Learning Something From a Happy, Little, Old Guy

Today, Marty thought it might make our little, old Jack Russell Terrier, Chucky (who is 14 in dog years and about 98 in people years), happy to play a little fetch in the back yard. He hasn’t played fetch/ball over the past few years because he’s getting old and our other pooch is too territorial to do it when she’s around.

Chucky was always a world-class fetcher.  He would go fetch a ball a solid block away and fly back to you with it, lickety-split, drop it at your feet, tail wagging and grinning ear to ear until you threw it again.  He would play fetch perfectly (never had to be reminded to “drop it” or “bring it” all the way to you – the perfect fetch and return every single time) until your arm just couldn’t throw the ball any more.  He could play soccer with a basketball like Pele and was the most athletic little dog I’ve ever known.  He never has cared about working for treats.  He worked for approval only.  He is a gentleman, a loyal companion and the best little pleaser ever!

Now, Chucky is half blind and mostly deaf and has major gum/teeth issues, but he’s still engaged and happy and eager to please. He could only see the ball if we threw it to his good eye side, he couldn’t hear it when it bounced, and when he ran to it he could no longer pick it up in his teeth to bring it back – but he nosed it around and looked to us with that happy glint in his eye (well, his good one!).  At first it seemed really sad, but Marty reminded me – and I think he’s absolutely right – that it seemed that Chucky was just so happy to be engaged in a game with us that he seemed really happy.

Chucky reminded me today that you may not always have control of all the things in your life and you may not be able to do or have all the things you once had, but you can still be happy just to be “in the game”.

If I make it to 98, I hope no one tests my ability to perform physically as though I were 23 – but I hope in my own way I can be as engaged and as happy and grateful as my little Chucky.

It’s a Wonderful (but Weird) Life

I find that Christmases during transitional periods are those which stand out the most.  Those first Christmases when I find myself in a new situation are those that I remember the most perhaps.  My first Christmas away from my parents’ home (and that was my first Christmas in Florida – which compounded the weirdness for sure), my first Christmas with a child, my first Christmas after my divorce, my first Christmas in Massachusetts, and now my first Christmas unemployed and with my son coming back to “visit” over the holiday . . . all landmark Christmases.

This isn’t news, I suppose.  Certainly, I know many people who struggle with the first (and second and so on) Christmas after they lose a parent or significant loved one.

The odd thing to me is that, for some unbeknown reason, I look back on those transitional Christmases with fondness.  I remember fondly the fun in driving around the coastal towns on the Gulf of Mexico looking at the lights and decorations of houses in Florida.  I remember being tickled the first time I saw a house on the water who had two dolphins lit up in blue lights pulling a lighted sled with Santa in it.  And what I love the most about Florida Christmases is when people do a really good job of lighting the palm trees.

My first Christmas with my son, as a parent, was especially memorable because it prompted my son’s very first word.  I put him to bed and went to work decorating the Christmas tree.  The next morning when he woke up – still fairly dark outside – I took him to the living room and lit the tree and he stood there (with his little diaper butt) and looked at it with all the wonder of a 15-month-old baby and said one word:  “Wow”.  I needed nothing else the rest of that holiday season.

My first Christmas after my divorce was decidedly different, but I was determined to make it okay and I’m proud that I did.  I had no family nearby and Spencer’s dad had a fairly large family nearby.  He and I agreed that we do Christmas morning at my house, early, and then after the ceremonial opening of the gifts, Spencer would go with his dad so he could have Christmas day with a big family gathering.  That left me alone.  I had been working a second job at a local movie theater and I volunteered to work that day.  You’d be surprised how many people go to the movies on Christmas day.  I went to work, selling tickets, determined to look each person in the eye and send good Christmas energy to each and every one of them – and it worked!  Every single person was pleasant (at the least) and positively joyful (at the most)!  It was absolutely exhilarating.  When my shift ended, I went home and heated up my little ham steak and some instant mashed potatoes (and probably some orange mac n’ cheese – cuz that’s just big-time comfort food for me) and popped into the VCR (those are those big machines that you put big plastic boxes into and movies play!) my all-time favorite movie, It’s a Wonderful Life.  I had a glass of wine and sunk into a hot bubble bath and tried to revel in my own little Christmas.  I did that for two or three years while I was a single mom and I have to say that I remember them fondly.

