And The Winner Is...

Yesterday afternoon my best friend Annie phoned and said "Quick! Go to Oprah.com and enter the sweepstakes to win a trip to LA and two tickets to both Oprah's After-Oscar party and to the taping of Monday's show." I rushed to the computer and entered the contest just as Annie had directed. Annie and I then chatted on the phone, deciding what we would wear to each event, and what we would say to our soon-to-be new best friends, Oprah and Gayle. We realized that we needed to do some shopping and made plans to do that as soon as we were notified of our winning status. Annie decided to visit her safe deposit box and get us a few pieces of nice jewelry (and Annie has plenty!) for the events. I fretted a little about having to cancel the birthday dinner for my daughter tomorrow night as well as my trip to North Carolina to see my dad on Monday, but decided they would both understand. Annie declared that she would just quit her job if there was any problem about her not showing up on Monday and Tuesday. We were ready. We both had really, really strong feelings that we were going to be the lucky winners. All that was left to do was wait for that exciting call this morning. Would it be Oprah herself? Or perhaps one of her producers? What tone should we take -- shrieks or calm thanks?

I actually made pre-trip to-do lists in my head before I went to sleep last night. And this morning I anticipated the ringing of the phone. Knowing that the day of shopping and packing ahead would be busy, I was up early and into the shower --- with the phone right outside the shower door. The phone rang -- Daughter D. It rang again -- Verizon wanting to sell me FIOS service. Another call -- Daughter J. I checked the Oprah website thinking there might be some sort of announcement. Nothing. But while on the website, I read the information about attending the taping of a show and noted that neither Annie nor I should wear white or beige as those colors interfere with the show's lighting. At noon, Annie called. When I saw her name on Caller ID, I thought this might be it! But, no. Annie said that she had actually received a wrong number call earlier and looking at the unfamiliar name on her Caller ID, she had felt faint. Annie also confessed to listening to her own dial tone several times to be sure her phone was in service. We had been so sure that we were going to win.

As Annie and I talked, her husband, in the background, laughed and said we were "misguided." But I don't think that's right. We were exceedingly hopeful, and I don't think that can ever be a bad thing. Plus, we had such fun anticipating and planning the trip, and isn't that an important part of any getaway? Anyway, realizing that the winner had no doubt already been notified and sadly it was not one of us, Annie and I jumped right into discussing how Oprah had really missed out on a good thing. We talked and laughed until I was almost crying, and I was reminded once again of how great it is to have a really good friend. We may not be attending Oprah's party, but we had a great time.

Let Me Eat Cake

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that birthday cake always tastes better when eaten with a plastic fork.

I'm struggling with this post. I've written and deleted several times now. It's my birthday, and naturally I'm filled with thoughts of getting older. Being old. Yikes. But my day has so far been filled with sweet cards, calls and messages from the people I love, so who can go wrong with that? Age really sneaked up on me. Whew! Time has flown by. Yet how lucky I am, because I have everything I've ever wished for.

So let me say on this, my day, how delighted I am with my life. No one ever had a better husband. At age 19, I looked across the college library and met eyes with a boy I had never seen before. Time literally stood still, and I can still feel the moment. I knew he was "the one" and thankfully, he came and talked to me and that was that. And then, our girls. The joy, the fun, the frustration.....I would not trade a day. The girls are so different in looks and temperaments, yet each so perfect. Smash does not like the word "proud" but that is what I am.... I am proud of these so very lovely young women whom I so much adore. And I am so thankful for the close relationship I have with each of them. I didn't have that with my own mother, but having my daughters has made that not matter.

And, of course, the icing on this birthday cake is my granddaughter. Even though she loves her mommy the very best, and will barely give me the time of day when that mommy is around, just looking into her big brown eyes is a pleasure unparalleled.

I'm old(er) today. And I'm wrinkling, sagging, and filled with aches and pains. But man, am I happy. I'm holding the plastic fork.

Another Day, Another A

Thankfully, the phrase is the only thing left over from my first college boyfriend, a boy I once thought I would marry, and am decidedly glad I did not. These days I’m pulling mostly Bs and Cs which seems okay given that most people (Sooz included) are barely passing with Ds and Fs. Childishly, I actually felt left out of her last post. After all, everyone else’s bad news was included! But I don’t really have bad news and a B average means life is humming along as it should. But man, these days are dragging on…

Maybe it’s the weather, but nothing is holding my interest lately. Even finding something to post was a struggle. I work. I work out. I eat out. I sleep. Again. Again. Again. Even my body has the doldrums – the heartbreak of psoriasis is more painful than ever, my hip flares up with every temperature drop and my nose alternates between too dry and too runny. I am grouchy and judgmental. Chuck on NBC in 3D? Stupid. $1 photo valentines at the mall? Ridiculous. I sneer. I slump. I sigh.

