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.

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.

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!

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?

My big surprise

Just in case I haven’t sung my husband’s praises adequately or vociferously enough lately, he recently gave me a huge reason to do so.  Never let it be said that I don’t jump at every opportunity to praise good behavior!

We closed on our house a year ago (I won’t even begin to address where the hell a year went) and we always said that as soon as Marty has some time with no work scheduled, he will remove wallpaper and paint a room at a time in our new house.  Fast forward one year and there has been no down time.  That’s one of those good news/bad news things [great news/somewhat disappointing news is more accurate].

So a few weeks ago, in one of our relaxing sojourns in the hot tub, I said something like “I know you have work lined up pretty much non-stop and I am so grateful for that and I certainly am not advocating that you stop work – but one of these days you’re going to have to throw an old dog a bone and paint a room for me.”

Off I go to Indy for the Great Bowling Extravaganza [as I’ve come to think of it] for nine days, leaving my devoted and loving husband to his own devices.  Last Saturday, when we returned from the airport, he unlocked the front door and stood back to allow me to enter the premises [home sweet home].  When you walk in our front door, you have a direct view straight down the hall and into the kitchen.

He painted my kitchen and dining room while I was away! I’m not certain, but I am fairly sure that the skies parted and doves flew and angels played little harps and violins . . . it nearly knocked me off my considerably stable and sturdy legs!

The pictures don’t even begin to do it justice either.  In order to accomplish this little feat, he had to remove wallpaper, repair walls, prime walls, cut in and roll the walls no less than four times – not to mention painting all the trim and caulking and all the other things that go into the project.  AND, he never said a word to me about it.  AND, he still went and did his other jobs during the day.  AND, he only golfed once [that can’t be right].  AND, his work is re-freaking-markable.  AND, the colors are exactly what I wanted.  AND, I didn’t have to be present and go through the pain.

Who’s the best husband in all the world?  Is Marty the best husband in all the world?  Yes he is.

I got a guy for that

The other day we decided it was time to turn on the air conditioning since three or four consecutive days of weather in the 70s (creeping towards and most certainly reaching well into the 80s in the sun) was forecast and our house is not entirely well-suited for open windows and cross-ventilation.  So, I adjusted the program to change the times and desired temperatures for the air conditioning.  See, last year, I was in the as yet undiagnosed throes of menopause with no hormone replacement therapy and when I tell you that the air conditioning program reflected same – I’m talking 62 degrees at night!  The program needed adjustments.  Finished, I flipped the little trusty switch over to COOL.

The fan kicked on in the cellar and air started to trickle through the vents.  There is a vent directly beneath the stool where I sit at my computer at the kitchen counter and I can feel the air on my toes.  The air was, well, not cold.  It wasn’t hot, but if I called it cool I’d be exaggerating its value.  Time to call on “the man”.  My man can do anything house-related.  He’s a Super House-Hero.  When something at the house goes awry, I muster up my damsel in distress voice and call out to my Super House-Hero and in no time at all (well, sometimes it’s quite a bit of time if he’s in the middle of an online poker tournament or in the bathroom or asleep on his chair or . . . well, you get the point), he lands by my side having donned his Super House-Hero tights and cape to save the day.  [Note to self: do not conjure up remarkably clear visual images that you do not wish to carry with you for all the remaining days of your life.]

So, Marty had me turn the switch to OFF and then back to COOL while he stood outside by the big air conditioning box machine thingy (“compressor” I think it is).  Not a peep.  It sat silent.  It had the unmitigated gall to sit there, all pomp and circumstance, obtrusively visible, arrogant on its concrete throne and do nothing.  Nada.  Nichts.  Super House-Hero swiftly checked fuses and other obvious potential maladies.  He then proclaimed it beyond his vast super powers.

We’d have to call a guy for this.  I asked Marty if he has a guy.  Marty always has a guy.  Marty was born and raised on the Cape and he is in the trades.  He’s got a guy for everything.  If he doesn’t have a guy, he can get a guy from one of his guys.  Marty had no guy.  Imagine . . . an heretofore unfamiliar situation.  No guy.