My first Christmas here on the Cape was sort of stressful.  New people, new family, new husband, new house . . .  Marty was so thankful to have a new family of his own that I can’t ever forget his emotional response to that holiday season.  It was the first of many (13 now) Cape Cod Christmases and they’ve been really good.  Focus on Spencer for the most part and, more recently, shared with my parents being able to join us, so I sort of feel a full circle sort of Christmas thing.  Growing up, Christmas was HUGE.  I mean, really.  H-U-G-E.  Best time of the year, hands down.  Joy, fun, happy.  Good stuff.  I’m so thankful to have my parents back in my Christmases now.

This year is a bit weird and I’m trying to remember to adjust and appreciate what it brings.  It’s one of those more stressful holiday seasons – what with the economy being so crappy – and it is definitely a transitional Christmas.  You see, my son is no longer inclined to stand in front of the tree and say, “Wow”.  He’s all grown now.  He’s making his own choices and decisions.  He’s out there, in the world, beginning to find his own way.  He’s a great kid.  No.  He’s a great young man.  He makes me laugh (like, really hard, from the gut) all the time.  He’s doing well.  He’s happy and he’s growing and he’s really flourishing in his new environment.  He’s on a really good path.

And, here’s the thing.  What more could a parent ask for?  Knowing your only child is in the right place, doing the right thing, feeling “right” in the world is satisfaction wrapped up in a pretty package with a bow on top.

Thank you, Santa, for what you remind me to remember every year.

Have you tried Spaetzle?

You should.  I’m guessing most people would answer a confused “no” to that question.  And it would likely be followed by, “What the hell is spaetzle?”

spaetz·le/ˈSHpetslə/

Noun: Small dumplings of a type made in southern Germany and Alsace, consisting of seasoned dough poached in boiling water.

Here’s what I can tell you about spaetzle:  it’s A-Ma-Zing.  Just on its own, it’s really terrific.  But I wasn’t comfortable just leaving it at that.  I modified it a bit and the result is perhaps the most remarkable, outstanding, tasty thing I’ve made in as many years as I can count (if I do say so, and I do).

This is not a recipe blog, but what follows is a recipe to a dish that will transport you to a higher plane of the universe.  Really.  I swear it.

Spaetzle with Bacon and Vidalia Onions (Oh yeah, that’s right.  I did.)

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons salt
• 1 teaspoon white pepper
• 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 4 large eggs
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 – 1½ pounds thick sliced bacon, diced
• 2 Vidalia onions, Julienned
• 2 tablespoons butter

In a large bowl, combine the flour, salt, pepper and nutmeg.  In another bowl, whisk the eggs and milk together.  Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and pour in the egg-milk mixture.  Gradually draw in the flour from the sides and combine well; the dough should be smooth and thick.  Let the dough rest for 10-15 minutes.

Bring 5 quarts of salted water to a boil in a large pot, then reduce to a simmer.  To form the spaetzle, hold a large hold colander over the simmering water and push the dough through the holes with a spatula or spoon (frankly, I found it better to use my ricer with the largest holes and I have also seen it suggested that a pastry bag with a small round tip works well).  Do this in batches so you don’t overcrowd the pot.  Cook for 4 or 5 minutes or until the spaetzle floats to the surface, stirring gently to prevent sticking.  Remove the spaetzle into a colander and give it a quick rinse with cool water.  Set aside.

Cook the bacon in a large saute pan until crisp.  Remove crisp bacon to paper towels to drain.  Saute onions in bacon fat until nicely caramelized.  Drain onions and discard bacon fat.

Toss together spaetzle, bacon and onions with butter and reheat over medium heat if necessary.

And I’m pretty sure the Surgeon General would add a nutrition warning to this dish that it has no significant nutritional value – but it’s worth every rotten calorie and fat gram.

Just don’t make a habit out of eating it.

 

Look what I did!

