Nothing Else to Say

I have been searching for the words and they will not come. At times it is best to rely on others. This is one of those times.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.


Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.


He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.


The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.



                    W.H. Auden

Landslide

Life was good, or so it seemed, as I cruised along in the comfort zone. You see, it’s rarely the obvious problems that get you. The thing that gets you, the thing that brings you to your knees, is the thing that you never saw coming. The surprise play, the unexpected, can send you reeling from your cozy little pattern that you call life.


It is a hard fact that most people look out for themselves above all else. That is true for almost everyone, except mothers that is (and fathers too). Once a woman becomes a mother, she will normally put her own needs aside, in order to care for these little people that have been entrusted to her. Some of us get so good at it that we keep it up until they are long into adulthood, and then….the grandchildren.

The grandchildren arrive and these little bundles of joy capture our attention like nothing else can. We love them with every ounce of our being. We weave them into our lives and households, our routines start to revolve around them and then… the unthinkable happens.  We learn that they are moving thousands of miles away.

News such as this sends a loving grandmother into a tailspin. Denial was my first reaction. I was convinced that it was never going to happen. “Surely they will change their minds,” I told myself.

Anger set in once I knew that the change ahead was real and unavoidable, as I did not like this feeling of helplessness. We all want to think that we are in control of our own destiny, but are only fooling ourselves when we try to control that of others.

Despair comes and goes as I realize that many of the things that I have come to love will be gone from my everyday life. No longer will I be able to throw the bikes in the car and head on over to pick up my best buddy for a ride around the lake. Afternoons spent hanging out by the pool, or banging sticks against a tree and hunting for frogs, are irreplaceable memories. Gone are the evenings of making yarn dolls and greeting cards from scraps and stickers. No one will tell me that I make the best pizza in the world or care to cuddle up beside me to watch Sponge Bob Squarepants. I know that the future visits will be rare and will have to be shared with other relatives and friends, so that the luxury of these times spent together will be a thing of the past.

They tell you that they will call and write and there is always Skype. Well, I can tell you that looking at a small picture on the screen, while it is better than nothing at all, will never take the place of a real hug and a “mooch”.

Who made up these rules that say we have to stuff our feelings down and pretend that everything is fine when it is not. I force myself to smile and get on about my day but I really want to throw myself down on the ground and have a temper tantrum, and a good one. I want to scream, and pull my hair, and tear at my clothes, and express the loss that I am feeling. Common sense must prevail and I force myself to carry on. Each day I cry a little, but each day a little less.

Finally, I take a hard look at myself in the mirror and I want to slap myself. “Snap out of it” I say! “There are people out there who have experienced real grief, real hardship, and real loss. What right do you have to carry on this way?”

And then I count my blessings and they are many…...

A wise person once said, “Do not cry because it is over, but smile because it happened.”

I thank god for the last eight years that I was able to spend with these little people and I believe that new gifts are in store. We will find ways to remain close as these are bonds that can’t be broken with time or distance. Each day I set out into uncharted territory with no one to look after or feel responsible for but myself. It is a freedom that feels strange to me and a little uncomfortable.

From here on out, IT IS ALL ABOUT ME!!

I pull the dusty old chapters of the half written novel from the shelf. I flip through it. No more excuses. Nothing is standing in my way. So many pages yet to be written…….

The Adventures of Jenny and Jody…..and Edna

My eyes danced from head to head, stopping for a second on each brunette. Finally, I saw her sitting there, my Jenny girl, reading a book in the airport lobby.

“Edna is waiting outside!” she quipped as she pulled my suitcase toward the door.

I was there to take part in her latest adventure. The first stop was New Orleans, where she attended nursing school. Oh how I loved the visits to The Big Easy and our walks through the French Quarter, the trolley rides, the gumbo, crab boils, gator cruises, and a fishing drip in the bayou. I must confess that I miss those drive-up daiquiris. Where else can you pull in and order a fully loaded, frosty cold beverage to go?

Then came Hotlanta, home of Margaret Mitchell and Scarlett O’ Hara. Hot it was, as we toured the plantations, took in a few ballgames and meandered our way down Peachtree Street. Sweat tea and Georgia peaches provided a break from the heat.

After she married, she settled in to work as a trauma nurse and provided aid to the sickest of patients in this southern city. She worked and she worked and she worked and she bought all of those things that were supposed to fulfill the coveted American dream. The problem was that even when we keep our parts of the bargain, others in our lives do not always do the same. It is an unfortunate fact of life that people will do the darndest things and not feel a grain of remorse, as the bells of entitlement ring in their ugly heads. Because, frankly my dear, they just don’t give a damn.

She has had some hard knocks lately, this daughter of mine, but she does what we do. We curl up for a while and lick our wounds, then get up and get on with it. So she packed up her belongings and hit the road for Canton, Connecticut, the plan being to better herself and move on to bigger things. And she will.

Jenny has always been a car person. She loves the shiny chrome and that new car smell, and the feel of a well made vehicle as it cruises down the highway. Her decision to trade in the shiny silver sports car for Old Edna, a sun blotched, brown, 1993 Chrysler Lebaron, was no small sacrifice. We giggled a bit as we loaded my bags into the spacious trunk. I sunk into the surprisingly comfortable, worn leather seats and we set off down the road.

Now Old Edna isn’t pretty and she creaked and groaned a bit here and there as we wound through the beautiful New England landscape. We coasted on into Captain Scott’s Lobster Dock for a bit of bisque under the stars. We were cruising in comfort as we bopped on into the Junk Store in Canton and trolled the greenhouses and antiques stores along the way. Old Edna made us feel a little bit safer when a wrong turn took us into the heart of the Hartford hood. We sailed through block after block of gangsta territory and noone batted an eye. Old Edna does not command much in the way of attention.