The most telling symptom of my malaise is my bank account. Usually filled with debits from dinners out, new clothes and pedicures, my last three major purchases are as follows:
· Three 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles ordered online
· Overdue library fines (Who has the energy to return books?)
· An $85 bird feeder

The hubs almost fainted at the cost of the bird feeder, but I insisted. There is a fat red cardinal that I want to woo to our deck in hopes he brightens these winter days. I’m 30, living the life of a 90 year old.

My friends at work have expressed concern. Is it Seasonal Affective Disorder they wonder? Oh, if only it were something so topical and interesting. She’s too young for a midlife crisis, they verify. And work is going fine, so what could it be? One particularly kind friend emailed this weekend, urging me to discuss my mood with my husband. I take her advice and as I fold laundry while he packs for a trip I proclaim, “I’m in a major funk!”

“I know,” he says, without looking up, “That’s why we got you that bird feeder.”
Good enough. Another day…another A.

PS: Scoots, we know you’re reading. What we don’t know is: are you enjoying?

2009: Re-boot Needed

Usually I don't think much about the start of a new year. I've never been one for wild celebrations or resounding resolutions. I've always seen January 1 as the day which follows December 31, my only nod to the New Year being eating a meal which includes black-eyed peas. That is until 2008. 2008 was the type of year that caused me to long for a new calendar, a fresh start, a beginning of something better. Because 2008 was not a good year and I was eager to have it gone. My mother died in 2008, leaving my 95 year old dad and her husband of 73 years, alone and a five hour drive from me. The economy spiraled downward, taking a direct hit not only on our savings, but also on Joe's line of work. After a somewhat smug decision made in January 2008 (following a healthy 2007) to sharply raise our medical insurance deductible, I learned in 2008 that an MRI is really pricey, specialists charge an arm and a leg, and that physical therapy requires a lot of expensive sessions to effect even the slightest improvement. One of my daughters faced a huge disappointment in the fall, and the resulting sadness lingered. The roof leaked. The oven broke. Our stock portfolio only got worse. D came home from college for Christmas break and within hours was violently ill. On December 26, my son-in-law's car was hit by a red light runner. He was fine but the car was totaled. How many more days until 2008 is over?

So, imagine how I felt on the morning of December 30, when I awoke with a sore throat. Undeterred, I got up, dosed myself with zinc, vitamin C, and Advil and assured myself it was nothing. I would get better. I would in two days time feel great and welcome the new year with open arms, assuring myself a change of fortune and happier days ahead. I felt lousy on the morning of the 31st as well, but surely I would make the turn-around and be fine for the planned evening activities of a nice dinner and a movie. Okay, Chicken Out eaten while lying on the sofa was not what I had in mind, and I was in a feverish fog at midnight, but still I planned on waking up on January 1, 2009 feeling great and ready for a happy new year. Fast forward to January 10, ten days of misery and a Z-Pack later, and hello 2009. It's time to get this party started. But wait.... there's the sound of sneezing and snuffling. Joe is sick. And 2009 remains on hold.

T’was The Season…

It is with regret that I report that the 2008 holiday season has passed without incident. No family blow-ups, inappropriate questions or personal offenses. Not even a lingering resentment to keep me warm on the cold nights ahead. Even on the home front things were quiet, with only one minor flare-up manifested in two harshly worded emails and a trip alone to the bookstore before all was forgiven. It’s as if the holidays didn’t happen at all.

Because really, where is the joy in everyone getting along? Thanksgiving was such a pleasant affair that we weren’t even able to come up with a post about it. Who wants to hear that we sat down at 4p to eat, spoke with ease on a range of subjects and disbanded around 9p after sharing pumpkin pie? Even Sooz, who can usually be counted on for at least one fit of rage about how she does all the work and no one appreciates it, went silent this year. The sisters know how to really work me up but the baby sister is now big and the big sister has a baby…neither status conducive to the slur-flinging, hairbrush hitting fights of yore…

Christmas was spent with my in-laws, an experience that traditionally gets my back up a good week before we even arrive. I spend days carefully planning my responses to snarky comments and bait my husband into plotting a full spousal defense strategy. (My brilliant plan this year involved responding, “That’s interesting,” to pretty much everything.) Imagine my disappointment when the days passed with nothing more than several nice presents and one “We’re so glad you came.” Even our tree was well-behaved, refusing to spread those pesky needles all over the house, despite being withheld water for a week.

Perhaps this underwhelming theme of peace was brought on by healthy doses of Xanax and white wine. I fear it is because somewhere along the way we all decided to grow up. To grin and bear those probing questions and strong opinions, to choose a common conversation over a controversial one and to remember these people are family and thus deserve our best and brightest selves. How very mature. How very boring.

New Year’s Eve is tonight and we’ve planned to have dinner alone and then drive to a friend’s house for a small party. The friend lives far away and if we drink, a car will definitely have to be left for pick-up tomorrow. I don’t want to leave my car overnight. My husband doesn’t want to leave his car overnight. I smell a fight in the air. Happy New Year!!

Lotta Rock in Little Rock

This past Monday, the airplane I was on almost went down due to turbulence.