For those of you who know me, please don’t be concerned.  I’m okay.  But, yes, I dug in the dirt (yuck) and planted a flower bed.  I can’t remember what the flowers are called – except for the Salvia and the Geraniums – but they are all annuals, so I’ll have to replant when they die anyway.

Once summer is nearing its end, I’ll decide on some perennials so that I don’t have to do this every year (yuck).  And who knows?  It’s possible they won’t live through the summer.  I probably did something wrong.

We’ll see.  But so far, so good.  I’m rather pleased and proud!

So Long, Oprah

It’s Johnny Carson all over again.  In 1992, when Johnny Carson retired from “The Tonight Show”, I was moved for the first time by a public figure leaving the airwaves.  You see, Johnny Carson started hosting The Tonight Show the month and year of my birth, September of 1962.  For the next thirty years, I fell asleep at night to the sound of Johnny Carson’s voice and [for most of the first 18 years] my parents’ laughter.

When he retired in 1992, I watched his last show and sobbed at the loss I felt.  I had invited Mr. Carson into my home and into my life nearly every weekday for the first 30 years of my life.  We were intimate.  We shared those thirty years at bedtime.  He retired the month and year of my son’s birth – September of 1992.

In 1984, Oprah Winfrey came on the scene of daytime TV.  Her show was filmed in Chicago – which made her a hometown girl in the daytime TV talk show game, and a personal favorite on that alone.  I think I still sort of preferred Phil Donahue back in those days, but I was watching and paying attention to what Oprah brought to the table.  Then, in 1985, Oprah appeared in one of my favorite movies of all time, The Color Purple.  It changed the way I perceived Oprah.

Phil left TV and the remaining daytime talk show hosts were not much more than exploitative leaches – except Oprah.  Her message was different.  Her delivery was fresh.  Her intention was of a higher standard.

Twenty-five years later, I can say that I have watched her, taped her shows, followed her accomplishments and invited her into my life.  Oprah is the First Lady of TV.  She has given voice to women all around the world.  She has improved communication, increased awareness, empowered, inspired and shed a light on the dreams of a generation (or two or three) of women [and many of their men].

Not to mention the car give-away, Oprah’s Book Club and Oprah’s Favorite Things!  I mean, really.  I sat, every year, with a calculator in hand, watching the Favorite Things show – just to see how much all the loot added up to in the end.  Wow.

I have grown up and matured with Oprah.  I have dug deeper into my spiritual beliefs as a result of Oprah’s inspiration.  I was changed by A New Earth.  I recognize how silly and benign Oprah’s television existence may seem to some.  But I am one of those who feels moved, inspired and affected by the extraordinary presence of Oprah.  I am better for having paid attention to Oprah’s message and the intention behind her show over the past twenty-five years.

Yours is not a position which will be readily filled, Oprah.  So long.  Farewell.  I’ll miss you.

Royal Weddings

On this day of the Royal Wedding of Prince William and his lovely bride, Kate, I find myself harkening back to another Royal Wedding.  The most special and wonderful wedding I can recall took place on October 24, 1998.  That was the day I wed my beloved husband.

Ours was without pomp and circumstance.  Ours was sans grandiosity.  Ours was small and simple and the guest list was short.  I wore a pretty beaded champagne-colored lace column dress (back when I had the body to pull THAT off!).  Marty looked brilliant in his tuxedo and Spencer wore one to match (so cute I can hardly stand the enormity of the memory!).  We married at 6pm on a Saturday, the day the clocks were to turn back, at the Kelley Chapel.

If you are not from the Cape or you are not familiar with the Kelley Chapel – it is a magical, little historic chapel off the beaten path (literally) surrounded by beautiful trees in their full Autumnal regalia with small wooden pews and a wood-burning stove.  I wrote the vows and Marty’s mom said a prayer at the beginning.  Marty was sweating like he had just run the Boston Marathon!  Our guests all held candles which lit the chapel in the most perfect way.

Marty’s brother and his wife threw us a modest but lovely reception at their hotel and we had the pleasure of interacting with all of our closest family and friends in a comfortable and relaxing environment.  Our cake was magnificent and decorated exactly as I envisioned it and Marty did not shove it into my face like an uncivil beast!  (I do not know who started THAT tradition but they should be publicly stoned.)