We spent our last day together as we tracked back to New London. There we located the apartment building that was the first home of my parents, Jenny’s grandparents, located in a romantic little neighborhood. This was where it all started, this 55 year love affair. They don’t make’em this way anymore. It seemed appropriate that she should end up here, rebuilding her life not far from this place.

When it came time to go home, we piled into Old Edna once more, as the tears lurked just below the surface. It is not such a sad thing to leave behind a loved one, when you know in your heart that they are there for the right reasons and that the goals they seek will carry them farther in life that any automobile ever could. I so miss her and I know the next several years will be busy ones, and that her graduate studies will make it more difficult for her to come home. So we will talk on the phone and text and e-mail the details of our days, until the next time that we reunite to take up our adventures with Old Edna there to carry us, wherever we may go.

Woman on the Hunt

Women are by nature gatherers. For centuries we have searched for things with which to fill our cooking  pots and to feather our nests. This fundamental need to collect and adorn the hearth and hall is not to be taken lightly. For many of us cooking is a means of therapy. We can create and nurture at the same time. Our kitchens provide an outlet for rejuvenating ourselves while sharing with others. The recent demands of the economy have reduced the rate at which we indulge ourselves, but we all need a little TLC now and then. Women can’t exist on Wonder Bread alone and if we are going to splurge a bit, it may as well be in the kitchen.

A funny thing about the fifty something era of life, is that I get excited about things like this. I can spend an hour in a spice store perusing the selections from basic to exotic. The smell of coffee beans is at times, as pleasing as that of perfume. Triumphs of shopping trips past may have revolved around the clothing boutique, but more recently an excursion to the cooking store is now equally, if not more fun.

A recent visit to The Peppercorn in Boulder, Colorado, the western queen of kitchen stores, further stoked this passion and my head was spinning after just a few minutes of being inside. “We may as well just let her go,” my husband remarked to the rest of our shopping party. “This could take awhile.”

They wandered off and left me alone for an hour or so. I formulated my game plan and walked the aisles in an attempt to scout the floor to ceiling treasures for items of special interest. My eyes glazed over as I eyed the gadgets, the cookware, the delicacies and the cookbooks. My heart went pitter pat, as I ogled the vast array of dishware, flatware and linens. So many napkin rings and so little time!

As I descended the staircase after a quick view of the items on the top tier, I was greeted by the voice of a strange woman looking up at me.

“Oh my god, you mean there is more up there?” she asked.

I saw the look in her eyes and I recognized it as a combination of excitement and exhilaration, bordering on hysteria, that look we women sometimes get when we find ourselves in the midst of the mother load with limited time.

“Yes, there is lots more up there,” I answered, “It’s almost overwhelming isn’t it, but in oh so such a good way?”

I stepped aside as she lunged for the stairway and quick climbed the stairs with the wild eyed look of a woman on the hunt.

“Deep breath, focus,” I told myself and I continued my quest.

I ran my fingers over the pottery, picked up the plates, and stroked the tablecloths. I sipped the coffee samples while reading labels and handling jar after jar before finally settling on a few saucy additions to our culinary routine. I selected linen napkins with delicate imprints of herbs and olives and some simple but elegant napkin rings. Frivolous, maybe, but fun, you bet!

Too soon, my patient shopping companions returned and feigned interest in my treasures and nodded politely as I rambled on about the platters and possibilities that remained there.

I glided out of the store onto Pearl Street, to be greeted by the street performers and the swell of shoppers and lookers on, all on some mission of their own that day. For me the mission had been fulfilled and I picked up my stride with a look of a fifty something female who was packing pure pleasure in a paper bag.

I came! I shopped! I conquered!



Ten Things I Wish I Knew

?…

As we jump the hurdles to fifty and beyond, we find that there are many things we know for sure. Alas, the things we do not know, intrigue us too. My list of things unknown is long. Fear not gentle readers. I will limit my rants and ramblings to just ten things about which, I wish I knew.

1. I wish I knew how to operate my TV. It seems that we always have extra remote controls. Where do they come from? Do they multiply? Why is it that the buttons are so small? I would prefer to have less buttons and be able to see them. I don’t use most of them anyway. I want one remote, with large buttons, that does not take an electrical engineer to program or operate?  Where can I find this? I wish I knew.

2. I wish I knew where stubbornness comes from. For several years in my teens and early twenties, I worked as a waitress. I would cheerfully place bubbling lasagna dishes on the table and say with a big smile “Please be careful. These are really hot.” At least fifty percent of the time, they would go ahead and touch the fiery things anyway and then quickly pull back and say something like. “Boy you weren’t kidding there were you? Har Har Har, Yuk Yuk Yuk!!” Naturally, I would bite my tongue and feign concern, as my tip would have been greatly reduced if I had said, “I told you so.” People hate that even more that they hate being told what to do. Why are we like this? I wish I knew.

3. I wish I knew where the extra socks go. How do they vanish so completely? I would think that someday one would find them, tucked under a sofa cushion, or behind the dryer. Does the washing machine eat them? Somewhere there must exist, a surplus of socks and mittens and the other halves of things that are supposed to come in twos. There must be a method to finding these things. I wish I knew.

4. I wish I knew north from south from east from west. You see, I am, and have always been, directionally challenged. Without map and compass I am a goner. When taking down directions I prefer left and right as I then raise my chances by 50% that I will choose correctly. I ride along to the same destination, over and over, and will pay absolutely no attention as to how to get there. I have no extra room in my brain for such trivia. Even a wrong turn can lead to the most interesting places. After all, I have GPS and my husband in times of crisis. Even so I wish I knew.

5. I wish I knew why most men are quite certain that they are attractive, capable and of superior intelligence, no matter what their age, size, or background and most women do not. Why are we not better at tooting our own horns? Why do we shoot each other down? Why don’t we stand up and pat ourselves on the back more often and then turn to our sisters and say.” You Go Girl!” I wish I knew.

