looked like they would rather be having a root canal. None of that mattered. They were all up there trying. They were all up there adding another life experience to their resumes. They were all in the game, not sitting on the sidelines. And I was full of admiration for all of them, especially the ones who would never get the lead; who would never get the solo.

I may have been better entertained but I've seldom had better teachers.