Little mercies

Oh Thursday, please deliver me from this week!

It's been a real bear. Exhausting and deliberately challenging. I just want it to go away.

After a series of four days of bad health, bad timing and bad juju, the final indignation occurred this afternoon at the grocery store, crowded with the after-work set grabbing necessities on the way home. I stopped in to grab something quick for dinner, as I'm just too tired to go home and cook. I was standing in line at the deli, when suddenly ...

POP!

My right bra strap sprung like a slingshot pulled taut and let go. One second, it was on my shoulder and then the next, it ... wasn't.

Such was the force of the pop, I'm pretty sure that had I not been wearing a cardigan, the strap would have slapped me in the ear and sent my earring flying. Startled, I jumped a little in my high heels and audibly gasped, garnering some odd looks from the other deli patrons and the young lady behind the counter weighing my coleslaw. I tried to be cool, casually reaching for my shoulder just to be sure that ... yep, it was gone. I could feel the strap hanging loose on my back, dangling toward my hip.

Then came the worst feeling: the front - the cup - started to unfurl like a banana peel.

Things were about to get very real, folks.

I discreetly buttoned my cardi - because, of course, I was wearing a cardigan sweater! - and silently prayed for the deli worker to put my chicken meal together a little faster.

One potato wedge.

Two potato wedge.

Three potato wedge.

When she finally hit the half-pound mark, I called it good enough and hit the checkout line. I was in such a tizzy, I tried to pay for the order by swiping my health insurance card. 

No, it didn't take.

When I got to the car, I realized I still had one more stop to make before I could get home: my son's school.  So no one would blame me for doing the wiggle - you know, how we girls can tuck both arms in our shirts and wrestle our bras off without exposing ourselves - so I could re-appoint the offending strap and discreetly secure it back on the shoulder in the privacy of my car.

... No one ... except the elderly lady in the passenger seat of the car next to me.

She? Not amused. And neither was her lap dog. Stupid, judgmental Yorkie.

Note to self: next time you partially disrobe in your car in a public place in the daytime, check for an audience.

Some days are like that: it's one thing after another. And some days like that come at you a week at a time. I try to roll with it as best I can and look for the little mercies: kind gestures from friends, a well-timed compliment, the guy who lets you turn left in front of him in the carpool line, a sturdy underwire, old ladies who have probably been blinded by flashes of your pasty middle-aged flesh and thus can't ID you ...

... and mediocre fashion sensibilities that leave you covered in every situation.

God bless the cardigan sweater.

28 again

Recently, a colleague guessed my age at 28.

28!

Seriously, 28. He guessed my age at 28. I will be 45 on my next birthday in March. That puts 28 a pretty good distance in the rear view mirror of my life.

And then, a week later, a delivery man guessed my age at … yep - 28.

28!

What's my age-defying secret?

And good genetics. And I stay out of the sun. And I have a fat face, which doesn't tend to show wrinkles (thank you, cupcakes).

No one will accuse me of being vain or youth obsessed. But I am middle-aged and I am not going to pretend that it's not a compliment to be told I look younger than I am. I like it. Say it some more, please.

It's a double-edged sword as well.

I've been in my profession for more than 20 years and, personally, have been through some serious stuff, and so when I offer carefully considered advice and heartfelt counsel based on my experience and best practices - personally or professionally - I expect to be taken seriously. But those adorable dimples and batty lashes don't always convey maturity.

Plus, I'm kind of a goofball anyway, so maybe that shines through in a bigger way than I care to admit.

Still, I admit that it's fun to get carded at the liquor store (Even more fun when my husband, who is a few months younger than I am, doesn't get carded. Ever). The clerk is so just so adorable when he checks out my license and then does the math in his head and figures out how old I really am, getting all embarrassed and "Aw shucks, ma'am." I just want to adopt him … because I am old enough to be his mother.

This happens kind of frequently (especially lately) and I just laugh at it, knowing that it's fleeting, as the years and weariness will surely change that supposed number. That's okay. While it's fun to look 28, I would not want to go back in time and actually be 28 again. 

I'm a don't-look-back kind of person (which makes me a terrible scrapbooker, by the way). I always look ahead. I believe that, as blessed as my life is at this moment, my very best days are still ahead of me.

