Raise Your Hand if You Recognize This?

When I was a tween or teen, my mother brought one of these home.  I asked her what is was, and she explained that it was a splatter screen for keeping grease in the cooking pan and off the stove.  I noticed that one edge of the screen was ripped out already, and asked her what happened*.  She got this funny look on her face and explained that my kid sister has asked her what it was, too.  Mom told her it was for spanking little girls and playfully bopped her on the butt, which made it rip. In my memory, Mom kept that same ripped splatter screen for eons.    

There is five years between me and Kid Sister, but my older sister is only so by 18 months.  When my mother speaks of raising my older sister while pregnant with me, and then raising two infants simultaneously, her eyes shutter a little and she is at a loss for language to articulate the complete exhaustion she experienced.   When Kid Sister came along, Older Sister and I were a little more self-sufficient.  Mom got to really enjoy having a baby in a way she missed out on with the first two.  I could tell even then at the tender age of 5, 6, and 7 that she cherished having a baby.  (The fact that Kid Sister is pretty darn adorable didn't hurt either.)

My mother is a world-renowned saver, recycler, and repurpose-er, so it is no surprise she held on to a perfectly functional, although slightly blemished tool.  She is also neat as a pin, and it is possible the funny look on her face was a little regret that her jest ended in breaking a brand new purchase.  Tonight when this memory came flooding back as I spied my own splatter screen tucked in the cabinet, I recognized that look as one of a mix of all these things, but also pride and love.  Pride because she had been so witty on her feet (Dad is usually the jester in the family).  And love because it was a laugh she shared with Kid Sister. 

*Or words to that effect.  I don't recall exactly how old I was when this happened.  If I was closer to the teen end of that age spectrum, it is regrettably more likely that I asked her, with all the haughty disdain and world-weariness of a Superior speaking to an Inferior, if she was aware that she had bought a defective product. 

GOPYW

Me and two kewpie dolls 

Last game of the season for Camden Riversharks

In Which I Lose My Mind for 30 Seconds

We recently stayed overnight at a friend's home in Connecticut.  It is a lovely home:  very traditional from the outside but redesigned on the inside to be full of unexpected architecture.  The house is decorated with an amazing collection of unique art and photos.  My Beloved and I were taking mental snapshots of the bookshelves, the picture frames, the color scheme.

In the morning, I lay in bed imagining how I could incorporate one of these design elements into my own home.  But, for a full 30 seconds, I could not conjure forth one mental image of my own home.  My own home, in which I've lived almost nine years!  Of which I am so ridiculously proud, thanks to My Beloved's efforts to make it our own!  At first, it felt like one of those moments we've all experienced when you can't recall a person's name.  But as the seconds ticked on and images of bedrooms and living rooms flashed in my mind (Hawaii, my SIL's, my parents'), I knew this was worse.  It was the lost feeling experienced as a small child when I grabbed a stranger's hand mistaking it for my mother's.  I thought of waking My Beloved, but how would I explain it?  I don't know where I live.  I don't know how to get home.  I tried picturing where I sleep at night, where I eat, thinking the memory of the action would provide the environment.  Nothing.  Nothing but glasslike panic.

And then, boom, I was able to recall a photograph taken by my MIL of the front of our home when we first moved in.  From there, I was able to re-build the interior in my mind.  This was four days ago and I am still shaken by the experience.

Oh, wicked senility!  Be quick with your dirty work!

Foto Friday

Tomorrow will be my Gram's 95th birthday. She is a wartime baby, and I mean the Great War, and emigrated to the US from Germany when she was just a school girl.

She's not so much with us anymore, if you get my meaning, and I sincerely hope that where ever she escapes to is a warm and sunny place filled with her happiest memories.  I'm looking forward to holding her hand again, and looking into her blue, blue eyes.  (My mom has her eyes.  I like that I can see my mom in her.) She has gnarled, arthritic hands, which I can begin to see in my own fingers.

I'm also looking forward to seeing my cousins, who I haven't visited in years.   They speak with a southern Maryland drawl, and are quick and generous with their humor.  It's such a different culture, where they come from, and I'm excited to spend some time away from my world and live in theirs for a day.

Spanish Earrings

When I turned 30, My Beloved surprised me with a trip to Spain.  I adore Spain.  I wish I lived in Spain.  I was 3 credits from a Spanish minor in college and, as a little girl, had the Senora doll from the Around the World Collection.

For a number of reasons we were not able to leave right away so, for a year, we planned.  My Beloved emphasized that this was "my" trip so, though he had picked out the stops, I was the one to plan what we would do in each locale: Madrid, Grenada, Costa del Sol and the Mediterranean Sea, Barcelona.  I devoured books on history, and tour guides, and crafted our own, personalized, 10-day itinerary.  The anticipation was glorious!