There was a moment in today’s Royal Wedding that brought tears to my eyes.  Prince William was standing at the altar when his bride joined him and he mouthed to her, in a seemingly private moment, “You look beautiful” – and I wept.

Twelve and a half years ago, I walked down the aisle of the Kelley Chapel to join my groom, my husband-to-be, at the altar and he whispered to me, “You look beautiful.”

If the new Duchess of Cambridge is as fortunate as I have been, a dozen years from now her husband, the Duke, will still be telling her she is beautiful every day of her life, as mine does.

Magically delicious

Cold rain.  No, cold rain is not magically delicious.  I’ll get to that.

As is so often the case, I awoke at 1:22am and was never able to go back to sleep.  [sigh]  I watched inane television programs recorded on my DVR, I channel-surfed and awaited morning.  Through the night, I was witness to an amazing show of lightning which lit up the yard like eery daylight, followed by the low, guttural rumbling of thunder.  I was preparing my mental To Do List for the day when I realized that we are completely out of bread and my husband would be without the necessary ingredients for his tasty lunchtime treat of ham and cheese on rye.

Damn.  I’d have to make an early morning run to the grocery store.  Not the end of the world, to be sure, but not my favorite activity either.  And the only thing worse than going to the grocery store at 7am is going to the grocery store at 7am in the cold rain.  It’s not even so much the going IN to the grocery store in the cold rain.  It’s the coming OUT of the grocery store in the cold rain with groceries to put in the car that really chaps my considerable ass.  And, yes, of course the wind was blowing too.  (Come on.  It’s Cape Cod.  The wind is almost always blowing.)

I pulled my sweatshirt hood over my head and pulled the strings tight to minimize exposure to the miserably cold rain and bustled to my car.  My key remote battery has been failing lately and on this lovely morning, it didn’t work, so I fumbled with the keys and dropped them in a puddle.  Sure.  Of course.  Pelted with huge, cold raindrops, my groceries were getting soaked (cardboard boxes turning to mush, plastic containers dripping and slippery) and my glasses were splattered with rain.  Ugh.

I am proud to say, though, that I still took the shopping cart to the cart corral like a good do-bee.  After all, I knew that I had decided to treat myself to a guilty pleasure as reward for my Big Sacrifice (going to the grocery store in the cold rain).  I felt like I owed myself a little treat.

Lucky Charms.  They’re magically delicious.  I had one bowl for breakfast and I’m having a second bowl for lunch.  I think I’ll even read the back of the box and see if it’s as entertaining and fascinating as it was when I was 8.  I’ll let you know.

Such great books . . . lost and found

When Spencer was born, I read to him every night of his life until he was probably 8 or 9 years old.  We had breakfast every single morning of life (still) and I read to him every night.  I always felt like we had nice bookends to his days.  I found some great books to read to him when he was little too.  Books that were not torture for me to read (over and over and over and over and . . .) and that he loved.

Then, when he got older and I cleaned out his closet, I went through all of his childhood books and kept a small sampling of the ones we liked the most.  There were a lot of “Lil Critters” and “Critters of the Night” books by Mercer Mayer.  These were books with friendly, nonthreatening, little monster characters and had titles like “No Howling in the House” and “No Flying in the Hall” and “Pirate Soup”.  There was also a great lift and look book (a book with little “windows” you could open to expose the answers to questions or similar) called “Old Howl Hall”.

When we moved out of our old house and into our new house, we really cleaned out the old house.  I mean, we emptied everything into a dumpster and had it hauled away.  I battled sentimental urges to keep things which I knew I didn’t really need anymore.  I threw a lot away.

For the past couple of weeks (prompted by the upcoming rite of passage of my son going away to college perhaps?), I have been thinking about those books.  I went down into the cellar and looked through the remaining boxes (which, no, I have still not unpacked!) and did not find the box of books to which I refer.  They must be in the attic.  It makes sense that they would be in the attic because I don’t need them regularly.  I just didn’t want them to be gone completely.