And I look forward to growing into them.

I leave you with this article: America’s favorite age? It’s 50, new poll says.

And this:

"Aging is not lost youth, but a new stage of opportunity and strength." - Betty Friedan

**PS: Please don't forget to take the holiday spending survey**

 

Roots

It's official: I have roots.

Not of the silver variety atop the noggin (though, yes, I have those too), but of the home and hearth kind.

We've lived in our little cottage in this little community for 10 years now, as of this past weekend. That's a big deal to me. It's the longest I've lived in any house.

While I lived in my hometown for nearly 30 years, I had never lived in the same house for very long at a time. I grew up in a family of renters and I can remember moving around my small hometown at least 15 times. I lived in one rental house two different times; another, three different times. The longest we lived in one place was maybe a couple of years. The shortest was three months.

This house is the third my husband and I have bought together, and it is the third community we have lived in. It is neither the biggest we have lived in, nor the smallest.  As I've mentioned in the past, it's just a little house, devoid of any glamour. But living here - in this cottage on the corner across from the cornfield - has meant the world to me.

With this home came a new community. It didn't take long for us to realize we didn't need sidewalks to connect us to our neighbors. Through several separate threads - school, work, sports, hobbies, church, volunteer interests - we were knit into a welcoming community.

And with this home came a church home. Being a part of our small country parish has blessed us in so many ways.

And with this home came friends. Wonderful, lovely, loopy, supportive, hilarious, perfectly flawed, real, true friends. The kind of friends who become family.

And with this home, came projects. This house is not an old house. We have owned a very old house and there is no comparing the two, project-wise. Yet, even though this cottage was just 11 years old when we moved in, it still needed work.

And 10 years later, it still does.

Time gets away from you; leaves you with a false sense of, "We'll get to it eventually." But you never do. Life happens: work, school, appointments. Fun happens. Working on the house sounds too much like work.

And then, a decade passes and you're like, "What the hell happened to our house?" Some days, it's like a hillbilly Addams Family lives here. Rusted fence. Dried up, weedy lawn. Faded, gray driveway. [Side note: we could really use some rain.]

Those new woods floors we were going to install in the living room? Never happened. The super-organized garage? Nope. White painted kitchen cabinets? Ha.

I hate you builder-grade oak from 1992. Still. Hate. You.

So you just pick a project here and there, and just plug away.

Just finished this weekend: Message center on garage door painted with chalkboard paint. This door leads from the garage into the kitchen - it's metal and so magnets stick to it for easy, interchangeable postings. Chalkboard paint allows for headers and erasable notes. Perfect place to stay organized as you pass in and out of the house each day. Keeps clutter off the fridge.

Magnetic locker baskets hold coupons (above) or chalk (below) and were on clearance from the school supplies bins.

No house is ever completely "finished." For all the nesting you accomplish, eventually the paint fades, counters scratch, carpet snags. You replace; repair. Projects get bumped due to time and budget constraints. Priorities shift.

Regardless of what does or doesn't get marked off our cottage's to-do list, we have still managed to achieve a major accomplishment: we made a house a home, rooting ourselves in a wonderful new community ...

... blooming where we were planted. 

Welcome September

It finally happened: the hot weather stretch of the last week and a half gave way to cool breezes this evening. Gone is the sticky August air and in its place the promise of gorgeous autumn days to come.

... At least for the next couple of days until it heats back up into the high 80s again. And it will heat back up again. Summer isn't over just yet.

Still, I'm glad to see September. It brings with it fall, my favorite season, and ushers in glorious October, the grand dame of the calendar.

"My favorite poem is the one that starts, 'Thirty days hath September' because it actually tells you something," - Groucho Marx.

September does tell us something: change is in the air. The seasons are shifting, and while that happens every year, this year, it feels more weighted for me ... like there is more significance to it all. I haven't figured it out yet, but I do know I want to take in every moment of it; to be truly present and not just marking days off the calendar.