6. I wish I knew how to play the piano. For those of you that have taken the time to develop your musical talent I salute you! As a girl, I fancied myself as a singer, even though I wasn’t. I took a few guitar lessons. I even sang and played once, albeit very badly, on a local TV talent show. My parents sat and dutifully watched and supported me, as parents do when their kids are attempting to excel at something that they have no real aptitude or talent for. Over time, responsibilities took over and the need to sing was pushed aside. Now I find myself at the age where I worry less and less about appearing foolish and I sing loudly and often, in the car, on the deck after a few glasses of wine, and even in the shower from time to time. I think that my hands would love to get into the action too. For this reason, I wish I knew.

7. I wish I knew where I put my ………(Insert, car keys, glasses, cell phone, portable phone, remote control, nook book, and any number of charger cords.) Try as I might I never seem to have them all in the right place. Quite often I empty the entire contents of my purse onto the countertop only to hear the phone ringing from another room. I lose minutes each day, hours each week, and days each year, looking for these things. Even with all of this searching and groping for lost items, my husband still finds that my skills in this area are stronger than his. He does quite often expect that I possess some form of tracking device that renders me capable of locating his wayward belongings too. How does this work? I wish I knew.

8. I wish I knew when the moment was when I suddenly became so..…(Insert, old, tired, discombobulated, invisible, hot!!!!) Sometimes I play the “what if” game and I stand in front of the mirror and speculate where a nip and a tuck might help my situation and I ponder how I may turn back the clock in some way, shape, and form. A night on the town takes time to prepare for as I pack myself into an under suit of licra that I call my “sausage casing”, apply makeup to my makeup and attempt to form my dry, graying hair into some reasonably acceptable style that fits within the current decade. How did this happen? I wish I knew.

9. I wish I knew why it seems to be a requirement to have fluorescent lighting in all dressing rooms. Hello marketing people!! We don’t really want to see all of the details. Lie to us! Dim the lights! Give us wine and candlelight! Make us believe we are beautiful and we will whip out those credit cards so fast it will give you whiplash. After all, if you believe you are, you are. I wonder why the same lighting is used for clothes shopping as it is for buying a shovel. I wish I knew.

10. I wish I knew when it became a crime to eat a cookie. Here I am, on that soapbox again! I can’t help myself. I try to be good, I really do. I wish I knew how to politely silence the dinner companion, who drones on about his or her diet and worries about each bite until you want to run from the table and hide. As good hostesses we try to provide choices for guests who do not care to imbibe in the vino or the carbs and only wish we could find a way to say, “Please make your choices and then suffer in silence if you must, so that you don’t ruin it for the rest of us.” The Europeans have this down. They have their cake and crème brulée too. How can we do this? I wish I knew.

Dear friends and readers please provide the answers to these questions of mine. I could use some tips, some helpful hints, even tid bits will do. How about you? Are there things that you wish you knew?

La Bella Figura

Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

                      -Sophia Loren

Another year has passed with lightning speed. The last few days are spent in celebration and the anticipation of new beginnings. The start of a new year sparks in many, the desire to make some positive changes in our lives. We reflect and resolve.

The exercise of committing to writing, a list of goals for the new year, is an important custom, perhaps more so that putting up (and taking down) the Christmas tree, and the multitude of other activities that make this season so special and yet so harrowing at the same time. Resolutions are a good thing and no matter what our age, it is never too late to shape and mold ourselves. We are never too old to learn, to improve, and to grow in some way.

As I make my list, I am careful not to choose words, like never or always, as I know them to be the enemy of such well intended guidelines. I am continually learning to appreciate the power of words. Words carefully chosen can motivate, stimulate, and move us forward in a positive way. Words thrown thoughtlessly about can wound and hold us back. I seek within my vocabulary just one sentence, which could serve as my foundation for this goal setting exercise.

I ponder some phrases until the perfect choice comes to mind. As a seemingly lifelong student and lover of the Italian language, I am enamored with the poetry and the magic of its phraseology. The Italian language is rich in expressions, a common one is Fare Una Bella Figura.  Literally translated this equates as “to make a beautiful figure.” The meaning of this expression, however, goes far deeper than staying in good physical shape.

La bella figura is a concept that applies to all factors of appearance, dress, manners and actions. It is difficult to define, but we know it when we see it. A person with la bella figura exudes poise, but is not arrogant, is attractive, but not vane, has impeccable manners, but remains warm and approachable. This person behaves with style, elegance and grace in all situations, yet she is accepting of others and never snobbish. She walks with confidence no matter her age, bank balance or size. She is well dressed but not overdressed. She is open to new ideas and respectful of the opinions of others, while at the same time, she remains comfortable with who she is. She knows to laugh at herself when she makes a mistake and realizes that no matter how good her intentions, that she is human and will sometimes fail. She knows that it is as important in some situations to remain silent, as it is in others to speak her mind.

La bella figura requires that a person take care of themself, both physically and emotionally, as a tired and miserable person cannot carry this off. The woman that knows this is careful to nourish her body as well as her soul. She chooses the right ingredients and does it often.

And so I have made short work of my writing exercise and I have reduced it to but one subject. For the coming year my resolution is;

Fare Una Bella Figura!!!

Happy New Year to All!

Camera Phones for Dummies

Social media is the new frontier, fueled by camera phones and other gadgets that allow the user to capture the moment, upload, and share with the worldwide web with just a few pokes on tiny little buttons. It seems one can’t turn around these days without someone snapping a shot or two.


Photo sharing can be a good thing and I do enjoy perusing the pics of family and friends, especially those living far away. Vintage shots feed feelings of nostalgia and warn the heart. I am never too busy to see updates on hobbies, recipes and family events. After all that is what friends are for.