It just so happens that I have a friend who married this wonderful man a few years ago who owns a very successful HVAC business.  I sent a text to my friend and in less than two minutes, I made arrangements for her husband to come over on Saturday to take a look at our air conditioning situation.

I’ve been here for 12 years and I have finally arrived.

I’ve got a guy for that.

Jumpin Jehosaphat

So, this morning – very early, probably 4:45am or so – I was at work (at Mrs. Fields’ Cookies, no less) and it was being explained to me that I would be responsible for writing the legalese on the packaging about the cookies being appropriate for children over a certain age [hey, it was a stupid dream – don’t ask me], when, very unexpectedly, someone starting scratching at me!  I jumped four feet in the air and screamed.  Well, actually I startled [picture a sleeping infant and the startle reflex] and I gasped – but in my dream I jumped and screamed.

Poor Marty.  He was just being affectionate.

I startle very easily.  I could pontificate at length about the possible reasons why, but it doesn’t really matter.  It just is.  And it makes me crazy.  This is one of the reasons I hate horror movies.  I hate being startled.  It’s not at all helpful that I married a man who is chock-full of loud, sudden, shocking noises.  He functions at top volume almost all the time.  He doesn’t set a knife down, he drops it on the counter.  He doesn’t quietly close a door, he [not quite slams] shuts it very firmly.  And when his cell phone rings – I lose of year of my life every time!  When he talks on his cell phone, he yells as though it’s two cups connected by string.

You’d think I’d become accustomed and develop some sort of immunity to all the sudden explosions of sound, but alas, it is not to be.  And every time I jump out of my skin, I get irritated at whatever caused it (most often it’s Marty) and Marty gets irritated at me for being so startled.

Is this what is meant by irreconcilable differences?

BOO!

Quiet time

Life is noisy.  It hasn’t always been noisy for me, but it’s gotten much noisier in recent years.  It’s easier to find quiet time when you live alone – or at least have a good bit of alone time.  Except that, in this hustly-bustly world these days, even when you’re alone, it can be difficult to quiet the noise in your head.

This is the first Saturday morning without bowling since last summer.  Bowling isn’t like so many other youth sports that have a season which correlates with a weather season.  Youth bowling leagues start in early September and go until May.  And for us, there are tournaments which always occur on Sundays all over New England.  So, today is unusual for that reason – no bowling league.  But also, today is the state bowling tournament and Spencer moved to a different league this year and they prefer to do their states all in one day instead of staying over night and splitting the games up over two days.  So, he’s bowling nine games in one day and he got a ride with a friend.  Mixed feelings here.  I’ve always been at states with him – in fact all tournaments, pretty much.  But I didn’t have to drive two hours in thunderstorms to Shrewsbury. So I’m counting it as a win for me.

Which brings me to my quiet time.  Marty is golfing (yes, in the rain) in a tournament this morning.  Spencer is gone for the entire day at a bowling tournament.  It’s Saturday morning.  And I am completely alone in my home with my doggies and old cat.  Nice.  Very nice.

I caught up on recorded shows on the DVR for a while.  I heated up some of last night’s leftover pork dumplings with ginger sauce (Friday night Chinese takeout – yum) for breakfast.  Then I turned the tv off and turned the heat up to 72 and sat in the living room for a spell.  It’s in the fifties outside and it’s not that it’s cold in here, but no one else is home to share an opinion about the temperature and I wanted it toasty warm.  It’s raining steadily now – after a couple of good bouts of thunder – love it.  And I listened to the quiet.

Then my mind got up to no good and started chattering like a 4-year-old after cotton candy and soda.  So I decided I needed to put myself in time out and I moved to a different chair.  I always sit in my spot on the couch.  Everyone has their one spot.  We all live with assigned seating.  Come on, you know you only sit in one spot in your living room, one chair in your kitchen or dining room, one side of the bed at night.  And if another family member trespasses by taking your spot, it’s disconcerting.