Many people consider Labor Day the end of summer, but I like to think of it as the beginning of fall. I've enjoyed a great long weekend and hope the same was true for you. Here's what the weekend taught me:

• Cheer. I love home football games, not only because I get to watch my son perform in the marching band, but also because of the sense of community the high school games provide. That stadium is packed with more than cheering fans; it's a collective spirit of camaraderie and fellowship wrapped in school colors.

Marching band setting up to play the national anthem before the football game.

•  Spend time with others. We went to a cook-out at a friend's house on Saturday evening and had lunch with my in-laws Sunday afternoon. Lots of smiles and laughter ensued over delicious meals with those we love.

A restaurant that overlooks a horseshoe bend in the Ohio River affords this bird's-eye view.

•  Spend time together. With our son staying at a friend's house last night, my husband and I went to a movie ... on a Sunday night ... paid non-matinee prices ... and bought popcorn. That sort of indulgence just for us doesn't happen nearly as often as it should.

Date night.

•  Enjoy the season, no matter what season it is. We stopped at a local farm store and winery this afternoon for some yummy stuff from the bakery and produce bins. I got all giddy at the goodies offered.

•  Be grateful. I loved my three-day weekend and the opportunity to spend it doing fun stuff with great people. And as Labor Day comes to an end, I am also very grateful for the fact that I have a job waiting for me tomorrow.

It's a blessing to be able to provide for my family through meaningful work.

Love ain't so blind

This is what my husband wakes up to in the morning.

Woof.

Retainer, Breathe Right nasal strips, wrinkles, tousled hair, bags under the eyes … it's a perfect combination of age, fatigue and weariness. And I'm not even wearing my dorky glasses.

The thing is, my husband has looked at this morning spectacle for nearly 20 years of marriage.

And he loves me anyway.

(By the way … He? Doesn't look any more glamorous than I do. And yes, I love him too. Very much.)

You might come to the conclusion, based on the evidence presented, that love is blind. After all, it was Shakespeare who gave us that phrase hundreds of years ago and it has stood the test of time.

You've heard your girlfriends proclaim it as the root of a shattered relationship: "I was blind" ... to his cheating, lying, stealing, ___ [fill in the blank].

You hear it over and over in movies, books and plays. My favorite use of the phrase is in the 2003 movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, when Mr. Martini (the wonderfully understated Vincent Riotta - swoon!) comforts brokenhearted Frances (Diane Lane) by saying it in Italian - "L'amore e cieco" - and she responds, "Oh, 'love is blind.' Yeah we have that saying too." He tells her, "Everybody has that saying because it's true everywhere."

Oh Mr. Martini, how I love you. But I gotta call bullshit on that.

(pardon my profanity ... there's just no other way to say it, folks)

I do not believe that love is blind. Love - real, true, mature, honest love - is not blind at all.

Love sees.

Love sees us, the real us. It is about more than surface attraction. It sees right through our games, lies and facades. It glares through the walls we build around us. It stares unblinking at our pettiness, our crabbiness, our inner ugliness.

Love sears into our souls, straight to our vulnerabilities, our insecurities, our fears, our hurts, our failures and disappointments.

Love takes in our beauty. Basks in our laughter. Cheers at our victories. Forgives.

Love is about acceptance, endurance. It is only with eyes wide open that we are able to fully and completely accept one another in love. We see the imperfections and love one another anyway.

Yes, we sometimes choose to look away when we suspect someone we care about could hurt or wrong us. We turn away from ugly truths. We lie to ourselves. Ignore reality. We swim in a river of denial, choosing to jump in muddy waters, rather than wade deeper through the muck toward the truth. These are choices that we make to protect ourselves. That is not the same as being blinded by love. 

And sometimes our loved ones hurt us, lie to us, deceive us. Devastating truths are revealed. Being blindsided is not the same as being blinded by love.

"Love is not a feeling; it's an ability," young Marty (Felipe Dieppa) to his girlfriend's father, Dan (Steve Carell), in the 2007 movie, Dan in Real Life.

Marty's right. To love one another - truly love one another - is a skill. It is something we are not always going to get right. But we must practice and master it with open eyes, open minds, open hearts and open arms.

Before I go, I will leave you with two things:

A less scary version of me.

And my source material for this post.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8: Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

Decking the halls … already?