Alas, too much of a good thing can become a bad thing. Certain places should be a picture free zone. Common sense must rule. For all of us, a few words on picture posting etiquette:

• A good friend will take care to post only the most flattering pics of her posse, no double chins or belly rolls permitted. Only post those with eyes open and fly shut, please.

• Never, never catch someone while shoveling food into their mouths, while bleary eyed after a night on the town, or from behind. Exceptions are made of course for the twenty-something group, who look good no matter what. Oh yes those were the days!

• Never post pictures of bodily afflictions, whether it is a bad tooth, swollen ankle or any other abnormal growths. No one wants to see this. Period.

• Never post anything that could get you fired, arrested, kicked out of school or otherwise into hot water. Never put anything out there that you would not want the entire world to see, because you never know who is checking.

• Never do this to anyone else either.

So as we roll into the holiday season, cameras ready, I look forward to seeing the smiling faces of family and friends. We are a multigenerational social media family as grandparents, parents and kids all get into the game. Happy snapping to all and to all a good night.

The Eagles Can Still Fly.

What are three things that improve with age? Fine wine, redwood trees, and The Eagles, as they so convincingly proved at a recent stop on their Long Road Out of Eden Tour.

Oh what a night!

The harmony, the guitar solos, the percussion in all the right places, combined so brilliantly that a couple of times I had to ask myself, “Is it live, or is it Memorex?”

Live it was!

This iconic all man band, provided the audience with spot on performances of so many hits it boggled the mind. The Eagles are a band so prolific and popular, that they can still fill the house with an audience of all ages. They needed no opening act as they churned out the tunes one after the other. Their easy on stage presence was a rare combination of dignified cool. No tight fitting costumes or buxom backup singers a third their age, interfered with this stage show. The performance provided each member of the audience with both, a fantastic in the moment good time, and a heart tugging trip down memory lane. Yes, I did tear up a couple of times. I couldn’t help myself.

I saw these guys perform, some 35 years ago, as a slip of girl in some outdoor venue that I can no longer recall. What I do remember is a bunch of us piling into a car and heading out to see a group of guys, who like us, were in the beginning stages of a long and varied journey. A lot has happened since, to them and to us. Glen Frey jokingly referred to this go around as “The Assisted Living Tour.” 

Jersey boy Joe Walsh provided contrast to the harmonious melodies of the other three with his piercing renditions of Rocky Mountain Way and Life’s Been Good. My daughters joked that he was a combination of Tom Petty and Gérard Depardieu. Yes, the aging process is a wild and wondrous thing.

At the end of the show we were all left feeling good. The band seemed to be genuinely touched by the enthusiasm of the crowd. The crowd streamed out with the good feeling that so rarely happens when something far exceeds our expectations. It was great to see that this group of old guys could still do it and do it so well.

A Trampoline and Other Adventures

The voice of an old friend came across the line, an unexpected pleasure, the best kind. This friend and I go way back. We raised our kids together for a time and shared all kinds of experiences. As single parents we learned to enjoy simple pleasures, like sitting on the back porch to share a bowl of strawberries or a trip to the beach with our kids. Those were the days when each one was truly an adventure and a test of our parenting and other survival skills.

There was never a dull moment with what mischief the two of us and our six kids, three each, could get into. One day in particular stands out among the memories of this era. The two of us had been out shopping for the afternoon. We arrived at her home to find an empty house and a strange odor.  Puzzled, we set down our packages and prowled about in search of the source. As I stood in the living room I heard a scream come from the back of the house.

“OH MY GOD!!!”

This was in the days that when someone said, “Oh My God”, it meant something. It was not an overused acronym added for emphasis on any given topic. This was an all caps, fully spelled out, ear splitting scream, with a triple exclamation point.

I ran toward the scream to the bathroom and there they were, four large black fish swimming in a fully filled bathtub. There was another one in the bathroom sink and later we found two more in the kitchen. It appeared that her boys had caught quite a string while we were out. I did what any really good friend would do in that situation. I laughed myself silly and went home.

Years have passed since then, but each time I see her, I think of this day.

This friend, who is now in the process of moving, was calling because she had a few things that she wanted to get rid of before she leaves, one of them being a trampoline. I paused at first as my weekend was all planned out. There was not time for this in my busy schedule. But then…. I searched my mind for a way to make this work. I called her back a few minutes later and agreed to buy this trampoline as long as her hubby would bring it to my daughter’s house and set it up. In route to my next stop on the day’s agenda, I notified the family troops that we were moving Sunday dinner so all of the grandkids could jump.

That following day, I had not been in the lawn chair long, when little voices beckoned, “Come jump with us Grandma.”

“How hard can this be?” I thought to myself as I clumsily climbed up and struggled to get my bearings with children bouncing all around me. I took my stance, firmly in the middle at first and began to jump.

“When was the last time I jumped?” I wondered out loud.

The kids smiled with that look of endearment that younger ones give to older ones when they are attempting to do something that makes them look really silly. We jumped and laughed and I will never forget the joyful looks upon these little faces, the same ones that will grow too fast.

A few days later I spoke with the old friend and told her of our trampoline escapades while moaning of sore muscles in places I had forgotten existed.

“By the way, what did you ever do with those fish?” I asked her as we walked around memory lane.

“Well, we cleaned them of course.” she answered.

I thank you dear old friend for the trampoline, and for the reminder that we need to answer the call for new adventures and spontaneous fun when they come to us. I thank you also for the laughter filled memories of fish in the bathtub and smiling faces flying in the October sky.

A Toast to Autumn

Autumn is the season of the harvest, the third act ......

Varied hues create character, no longer green. Skin tingles in the fresh fall air as the leaves drop, one by one, to the ground without a sound.... Quiet.