Three days ago, I climbed into the attic to look for them.  They were not there.  I cried.  Oh yes, I cried mightily.  I cursed myself as only I can curse myself.  Those of you who know me well, know that I am a champion, grade-A “curser”, so you can only imagine.  I’ll spare you the specifics.

Marty suggested that I get online and see if I can find any of the books.  Amazon never let’s you down, after all.  And guess what?  I found four of Spencer’s favorite books and/or books that meant the most to me!  I found a used copy of “Purple Pickle Juice” and a used copy of “Old Howl Hall” and a brand new “Thirteen Monsters Who Should be Avoided” and a new “Hooway for Wodney Wat” (Spencer couldn’t pronounce his Rs until I taught him how.  I was worried that, living in Massachusetts, no one would even notice that he couldn’t since most of the adults pronounce them wrong here!).

No library should be without well-worn, much-read books that you read every night of your child’s young life.  I don’t have them all, but I managed to right my wrong and find a sampling that will remind me of those great books!  Thank you Amazon.

We’re having a Super Bowl Meatapalooza!

Yes, there will be chips and dip, but mostly, there will be meat!  Today for our Super Bowl viewing, I have decided on a theme: MEAT.

We’re having meatballs, Buffalo chicken wings, honey barbecue chicken wings, barbecue ribs, teriyaki steak tips and chicken and apple sausage links.

One must protein-load to have adequate energy for Super Bowl (and Super Bowl commercial) participation.  We should be all set.

An anniversary

Today is the sixth anniversary of Marty’s triple bypass surgery.  It’s one of those anniversaries that seems like it was yesterday or thirty years ago.  It was a scary, challenging time to be sure, but here we are six years later and he’s doing well and we’re doing well and life goes on.

Like then, I am again reminded how thankful I am that there are wonderful human beings out there who heed their calling to become nurses and doctors.  It’s a remarkable thing really, that there are people whose primary focus is to heal, help and improve the health and well-being of others.  I applaud them and am forever grateful for the wonderful care my husband (and my dad and Marty’s mom – and any others who have found themselves in need of lifesaving care) received in his time of need.  Not enough good is said about doctors and nurses.  It’s far more common to hear complaints about the health care industry and that’s unfair and unfortunate, because my personal experience has almost always been exemplary.

This anniversary also means that it was nearly six years ago that the Cape was buried under almost forty inches of snow with hurricane force winds – but the rest of the world never heard about it, because the weather forecasters and weather reporters in New England don’t pay any attention to what happens on the Cape.  We are weather lepers.  That was one of those storms that my son and I are proud to say that we survived – sort of like survivors of the Blizzard of ’98 (which I also survived – but I was of the Illinois Blizzard ilk at that time).  Yet, last week, when other parts of Massachusetts got 24″-30″ of snow and we got rain – the Superintendent of Schools canceled school the night before the “blizzard” (which turned out to be little more than rain)!

Anyway, happy anniversary to Marty’s heart bypass arteries!

Out of the mouths of babes

I have some favorite memories of things Spencer said when he was little that I will cherish for a lifetime.

Every little kid says things that are absolutely priceless.  This, of course, is the reason the show “Kids Say the Darndest Things” was so successful for so long.

The first time I met one of my husband’s nephews (he was about 3 or 4, as I recall), he was hanging out with Marty’s mom while she skimmed the pool (summertime) and we walked up and she said to him, “We just found a June bug in the pool, didn’t we?”, and he said – very matter-of-factly – “Yep.  Dead as a doornail.”  Just cracked me up.  I’ll never forget it.

When Spencer was around 3 or 4 years old, there are a million conversations that I’ll never forget.  Here’s a few . . .

A friend of mine gave me a couple of sticks of incense because I had commented on the lovely scent.  I had no incense burner so the next time I was at the grocery store, I thought I’d see if they had a basic incense burner.  Spencer was sitting in the front seat of the cart, as always.  Lo and behold, Kash ‘N Karry (Florida grocery store) had a basic wooden incense burner.  Spencer asked, “What’s that?”  I said, “An incense burner.”  When we got home from the grocery store, I went about putting away the groceries while Spencer enjoyed a sippy cup of Juicy Juice.  While I was doing so, he walked into the kitchen and asked, “Mom, when are we going to burn the insects?”