So, I moved to a chair across the room where no one usually sits.  When I sat down, all three of my pets lifted their heads and looked at me for a moment as if to say, “Hey, what are you doing over there?  What’s happening?  Do we need to be on alert for something new, exciting and different?”  Then they must have decided “not so much” and they went back to snoozing.  And I noticed how beautiful our Red Maple tree looks in full leavage (that’s what I’m calling it even though I’m sure there’s a proper word and I just can’t think of it).  It’s deep, red leaves are glistening with raindrops and the color set off perfectly against the bright green leaves of a bush behind it.  This time of year a lot of the green leaves are still that vibrantly, unnaturally neon lime color of green because they are young and newish and morning rain and late afternoon rain makes that green look almost electric to me.

Now that my chattering 4-year-old has left, and I came in to write this post to my blog, I spun my stool around to face the back yard for a moment and watched these two little birdies [fill in the blank on the type of bird, because I’m clueless] popping in and out of a bird house.  I only bought this bird house for decorative purposes a million years ago and used to keep it on top a shelf in my living room but now Marty set it out on the deck railing and lo and behold, these two little birds (Frederick and Lolita) have taken up residency (no rent, no lease, no security deposit!) and they are a blast to watch.

Frederick and Lolita always look so busy and intense.  I hope they find quiet time in their new home like I have.

I have magical abilities

And I’m betting I’m not the only one.  There are certain things that I can do which no one else is able to accomplish.  It’s truly amazing.  And at first glance, you wouldn’t think these things are particularly special or difficult.  You would never believe that these tasks could only be completed if one possessed special, magical, supernatural abilities.

And I’m guessing there are women all around the world who have developed very similar magical powers.  These powers vary from house to house, no doubt.

In my house, for instance, I am the only current resident who is capable of extracting the kitchen garbage bag from under the sink when it is full.  I have every confidence that the two men with whom I reside have tried – albeit unsuccessfully – to pull that full garbage bag out of the garbage pail so that it can make its way to the garage.  I know this because I see how hard they have worked to learn to carefully balance any number of trash items – ever so cautiously – on top of the heap, doing their level best to ascertain that when they push the trash can back in (we have a pull-out trash can caddy under our sink), their careful addition will not topple out and land on the floor before it makes it back under the sink.  (All bets are off and concern is thrown asunder about it staying atop the heap once it’s inside the cabinet.)  And I must say that I’ve never experienced any difficulty in removing the bags of garbage – so it must be that I have special powers.

I’m pretty sure that the time, energy and effort it takes to defy the laws of gravity through careful and thoughtful consideration of placement, weight disbursement, precision item rotation and opportunistic “footholds” to objects beneath so far outweigh the time it would take to just remove the full bag, twist tie the bag and toss it into the garage garbage cans, that this simply must be the only alternative left.

I don’t think I want to play Jenga against my husband and my son.  Unless my magical powers extend to Jenga.

Bubble, bubble, boiling double

I’ve never thought “Oooo, wouldn’t it be nice to have a hot tub?”  I’ve thought it would be great to have one of those big luxurious soaking jacuzzi bathtubs, but not so much with the whole hot tub thing.  I always figured it would be one of those things you’d get and you’d be all amped up on it at first and then it would just become some big eyesore that you have to tend to [keeping the water balanced] and pay for [the electricity to keep it heated] and never use until you finally have to pay someone to get the damned thing out of your yard so you can take back possession of the space.

Come on, how many of you have a Bowflex, stationary bike, treadmill or rowing machine (or any number of other crazy pieces of fad exercise equipment) at home that you use to hang clothes on to dry?  Yeah, you know the drill.

When we bought this house last year, it came with a hot tub.  And I thought, “Hmmm, well, that’s kind of nice.”  Was it just sour grapes before?  Don’t know.  Still, I wondered if when the newness wore off, I’d want it the hell out of here.