 An occasional rustle breaks the silence. It is true the birds and cicadas no longer play, but the mosquitoes too are gone, the trade off. Sandals make way for sweaters pulled from the shelf..... Comfort.

And so it goes, as we harvest what we have sown, in our families and our friendships. We gather. Experience tells us what to take with us and what to leave behind.... Reflection.

Around the fire, nostagic notes blend with recent tunes, a pleasant recipe.

My favorite season, so far.......

I raise a well aged glass to you.

For a favorite oldie.....Click Here.                                                      
                                                 Stevie Nicks, Landslide
                                                       

Turn it OFF, Turn it OFF!

I am suffering from numb thumb, also known as remote control, out of control syndrome. My knuckles have cramped up from holding on, as I peruse the multitude of options available for my viewing pleasure. After scrolling up, down, and all around, through the vast maize of many choices, I decide that there is really nothing on.


                                  This could be a result of any of the following:

                                 a) I have already seen it and I watch too damn much TV.

                                 b) I am out of touch and don’t know what I am missing.

                                 c) I don’t know how to operate the remote.

                                 d) Most of what is offerred is really just plain crap.

                                 I am going with d.

I ask myself, do I want to spend an evening watching the minute by minute activity of another person’s life? The answer is clearly no. Do I want to waste my precious, few, free hours of the day listening to commercials blasting across the airwaves, for products that I never intend to buy? No way.

According to the A.C. Nielsen Co., the average American watches far too much TV, more than 4 hours of TV each day (or 28 hours/week, or 2 months of nonstop TV-watching per year). In a 65-year life, the average person will have logged an equivalent of 9 years glued to the tube or some other form of media.

September 19-25 has been designated as Turn Off Week (fka TV Turn Off Week) by the Center for Screen Time Awareness. The Center for SCREEN-TIME Awareness is an international nonprofit organization based in Washington, DC and seeks to reengage people with their families, friends and communities.

Life is out there, if we get out of the chair.

I have started my list of things to do during TurnOff Week. They include:

1) Take a walk.

2) Write a letter with pen and paper.

3) Call an old friend or a relative.

4) Read a book from cover to cover.

5) Create something from old things around the house.

6) Take a long hot bath with wine and candles.

7) Bake from scratch.

8) Clean a closet.

9) Attend at least one live entertainment event.

10) Learn a language or skill.

What’s on your list?

Bell Bottom Memories

A favorite pair of jeans or a well worn sweat shirt can take the edge off a hard day. We all have them, these items that bring comfort to our lives, the ones that we can’t seem to part with no matter how torn and frayed they become.

As a teenager I had a pair of jeans with many patches. These were placed haphazardly across the backside and in various places along both legs. Colorful swatches of many colors and patterns were attached with clashing thread. Jagged edges and odd shapes were laid one upon the next, to cover each hole, as the threads wore bare with a few more for effect.

My mother and father could not understand why I wanted to wear these things, when a closet of more suitable clothes waited untouched. A teenage basement dweller, I would rise from the deep as they shook their heads and exchanged looks of irritation each time they spotted the dreaded patched pants. Their reaction only served to reinforce my desire to wear them as often as I could.

Fashion rules change and for a few years, the rule of cool was bell bottoms. Denim drug the ground, causing frayed ends that only added to their appeal. Talented seamstresses added color fabric to the side seams to further widen the leg. Hip huggers, topped with wide belts, propped up with platform shoes, were what the groovy kids wore. No one wanted to be caught wearing floods, or high water pants, the polar opposite of cool. Cut off shorts made from the last year’s favorites, were the norm in summer attire.

Skirt lengths were more forgiving, as there was an array of choices from the mini, the midi and the maxi. Maxi coats and skirts paired with granny glasses were hip. Fringe hung on everything from belts to bags and the ever popular suede vest. The true hippie chick donned love beads and flashed an occasional peace sign.

Designer jeans rolled onto the scene in the 80’s, as this generation tight rolled and tucked to avoid any kind of flair at all. Shorter lengths were all the rage and stone wash ruled. Waistlines rose higher and higher, now referred to as mom jeans. By the 90’s the designers had found ways to get big bucks for jeans that came prewashed and pre torn.

I hung onto the old favorites for many years until finally they were too hideous even for yard work and with trepidation, I tossed them into the trash can. The stone wash, ankle length mom jeans are but a memory as well.

As we roll through life, fashion concerns can often take a backseat to the many other areas that demand our time and attention. As I survey my closet, I find that the jeans residing there are all the wrong length, color and size. I find that it is time for a closet intervention. No matter how comfy the old standby’s are, some more fashionable alternatives are much needed. Jean shopping I must go. So I head to the mall with my credit card and memories of styles past tucked into my back pocket.

Where are you Bobby Sherman?

1970, Anywhere USA


Giggling and girlfriends go together like bread and butter, peaches and cream, and toast and jam. Each ingredient is pleasing by itself, but put them together and you just can’t go wrong. Nothing can start the giggling like swooning over boys.

Swoon we did! It may have been the Age of Aquarius, but there was no lack of love for wholesome hunks in the heartland. Many an afternoon was whiled away as we flopped ourselves down on our pink chenille bedspreads, with the 45’s on the player, as we gazed upon our favorite fresh faced, shiny haired, pop icons with the pearly whites. Walls came alive as posters pulled from the pages of Tiger Beat were tacked and taped to every available inch of plaster. No room was complete without Bobby, David, and Donny.

Bobby Sherman was both a singing sensation and a TV star with a role in the hit TV series, Here Come the Brides.  He is alive and well and volunteering with the LAPD.

Bobby Sherman, Then

Bobby Sherman, Now

                                           To see Bobby perform, click here.

                                         Bobby Sherman, Easy Come Easy Go!