Spencer has always been a very analytical kid and always very talkative on car rides.  One day, driving through town (in Sarasota) in a torrential downpour of rain, Spencer had a breakthrough in physics.  He said, “Mom, you know what’s cool about rain drops?”  I thought, “. . . that in Florida they go away so fast?”, but I said, “What?”  He put one hand up, over his head, with all four fingers and thumb together (forming the shape of a raindrop) and as he lowered his hand, he said, “When they come out of the sky, they’re shaped like drops, but when they hit the ground [and his hand made a splat/explosion motion], they change into a whole different shape.”

One time after we got home from work/daycare and Spencer was standing in the kitchen taking his first loooong drink of Juicy Juice (the kid put some Juicy Juice executive’s kid through college, I tell you), he sort of coughed and choked a little.  He stopped drinking and gasped, as we all do.  I said, “You okay?  Did it go down the wrong pipe?”  And he said, eyes watering, “Yeah, the shoulder pipe!”

And my all-time favorite:  The Christmas that Spencer was 4, I took him up to see his grandmother (my mom) in Leesburg, Florida, a week or two before Christmas (as we often did – nearly every other weekend).  My mom and dad live in a nice, gated community with named sub-neighborhoods.  My dad hadn’t yet retired and joined my mom in Florida, so it was just she and Spencer and me.  We drove around the community to see all the pretty lights and decorations at each entrance.  There was one neighborhood with only a lit Menorah and my mom commented that “There must be a lot of Jewish people in that neighborhood.”  A bit later, we passed a neighborhood entrance with no lights or decorations at all and Spencer said, “Must be a lot of juicy people there.”

Spencer still says things that crack me up, but now he means to be funny.

Our cat, Hootey

Deep in our hearts you’ll always stay, loved and remembered every day.

We mourn the passing of our dear cat, Hootey.  He was special and a magnificent presence in our family.

The Painting Wizard

My husband, the world-renown painting wizard, has done it again.  It took some convincing, but Marty finally painted the big, red, imposing brick fireplace wall that darkened our living room.

Before:

After:

And decorated for Christmas:

Yep, I’ve already got my tree up too.

But does the Painting Wizard do amazing work, or what?

Idle hands

I’m not sure what the quote, “Idle hands are the devil’s playthings” means, because I have idle hands these days and they are often very creative and doing work for good.  I’m sewing again!  I’m knitting again!

Now, truth be told, I suppose I could be sewing warm little sweat suits for starving, poor children or I could be knitting scarves (I haven’t mastered mittens and/or hats yet) for the homeless – but I am making spiffy things for me and a scarf for Marty and I’ve started an afghan for my living room.  I probably won’t finish it until 2013, or I’ll run out of yarn and realize it isn’t big enough to be a real afghan and the store won’t have more of the yarn anymore so it’ll be some weird-sized lap blanket, but my intentions are good.  I think perhaps I should go buy more of the yarn while they still have it and I have coupons and it’s on sale.

I must say I’ve sewn some phenomenal skirts and tops that I’m quite enjoying.  And God knows, everyone needs spiffy casual skirts and tops for lounging around the house watching TV.  That’s when I get out of my PJs at all.

That sounds sort of sad and depressing, but not so.  I get out of my PJs some days.  For instance, on the days when I finish a new skirt or top, I almost always put them on for a few hours before it’s PJ-time again.

Here’s the thought that has been confounding me a good bit while I’ve been unemployed.  I know that at some point, my unemployment will run out and I’ll have to get a job (Wal-Mart Greeter or BJ’s Receipt-Checker, perhaps), but what do people do with their time once they retire?  I know that some get busy traveling or playing golf or playing Bridge or Mah Jong or – well, with something, but there must be an awful lot of puttering involved in being retired.

It’s hard to imagine unemployment with no end date.  Correction: with a permanent end date, but no one wants to think of it that way.  I mean, once you retire, that’s it.  You’re done working.  Now, my dad did the retirement thing for a while and eventually, he decided to opt for a part-time job at a golf course instead of actually golfing.  And it’s been great for him.  He’s 79 years young and he works three or four times per week and it’s really good for him and he enjoys it.  I wonder when he’s going to retire again.