I still haven’t gotten the hang of maintaining the water balance; however, I’m finding that less is more and it doesn’t really take too, too much to keep it level-ish.  And the cover is heavy and awkward to maneuver but we have plans to replace the cover and an easier way to remove and replace the cover.

Here’s what I’ve learned though.  It’s pretty freaking nice.  It’s a time when my husband and I can come home from our days and convene in the hot tub with no distractions and chat about our day.  And we do that.  We sit, we unwind, we chat, we soak, we dream our dreams together, we plan stuff, we share our gratitude for the good stuff the universe has seen fit to bring our way and then we climb out all wrinkled and pruned. I have also (in one year’s time) made some wonderful memories soaking in the hot tub with my dear friend, Linda (back from her vagabond life in the Islands), in the biggest snow storm of this winter in the dark (unquestionably, one of the coolest things ever), spending hours with the jets off laughing our collective asses off with Donna night after night when she visited, and catching up with no interruptions with Kit on a couple of Wednesday evenings (and she left her towel here for the next time – coming soon).

Ya can’t do that on a silly Bowflex!

So it’s a social thing.  And I like it.  And that’s all I have to say about that.

Vegetables . . . friend or foe?

As Americans, we know we overeat.  A lot.  We know we don’t eat the right foods either.  We’re largely obese (forgive the pun) and we don’t exercise enough.  And we know it’s not about eating.  At least that’s what Dr. Phil says.

I can attest to that, based on my own personal experience of emotional eating (which would be met overwhelmingly by women everywhere with a resounding “Amen”) – but for me, this doesn’t apply to dinner.  For me, dinner is a utilitarian meal.  Left to my own devices, dinner is one meal at which I would eat exactly what I had a hankering for – and nothing more.  Oh yeah – I’m a purist when it comes to emotional eating.  I’m not about to muck up my emotional chip-gorging with USDA recommendations.  It’s that little thinly sliced, perfectly fried crisp of vegetable that is a vessel for the salt and oil and that’s as close as I get to that section of the food triangle.

My husband did an amazing thing last night.  He ate meat for dinner.  Just meat.  He had a leftover pork chop and some leftover barbecued chicken thighs.  A little pig and poultry on a plate.  Now, this is amazing because he always requires a plate of food that, although it wouldn’t meet the USDA recommended food triangle guidelines by quantities, it certainly must meet the requirements in substance.  Protein, vegetable, starch, bread, blah, blah, blah.  Throw in some dairy (ice cream) for dessert and “well-balanced” ain’t just a suggestion anymore.

I’m not capable of making a strong argument for my position on this topic, I know that.  On paper (can I still call it paper if it’s a computer screen?), his preference for well-balanced variety is even backed by the government, for crying out loud.  And we all know that the government knows best.  But I hate vegetables.  Too harsh.  I don’t care for vegetables.  Much better.  Give me a plate of meat and I’m giddy.  If that meat is mostly red (and with the faint whisper of a still-beating heart, all the better), I am positively fulfilled as a carnivorous top-of-the-food-chain mammal.  And if Marty didn’t require that his beast be accompanied on the way down by plants and grains and roots and such, dinner for me would be a simple endeavor of throwing a hunk of meat on a grill (no pans to clean) for a scant moment or two and snarfing it down in about two and a half minutes.  Rinse off my plate, fork and knife and I’m good to go.

That’s not to say there aren’t times when I just want a nice big bowl of Minute Rice or Kraft Mac n’ Cheese or Bush’s Baked Beans [out of the can].  And hey, a couple of times a year I might even microwave a bag of frozen corn or have a Caesar’s salad.  My mom used to say I eat like clockwork – one thing at a time (and I did not like my food to touch).  When it comes to dinner, if I had it my way, I’d still eat that way only it would just be one thing on my plate a day.

Marty is my USDA Food Triangle Enforcer.  But last night he defected.