David Cassidy did prove that it can be cool to be on stage with your mom, with his role in The Partridge Family.  David continues to perform live in venues around the world.

David Cassidy, Then

David Cassidy, Now

                                                      To see David perform, Click here.
                                                              David Cassidy, Medley


Donny Osmond sprang onto the stage at the age of five and has been bringing the house down ever since.  His most recent success was to win the competition on  Dancing With the Stars.

Donny Osmond, Then

 

Donny Osmond, NOW

                                           To see Donny perform click here!

                                           Donny Osmond, Go Away Little Girl

How things  do change and yet they stay the same !  Newcomer Justin Bieber has adolescents across the globe swooning as he croons.  

                                                    To see Justin perform, click here.

                                                         Justin Bieber, Baby

How do the pop icons of the 70's measure up ?  You decide.  Leave a comment below or vote at the top of the screen.

Those Were the Days

                                                                
Fast forward. Years speed by as we charge ahead and life moves on faster, faster, faster, while we acquire more and more. Suddenly, we stop and take a long look in the rear view mirror. Nostalgia takes over as we long for old times. Memories are mined for hidden gemstones. Rewind….


I yearn for evening breezes through the lilac bushes, kool-aid, bomb pops, a run through the yard sprinkler, some-mores, and chasing lightning bugs. I long for a game of hop scotch, jumping rope, and a drink of water from the fountain.  Popping the heads from dandelions, picking violets, a search for a four leaf clover, and the discovery of grasshoppers and monarch butterflies, were but a few of the simple pleasures of summer.

Unscheduled time, with no plans and no expectations, paved the way for many adventures. Mothers maintained the home base as calloused feet hit the sidewalks each morning. Stingray bikes, with banana seats, some of them specially equipped with a basket, horn or playing cards clipped to the spokes, provided further transportation. Food, drink and the occasional band-aid would eventually draw the bicycle crusaders home. Lunch and dinner were served with regularity at the kitchen table and mothers used their vocal chords to call when a tardy vagabond did not report for meals.

Suntans were all natural, as days were seldom spent indoors. There were no scheduled play dates. Impromptu matches of four square, kickball, baseball, and an occasional card game developed in the neighborhood parks, vacant lots and in the streets themselves. Neighborhood tribes roamed free into the evenings for games of hide and seek, also known as “ditch em”, and other forms of mischief.

Imaginations were put to use as items were built, created, and crafted. Each neighborhood found a way to fashion a fort or a clubhouse and a few go-carts, from scraps of wood and other items scavenged from who knows where. Kids will be kids was the unspoken rule and rarely did anyone complain if a few flowers, or a tomato or two were missing from the neighboring gardens.

Clotheslines filled with laundry dotted the landscape and the windows were always open. The neighborhood grocery stores brimmed with customers, including kids clutching shopping lists, with an extra coin or two for a treat of their choice. My favorite was the pop machine with glass bottles of ice cold soda in many flavors. I remember the clink of the coin and the clunk of the bottle and the feeling as I pulled out a bright red strawberry, my usual.

Girls would be girls as our mother’s and grandmother’s discarded clothes, hats and jewelry, became costumes, topped off with necklaces created from colorful strands of pop beads. Cardboard boxes became dollhouses, with empty thread spools for chairs, material scraps and tissues for blankets and curtains, all displayed against the designer crayon drawn wallpaper. The beloved Barbie doll was adorned with stick pin earrings, the ones with the colored ball ends.

Boys would be boys as an old tire became a swing and strips of the discarded inner tube tied to a piece of wood, became a sling shot. Dirt mounds were shaped into villages for matchbox cars and toy soldiers. Empty cans were fastened together with black electrical tape to make cannons as tennis balls rocketed through the air.

Middle class values prevailed as toys and clothes were handed down from one child to the next and a less than perfect item was still considered useful. A doll without arms was still a doll. A car with a missing wheel was still a car.

The wish book provided more fuel for our imaginations. Each Christmas and every birthday a box was unwrapped that contained a new Barbie or Chatty Cathy doll, a chemistry set, a microscope, perhaps a kit to make Creepy Crawlers, or a paint by number set, some Lincoln Logs, an EasyBake Oven, a View Master, an Etcha Sketch or a GI Joe.

An occasional trip downtown with a dollar tucked in our pockets would provide entertainment options with a visit to local movie theatre or to the “Dime Store”, for small treasures such as a Slinky, Silly Putty, Superballs, Clackers, bubble stuff, Playdough, a Mood Ring, a Troll doll, or a tasty treat of Incredible Edibles, candy cigarettes, Cracker Jacks and Bazooka bubble bum..

From all of these excursions, experiments and escapades a few words of experience ring true. Never use a slinky as a collar for your cat. It is not wise to take a test run on a go cart until some form of brakes has been attached. Once you cut a doll’s hair it will not grow back. Neighbors do not take kindly to holes in their clothing from any “stray” bb shots that come from the bushes and the right combination of  chemicals will definitely cause an explosion. Police do show up when enough fireworks are set off in the backyard and laughing while drinking soda will cause it to come out of your nose.

Every generation looks back fondly on years gone by and perhaps Archie Bunker said it best. Those were the days!

                                           Archie and Edith Bunker's Theme Song.

"She Don't Eat No Tomatoes?"

About a year ago, my son brought home his new girlfriend. Now he is not the kind that falls in love easily and we knew that if he was bringing her home that it must have been a pretty serious thing. So I did what I always do when we are about to have guests, I started  to cook. I put the sauce pot on and the kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of basil and garlic dancing in a thick tomato sauce.