The funny thing is that I think that will be me.  I think when I’m done working, I’ll take some time off to putter and then I’ll get a job at Target part-time.  Target is, of course, my happy place.  It’s the magical place where I go to meander the well-lit aisles of variety and quality products at reasonable prices.  Marty and I went to a Wal-Mart (do they call it a “Super” Wal-Mart or a Wal-Mart “Super Center” when it has a food center too?) in Plymouth last weekend and I must admit that, although I did not reach the level of nirvana of Target, I quite enjoyed the variety of products at reasonable prices.  And they had a pair of jeans that fit me!  What?  No, really.  They did.  For $18.  I still don’t believe it either, so you don’t have to believe it.

Everyone should have a happy place.  Where is your happy place?  Actually, everyone should have more than one happy place.  I have many.  Siesta Beach in Sarasota, Florida, is my other “nature” happy place.

And one of the best things right now in my life is that my home is one of my happy places.  I’ve lived in houses that I liked.  I lived in houses I hated.  I’ve lived in houses about which I am indifferent.  But this is the first house that is a happy place.  I love my house.

So, I think the person who said that “Idle hands are the devil’s playthings” just didn’t have happy places and/or didn’t know how to play with himself.

You gotta know how to play with yourself.

And you can take that any way you choose . . .

College application process almost complete

So, we visited a couple of the schools Spencer is considering for college next year.  His major is only offered in a handful of schools, and only a couple in New England, so his options were seriously limited.  He wants to go into computer/digital forensics – a fairly new and up-and-coming field.

We checked out Norwich University in Northfield, Vermont.  Nice little school with some fascinating features.  It’s the oldest private military school in the country and the founder founded the ROTC.  It opened to civilians a long time ago and has been functioning ever since with an interesting mix of the two.  Civilians and Cadets are in the same classes and play on the same sports teams, etc., but they live separately and the Cadets follow a rigid and restricted schedule.  The down side was that the town of Northfield, Vermont, has absolutely NOTHING in it.  Nowhere for students to work, no bus station, nothing.

Then we went up to Champlain College in Burlington, Vermont.  What an amazing school in a beautiful little city with so much to offer that it’s almost hard to believe.  It’s the perfect school atmosphere for Spencer and there was absolutely nothing about it that we didn’t love.  So, Spencer decided to apply for early decision.  That means that if he gets in, it is binding – provided we are able to make the financial commitment.

And so, the process began.  I think when I went to college, I filled out an application that was a few pages long and gave them a copy of my high school transcripts (or did they get my SAT/ACT scores and transcripts themselves?  I don’t remember doing anything to get them to the college) and that was it.

Not so today.  Two of the schools where he is applying take the Common Application, the other two have their own online applications.  The applications are completed, his essay has been written, checked, edited, double-checked and re-edited.  He has to finish his resume and he has to write an essay for the Champlain supplement to the application.  We have to wait for his second set of SAT scores so that both sets can be submitted.  The requests for transcripts have been submitted to the guidance office and his letters of recommendation have been provided.  I’ve filled out the financial aid application for his early decision school and I am awaiting the go ahead to hit the submit button on it.  Each application requires different documentation and I think we’ve got it all lined up.  There are application fees which must be paid to the schools (some waive the fee) and SAT scores must be transmitted from a separate website in conjunction with submitting the online applications.  Since the deadline for early decision at Champlain is November 15th, we’re just going to get them all done at the same time.  My goal is by November 1.

Fortunately, Spencer’s guidance counselor is absolutely amazing.  She is available every minute to every senior and their lunatic parents to offer advice, support, guidance, answers, therapy, encouragement, documentation, suggestions . . . hell, she has been the greatest event coordinator I’ve ever known.  If she ever wants to get out of her current career – she could be a party planner or wedding coordinator for the stars or the elite!

The timing of all of this and the coordination of everything is akin to NASA planning the launch of a shuttle.  I’m not sure I did as much planning and coordinating to bring Spencer into my home as it is taking for him to leave it!