It's only August, but, according to a couple of news stories I came across this week, Christmas looms large and will begin its creep from the back-store shelves to front and center before the last of the Halloween candy has hit the bottom of your shopping cart.

Articles: Christmas in August as retailers rev up holiday offers from Today.com; and Halloween in August? Christmas in October? This annoying retail trend is here to stay from Time.com

Now that school has started and summer vacation past, we are in lockdown mode on spending at my house, saving up to buy gifts (and give to charity) for a holiday that's little more than four months away.

We're not the only ones. In 2012, the average US family spent almost $750 for Christmas, with about $271 of that on average per child. Here's an info graphic that shows some cool stats, including that 12 percent of consumers begin their shopping before September (yikes ... that's now, people!).

I am curious … nosy, really … What do you do? Who is on your shopping list and how much do you spend?

And if you feel tempted to rail against the commercialization of Christmas and how the real reason for the season gets lost, yadda, yadda … spare me. I'm with you. I get weary of it all too.

"For the past 50 years or so I've been getting more and more worried about Christmas. It seems we're all so busy trying to beat the other fellow in making things go faster and look shinier and cost less that Christmas and I are sort of getting lost in the shuffle." – Kris Kringle, Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

… which, by the way, was released in May of that year because the studio heads knew more people went to the movies in the summer.

Commercialization? Year 'round holiday marketing? Not new.

But the fact is, Christmas is no different than any other event: it takes time and planning to pull it off. I'm curious about how you do it, not the morality behind it. We can talk about that another time.

Or not.

So I put together a little non-scientific, confidential  online survey and ask you to please just click through and answer some easy-peasy Qs - just 10! - about holiday spending habits. I will share the results in a future blog post. Thanks!

Oh, and by the way ... 122 more days until Christmas.

Take the survey

In the kitchen with friends

"Life is a journey, not a destination." Ralph Waldo Emerson

There's a chunk of tomato in my hair.

I'm not sure how it got there, but I know where it came from: my kitchen. I canned salsa today, made from tomatoes from my garden.

My kitchen cabinet earlier today.

Adorning my kitchen windowsill in one form or another for weeks now.

In the frenzy of chopping, slicing, boiling, sealing, measuring, cooling, etc., it seems I managed to splat some tomato-y goodness in my hair. I have red hair, so who knows how long it would have stayed there, had I not smacked my noggin on the fridge door and felt my scalp for bleeding (none) and found tomato instead (lots).

I'm like a dainty princess that way.

Making and canning salsa from fresh garden goodies is an annual tradition. Plus, I am a salsa addict, especially the fresh stuff, so this keeps my cravings in check year-round. The nice thing about it today is the fact I had help in the kitchen. Lindsay, a friend and co-worker, wanted not only the yummy salsa recipe, but also to learn how to preserve it. So I invited her over this morning and we set about the fine art of preserving.

Lindsay, in my kitchen, mixing up some goodness.

Our finished product.

I was able to show Lindsay how to do this because my friend, Julie, showed me how to do so a few years ago. Julie gave our family a jar of her homemade salsa as a gift one year for Christmas and I was hooked. I made her promise to share the recipe and teach me how to preserve. She was true to her word that following summer and thus began the tradition.

Here's where Julie got the recipe that she shared with me and I, in turn, shared with Lindsay today. I have to mention I don't use hot peppers ... and that one-hour total time estimate? Wrong. It takes about three to four hours for a double batch.  

In my last post, I talked about missing the opportunity to master culinary skills from my mother, who was an amazing cook. While I cannot cook with my mom, I have been blessed to share my kitchen with good friends, as well as get to learn from them in their own kitchens. My husband? Quite the dandy cook himself and never shy from lending a hand or going full-on chef for any meal.

My husband brings home a fresh bouquet for the kitchen ... just because.

It's so nice to learn and teach in the kitchen. So nice to have someone with whom to split the workload and clean-up. Yes, the meal - or in today's case, the salsa - is the final destination, but the journey is one of conversation, listening, sharing, planning, laughter.

Oh sure, sometimes you get tomatoes in your hair.

Still, it is a journey best taken with good friends and those you love.