For years my specialty was manicotti filled with a creamy four cheese mixture , topped with a zesty tomato sauce and then baked until bubbly hot. Stuffed peppers are another family favorite. Small red and yellow peppers with a hearty meat filling are topped with the special tomato sauce that is a feast for the senses. Heavy sauces like carbonara are reserved for holidays, but for quick entertaining, a spicy amatriciana sauce, made stove top in a skillet is a quick and flavorful hit. It is an easy blend of bacon, onion, red pepper and tomatoes, the key word being tomatoes.


I went to work in the kitchen and I mixed up a caprese salad, garden tomatoes and fresh mozzarella , with  a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of basil and garlic. I decided that it would be fun if we all made our own personal size pizzas, so I made ready the ingredients, including a thick tomato sauce, and I awaited the arrival of our new guest so the fun could begin.

“ My son introduced me to this new girl and we are instantly delighted. The conversation flowed easily, we talked, we laughed and I suspected  that they may be a good match.”

“Anyone hungry?” I asked.

I then went on to describe the menu that I had planned.

“Michelle doesn’t eat tomatoes, Mom,” he answered with slight trepidation in his voice.

The scene that followed was like the one in the film My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The room fell silent and then....

“What do you mean, she doesn’t eat tomatoes?”

“She doesn’t eat tomatoes. That’s it.”

“Do you mean raw tomatoes?”

“No I mean no tomatoes, no tomato sauce, no tomatoes.”

Dumbfounded, I found myself at a loss for what to do and I struggled as I searched for the appropriate response. I envisioned future family dinners without any sign of tomato sauce and I am stunned into silence for a moment or two.

I recovered and pulled myself together. I can usually think pretty well on my feet, so I pulled out a jar of alfredo sauce from the pantry. I added it to the choice of ingredients for our pizza making party. I shook it off and moved on.

Michelle built a “white pizza” with the alfredo sauce,  a bit of cheese and  a sprinkle of herbs. I tried a piece and will admit that it wasn’t bad. The topping on the pizza was not after all, the most important thing. I realized that the ingredients in the food were not nearly as important as the people around the table. Many gatherings have come and gone since then and we have managed to alter the menu to accommodate our newest member of the family by adding a dish or two. It has challenged me to try new recipes and to change things up a bit. I will admit that I do struggle for ideas.

That’s Ok I’ll make chili!

"Change Your Hair and Change Your Life"

As I stand in line at the grocery store, I check out the other ladies, like a woman does. We size each other up, make comparisons to ourselves, assess our success or failure on the attractiveness meter. As I continue to wait my turn in line, I notice something. Among the women my age, I determine that our hair styles are all pretty much the same. We are all some combination of blond highlights, mostly straight and with nothing below the shoulder. I wonder to myself. When had we all stopped trying to be different? We had gradually morphed into the same middle aged woman in capri pants.

I start to whistle Little Boxes. For anyone not familiar with this song, it was recorded by Malvina Reynolds in 1961, and came back into the spotlight as the theme song for the Showtime series Weeds. It is a somewhat of a social commentary on sameness.




There is a certain comfort in sameness, in knowing where we fit. There is a certain sadness in it too. Turning fifty is a time of reflection for many as we take a closer look at ourselves. We question and we self evaluate. Why am I here? Why do I have the same outfit and the same haircut as everyone else? Is it a lack of imagination, a lack of courage, or is it simply a lack of effort? It does take effort to be different. It is not always the popular thing to do. Some may view it as uppity, immature or even crazy.

So as my mind continues to wander,I think of people with great hair, truly amazing ,unforgettable hair, and I am jealous. Why was I born with this straight, thin, nothing hair? I lament to myself. This is my fate, to be just like everyone else with this hair. If only I’d been born with thick, curly hair, then perhaps I would stand out in the crowd. I’d probably be a famous author by now, living in a fabulous villa, sipping limoncello by the sea. It’s all my damn hair’s fault! I decide to myself that some change must be in order!

When a woman changes her hair, it is usually just the beginning. There are bigger changes to come. Change your hair and change your life, so the saying goes. Since I am pretty comfortable with my life, I pause to reevaluate my plan and then I think of Aunt Doris. Aunt Doris wore the very same hairstyle from the time that she was in her early twenties, until the day she died. It was the same color and style, meticulously coiffed and properly rolled each and every day of her life. She never changed a thing,ever. I am sure that her hair stylist loved her.

For most ladies, your hair stylist is an important member of your team. You just don’t change unless you have a darn good reason. It is like re-electing the incumbent. Fear of the unknown can take over and often will lead to complacency. Why change when accepting the status quo is so much easier? We know that what we have is not all that bad, so why risk getting something truly awful?

So again I think of Aunt Doris and I remind myself that change is good. Maybe it is time to take off in a new direction. I will start with the hair and see where is goes from there. My villa by the sea is waiting.

Fear the Carb Nazi!

We all know them. They can rain on a dinner party when the sun is shining. They can make you feel small and weak and downright lesser than, these folks with ironclad willpower and the willingness to show it. I call them the Carb Nazi’s. Carb Nazi’s will look down their noses with suspicion at those who indulge in the glorious world of the carbohydrate.

For those of us of Italian American descent, carbohydrates are like water and air. We simply can’t live without them. There is a common expression in Italian, “Buono Come il Pane”, which translates as ”As Good as Bread.” This expression is used to describe someone or something of true goodness, simple and down to earth. We get together to “Break Bread.” The act of tearing off a junk of hard crusty bread from a shared loaf is a sign of friendship.

The world of Italian breads is vast and wide. We’re not talking Wonder Bread here folks. Wonder Bread is one of those products that I put in the same category as Spaghetti O’s. No self respecting Italian would eat them unless starving on a desert island somewhere with nothing else. These breads are truly a thing of beauty. A walk through an isle of your favorite bakery or Italian grocery store is a feast for the eyes and the nose, with stacks of paper wrapped loaves in varying shapes. Ciabatta, focaccia, braided breads, and flatbreads will grace the senses.