Our trip ended in Barcelona.  We explored the ports, the home-improvement district (seriously, we try to check it out everywhere we go: interior construction options can tell you a lot about a people), the Rambla (meh), the market, convents, on and on.  In winding down our journey, our thoughts turned to souvenirs and we picked up two finger puppets, a king and queen, a Ferdinand and an Isabel.  Still itchy with the "buying bug", we stopped in a local artists shop and I spied a pair of pale blue dangly earrings with pale pink painted flowers.  They were breathtaking, and so was the price.  At this point in the trip, we'd already spent the equivalent of 1/2 of a Honda, so - though I hemmed and hawed for quite a while - I walked away.

However....

When would I be in Spain, again?!  They were so beautiful and delicate, and everything that is Spain to me!  At My Beloved's urging, I changed my mind and, before dinner, in a panic that they might have been bought up, we rushed back to the store.  To find, in fact, that they had been bought up.  That's the problem with one-of-a-kind jewelry and a hesitant nature.

We delighted in the remaining hours of our stay and made it safely back home with rolls and rolls of film (this was when I was 30, remember, just after cameras were invented) and my head awhirl with memories and the stinging lesson to seize the opportunity.

That night, heavy with jet lag, My Beloved and I recalled our favorite moments and relived parts of the trip.  And then he leaned into his bedside drawer and pulled out those beautiful spanish earrings.  He had run back to purchase them when I was in the hotel and, though he doesn't speak a lick of Spanish, convinced the shop girl to tell me if we came back that evening that they'd been purchased by another.

Sure, I tell you this story now and the surprise ending is anything but; you anticipated it from the title.  But I, my dear readers, was floored.  Now when I see those earrings, I think not only of the amazing, once-in-a-lifetime trip, but am reminded of the generosity and love of My Beloved.

Vermont

My favorite NJ rest stop.

Burlington, VT

Apple pie bake-off at Shelburne Orchards

Mmmm....cider donuts....grawlllll

This is the biggest apple pie ever!

The covered bridge where I bonked on our too long bucolic bike ride

The detritus from a weekend well spent.

You Could Not Be More Wrong

For the last month I've been ruminating on my memory and my happiness.

Memory:
Since turning 35, like a switch, my memory is in the crapper.  Names, faces, things that happened two weeks to two years ago...gone.  And not in the "tip of my tongue" sense but as in the "you must have me confused with someone else b/c that NEVER happened" sense.  This has come into significant play at my new job.  It's not a new job (I've been there since December) but it might as well be new for all that I can recall.  I've met all of the 100+ people in the company, but only know the names of the 6 with whom I work.  This is *very* unusual for me.  Worse, I don't have the sense when someone re-introduces themselves that we've met before; it feels like it is the first time.  It's embarrassing and some people take affront, but also it makes me doubt my ability to interact appropriately with clients and I worry it will my senior management, too.

Happiness:
During the two months I was unemployed last year, I was much more patient with people than I am now.  Why was that?  Was it because I wasn't in a rush to get to or from someplace?  If so, what the h*ll am I in a such a rush to get to or from now?  I still had a job (in a sense) when I was unemployed.  What work was more important than finding a new job? Does that suggest that I value my employer's time more than my own? That I feel this sense of urgency to be at work but did not feel that same urgency (or more!) when I "worked" for myself?  Isn't that twisted? Is it?

I've noticed this most when I'm in the car.  Driving around when I was unemployed was so stress-free.  I didn't need to be anywhere, so I left with plenty of time to get to where I was going.  I didn't rush along the way and was more than content to wait my turn.  These days when I go into the office, my course is plotted like an alpine racer, with corners shaved to the nanosecond.  I know exactly when to switch lanes to avoid the slow down as a result of people looking at the odd construction sign at mile marker 35.  I time my acceleration to make all three green lights.  Heaven have mercy on the Newbie at the tolls who isn't familiar with the change in lane patterns!

Recently, I shattered my precious iphone and have been sans mobile device.  No more checking email every hour at work.  No more calls coming in during the commute.  No more checking for what's nearby or how to get there.  It hasn't helped with my memory or my happiness, but has allowed me to recognize that always looking at that thing was keeping me from disconnecting from work.

I read an article about a woman going through a divorce, whose best friend MADE her start every day with an email that listed 5 Things I'm Grateful For.  Even though the woman eventually found her way out of that darkness, she continues to start every morning with this email to her friend.

So, over the last week, I've been trying this device to both connect with and disconnect from the work day.  I've tried it on the commute into work and on the commute home.  There are rules:

- must be said allowed
- can't have been used earlier that week (or as much as my memory can recall!)
- have to be meaningful (no "I'm grateful for pizza")

To do it well, I really have to focus and get creative.  I can't be running the "systems check" in the background:  call Mom, start laundry, cook chicken, read book club book, send tuition check, etc.  It's what I do in the car, now, instead of looking to see who called or emailed, or trying to see if there's a Sears where I'm headed.  Please note: I did these things at a stop, not while moving.  (Stop hyperventilating, My Beloved.)  But it was like even stopping at a stop light was too long to be static.  I needed to be multitasking in that 1:42 seconds.