I realize that no airplane (at least in recent history) has been taken down by turbulence, but every time it hits, I’m convinced it’s over. In this instance, the bodies would have landed in Little Rock, Arkansas, and as we bounced and swayed our way towards Atlanta, my central thought was: I’m going to die and it’s been seven days since I’ve seen my husband.

I was coming back from a weeklong trip to Vegas and like most business trips, it was a lot of work with a little fun. You can take on a revised persona on a business trip and while I was in Vegas, dancing into the early hours of the morning, I felt young and pretty and even a bit adventurous, which anyone who knows me can refute. (I could tell you what I’m going to do on a Tuesday a month from now. I hate adventure.) But on that plane home, rocking back and forth and wondering if I could clench the hand of the stranger next to me, I just felt…weary.

Yes, the world’s an exciting place but what’s the point if you are forever bound to see it with those that you send the most emails to, but who don’t know that you can’t do simple math and only learned to use (okay, handle) chopsticks 4 months ago? Something continues to build inside of me and I’m finally starting to pay attention. I want a smaller world.

I don’t mean small as in the politically correct eco-sense of “we’re all neighbors and I buy my Chapstick from a woman who makes it in Mongolia” small, I mean actually small. (Not that I disagree with being neighborly with the world, but I get my Chapstick from the CVS.)

How tedious yet reassuring to spend my days picking up the dry-cleaning from Rebecca and her dog Angel, then swinging by to the Italian take-out place to grab dinner. (And possibly say hello to the manager who after 8 years has finally deigned to recognize me.) “The boredom! The boredom!” some of you are shrieking. But I see only calm – a plain backdrop on which to manage life’s real problems.

There is a book I admire even though I can’t remember the name or the author but the crux of it is that a woman who traveled frequently spent her flying time writing letters to her children. Touching and smart. For me, however, the only letters I plan on writing will be those I send to my children’s summer camp. And the rest of the year, when the children are tucked into their own beds, I’ll be right there with them telling a story. “Once upon a time your mom and your dad traveled everywhere and met some very smart and semi-famous people and saw the world and felt energized and exhausted all at the same time.”

Once upon a time indeed. As the plane made its final approach into Hartsfield, my heart hummed. Home sweet home.

Homeland Security

As I love to do as often as possible, this last weekend I spent some time with my two year old granddaughter. (An aside: apologies to any of you who have two year old daughters, nieces, siblings or granddaughters because I have to say that MY granddaughter is the cutest, sweetest, smartest and most wonderful two year old in the ENTIRE world. She really is.) Anyhow, as we were playing with lots of toys strewn on the floor, Sweetums tripped and fell down hard. She wasn't hurt, but it certainly startled her and was quite enough to set off some loud wailing. Her mommy scooped her right up and began soothing her, but the crying continued, loud and clear. But between the sobs, I heard her making a request...."I want my blankie."

And so begins another generation of blanket love. Before my first daughter was born, I had been warned not to allow her to get too attached to one blanket as that presented all sorts of problems for laundering or loss. That seemed like an easy problem to fix.... I bought TWO blankets for her crib. Little did I realize at the time how quickly she would form an attachment to BOTH. Although my original plan had backfired, when little sister came along two years later, she surely couldn't be given less than the first baby, so again two blankets. And again, quick attachment to BOTH blankets. Now, don't get me wrong, my children were not at all Linus like-- the blankets were for home use only and were not dragged along every time we left the house for an errand. But for sleeping, or comfort, or just hanging around, those blankies were a MUST. And not to seem like a slow learner, but ten years later, guess how many blankets were given to the new baby? And guess how many she loved? Right..... two.

I never made a big deal about when it would be time to say goodbye to the beloved blankets. We got rid of pacifiers when baby teeth started being misaligned. We said adios to bottles when ear infections set in. Stuffed animals were loved for awhile and then deserted in favor of something new. But not the bankies, as they were called in our house. Years passed and they were still with us. The blankets went on vacations. They went to overnight camps. They went to sleepovers. They went to college. They showed their age becoming filled with holes and worn on the edges. Still, they were loved.

My youngest daughter had to retire one blanket when it became too "fragile" but she still has her other. It resides on her bed at college and is almost always found wrapped around her neck as she studies or watches tv. As far as I know, none of her friends have ever teased her about the banky; it's just a part of who she is. Smash still has both her blankets; her blankets are of heartier stock -- both waffle weave. Smash travels with only one blanket -- too risky to have both -- and after a particular scary incident of lost luggage, the one making the trip always goes in carry-on. Smash tells me that after a particularly hard day at work, she will come home and put her face into her blanket until the world looks a little brighter. Smash's husband has accepted the blankets as part of their lives. My oldest daughter has put away her blankets, but they are still on a nearby closet shelf, ready if needed. And it is her daughter who, when hurt, sad or tired wants her blanket. The torch has been passed.

I've often asked the girls how their blankets make them feel. What about them lend that sense of comfort and well-being? None of them have ever really given me an answer and I really do want to know. I want that feeling. I too want to have that special something for the times when anxiety is creeping up or bad news is settling in. I think it's something we all could use. I want my blankie.