Then there is the pasta. There are more types and shapes of pasta than I could possibly expand upon in this short post. Sauces dance across these varied shapes al dente, using fresh simple ingredients to create culinary bliss.

The problem that we often have with pasta in this country is the same problem that we have with everything else, over doing it. The oversized, over sauced, over cooked and over cheesed dishes arrive to the table in many restaurants in buckets, not plates. In Italy, pasta is not typically served as the main course but as a first course, un primo, following gli antipasti, the appetizers. It is most often served as a smaller portion, with light flavorful sauces, as a primer for what is to come. You see it is not an all or nothing proposition.

Carb Nazi’s take the all or nothing approach to the extreme. Carb Nazi’s really do want to eat carbs. The more they deny themselves, the more they want them. The act of making anything off limits only serves to increase the desire. Their eyes glaze over and their backs stiffen as the bread basket is passed. They look straight ahead and avoid eye contact with the bruschetta while nibbling lettuce. It’s painful to watch, poor dears.

Call my crazy, but I’d rather spend my time in a quest for a fuller life, than a smaller waistline. I’d much rather spend my time around the table with friends and family happily breaking bread.

Road Trip Therapy

There is nothing like a road trip with your honey when you need to get the heck out of Dodge. When the need to escape overwhelms and to go anywhere, just anywhere, takes over. We do enjoy sailing down the highway with the radio on. There is something so freeing about this no matter what the final destination. Along the way we have this little game that we play.

“Who did this song?” he asks.

I lean back in my seat and listen for a few lines. More often than not I can tell him. Every once in awhile I get stuck, and since my hubby is ahem, a few years older that I am, he will often know the answer. I love his knowing look as he nods and gives me the name of the song and the performer.

At times I impress him when I am able to belt out entire songs, word for word. You have to know someone pretty well to feel comfortable enough to do this sober. Who knew all this was still in there? I call it my RAM, random access memory, the stuff l have tucked away that pops out from time to time. It’s just one of those fifty something moments when I can recite the entire lyrics to Maggie May, but will not remember where I put the car keys or my glasses. Maggie May, now there is a song for you. I can name that tune from just the first guitar chords.

Old radio hits can stir up all kinds of memories, some of them shared, some of them unique to our own experiences. Flashbacks from old rock concerts and reminiscences of music festivals in the rain wearing moccasins and frayed bell bottom jeans resurface. Nostalgia takes over as I recall listening to record albums in my parent’s basement until they pounded on the floor or yelled down the steps that the floor was vibrating, again. I was a particularly annoying teenager and loved to rock the house with ZZ Top’s, La Grange. This was a guaranteed floor shaker. I will admit that I had no idea what the song was about at the time. I only knew that it annoyed my mother with its rafter shaking guitar buzz. Sorry mom!

Faces of old friends pass before us in between the road signs with blue skies glowing overhead. Happy times both them and now, we tell stories and laugh over the time that so and so did this or that. With each melody we recall all modes of tacky dress and silly behavior after sucking down sweet sticky drinks like the tequila sunrise, the sloe screw, the salty dog, and the fuzzy navel. Well at least we all got our fair share of vitamin C!

As the sun begins to fade we look at each other and smile. Where did the time go we often say? I wonder, how did this young rebel end up in this old body with sensible shoes? Lots of twists and turns along the way have lead to this place. Even so it’s fun to let it all go for a weekend or a while. As far as getting older is concerned, I have just one comment. What happens on a road trip stays on a road trip.

Mothers Day Reflections

It’s the little things about motherhood that stay with you forever, like the feeling of little fingers grabbing your own and holding on tight. Baby fingers leave me awestruck, these small creations with tiny knuckles and dainty fingernails. Baby toes are equally as pleasing. If there is a more perfect moment in all of motherhood than holding a tiny foot and kissing it over and over, I have not found it. Baby smiles are followed by baby giggles, the best sounds on earth. They come forth from hours of coos and gurgles, mother’s music, as we sit and admire these little creatures from top to bottom. A soft kiss to a child’s head as they sleep, with lips brushing across silky fine hairs and the smell of powder, warms the mother’s heart like nothing else can.

The taste of chocolate, lady bugs, and butterfly kisses, are but a few of the countless discoveries each day. These shared adventures strengthen the bond between mother and child. Small arms reach, stretch, pull, and grasp each experience with innocent joy. The first steps come and we watch as they totter back and forth. We know that they will fall, more than once, and that we have to let them or they will not learn to walk for themselves. Long strolls while learning the words for cow and grass and sunshine, never last long enough before it is time to rush them off to school with a lump in our throats as we turn to leave them.

We watch with trepidation as they take their first turn at bat, their first jump off the diving board, and their first ride without the training wheels. We stand guard at the playground and gasp as they climb just a little too high. We have to control ours emotions so that we don’t give the neighborhood bully a good spanking, but instead teach our children to stand up for themselves when they need to.

Brush your teeth, eat your vegetables, clean your room, and do your homework, the familiar lines of a mother’s tune. A good mother knows that they won’t like us all of the time. We don’t let it break our hearts when they scowl and turn to run to their rooms in disgust after we have to tell them no. We remember fondly the days when they thought mom knew everything, but our chests swell with pride as they learn to think for themselves.

We support them when we can, but not too much. We can tell them when we think they have veered a little off course, but must respect some decisions as theirs alone to make, and can only pray that the road they ultimately take will be a good one. We hope that they will surpass all that we have done and want for them only the best that life has to offer, knowing full well that there will be pitfalls along the way. We must teach them that life is not about perfection, but about doing our best. That is all we can ask of them and that is all that they can ask of us. As mothers we are not saints or angels, but women, who do the best that we can with this awesome responsibility that has been bestowed upon us....

and we treasure every minute of it.