It works remarkably well.  I use it more coming home than heading in, but that works out for the best.  I've written before about the importance of a happy ending.  With this exercise, every day has a happy ending.

Happy Endings

Life lesson #228: Research shows that it's the final emotion to an experience that determines whether it will be a happy memory or a not-so-happy memory, regardless of how horrible it was in the middle.  In patients undergoing colonoscopy procedures, those who experienced low pain over the course of the process had less favorable memories than those who reported higher pain in the beginning of the process and none at the end.

At a conference in MD this week, three people from the company from which I was laid off sat behind me.  One of them was my former manager.  To put it politely, I was not aggrieved to leave that situation, but still refrained from sending any "flaming" emails.  Instead, I sent a very gracious thank you to the entire team the afternoon I was let go and assure them all would be well.  None of the people with whom I worked on a daily basis were involved in the decision and they needed to be able to perform their jobs.  It's incredibly disruptive when a company goes through such a transition, and it can be eased by knowing those on the out are OK.  So, I was gratified when I was able to warmly greet these former co-workers, and equally gratified by the former manager insisting we re-connect.

In the end, at the end, it's best to put a happy spin on the experience.  It will determine how you remember it for the rest of your life.

Couvade Syndrome

Scout is getting older.  Slower.  Blind-er.  She tires easily and quickly.  She sleeps a lot.  She gets confused.
Sound like anyone else you know? 


Years and years ago I found a list of Top 100 Thinks to Do in the New Year.  One of them was to write your own love story: document how you met, fell in love, and married the person of your dreams to save it for posterity, your kids and grandkids (or, in our case, my niece and nephews, or the poor sucker who has to purge all our belongings from our home after we move to an old folk's farm).  I haven't done this, although we have quite the story to tell, and I've been meaning to.  Last night I came across a blog, The Pioneer Woman, who chronicles in bright detail the meeting and falling-in-love with her husband.  It was well-told and motivated me to start my own version.  Except.... I can't.  I don't remember it.  I remember the moment that I knew I was a goner and the moment that I knew that he realized he was a goner.  And the first kiss.  And the first time he told me he loved me.  And the solar plexus punch of physical pain when I said good-bye to go back to school.  But, like, our "dates"?  Phone calls?  What we did that summer?  Gone.


This may be normal, it may be my own version of canine-human Couvade Syndrome.  But I encourage you to write your own story now before you forget.  Your kid may one day be interested in the little details.  The first time you laid eyes on him.  Where were you?  What was playing on the radio?  How long did it take before you called him/he called you?  The special jeans you wore That Night because they made your *ss look fine.  The perfume she wore.  The smell of his mom's cooking the first time you met her.  My older sister knew she found home when C made her feel better about running over an old woman with her bike.  Kid Sister knew it back in high school when J touched the small of her back the night they watched the stars.  I knew it when My Beloved made it snow on a bright spring morning.  What was your Moment?


I love telling Our Story, but with each retelling to new acquaintances, I get better and better at editing it for brevity and maximum impact.  There's a lot of film left on the cutting room floor.  Please, for Buttercup's sake, take the opportunity to make the Director's Cut.  Don't edit a moment.  You have an amazing tale of romance and true love to tell.  Your kids will thank you for it.

The Wind Blows Out Candles, and Kindles Fire*

This weekend has been brutally cold.  Temperatures are in the low 20s but for two days straight there has been a howling wind bringing the air down into single and minus digits.  My Beloved and I have been holed up, thanking our lucky stars to have heat and warm cozy mugs of tea.  We take turns braving the elements to bring out the dog who - in an act of perfect timing - has become really slow and finicky about where to drop her business.  When I go out with her, I try to hide from the wind, but there is no safe place.  Even on the leeward side of the house, the wind swirls and gusts and any exposed skin is quickly paled and bitten with frost.

The last time I remember this kind of cold, we lived in a very small town in rural Pennsylvania.  I was in 5th grade (6th?) and wanted to give my "boyfriend" the Christmas present I had so carefully selected for him:  a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure paperback (remember those? *sigh*).  (Writing this I just remembered I had asked one of my teachers what you get a boy for Christmas and she recommended a book.  Why I asked a teacher and not my own mother is a mystery.  Maybe I asked her, too, who knows.  I just remember the suggestion came from a teacher.  Continuing...)  I asked Mom if I could meet Boyfriend at the local park (about a 1/2 mile walk?), but she refused citing the risk of exposure.  Wise woman, my mom.  Me?  Not so much.  Fearless for the sake of love, I left the house anyway.  All told, the walk and exchange took less than an hour.  I got an ice cream headache from the wind and my eyes teared incessantly.  Boyfriend gave me a homemade bracelet with my name (you know those white beads with the letters in black outline?  macrame bracelet; very early 80's) which I thought so precious that I was immediately ashamed of the un-romantic gesture of a book.  One, it turned out, he already had.  And then we went back to our respective homes.  The end.  Of the romantic moment I had built up in my mind and consequently, later, our "going steady."

* quote from François de la Rochefoucauld