Simple Girl

Homesick

Sunday night at 7:00 pm and instinct says I should be parking myself on the couch to watch 60 Minutes.  Like Elaine Benes of Seinfeld “I need to unwind” and am a creature of habit. But what is there to unwind from here in Vermont?  I am, after all, wrapping up week two of a six week sabbatical, so work stress is non-existent.  The air is clear and quiet, fall colors are coming up creating an endless changing view from my front porch; I have my books, writing, and even my cats with me and wine in the fridge. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it. So why am I feeling so very out of sorts?

I am sure everyone to whom I described my Vermont sabbatical plans my melancholy will come as a surprise. I painted a happy picture of quiet reflection, long walks and bike rides, prolific writing, interrupted by bursts of home renovation and furniture shopping. And while, this is precisely what I am doing, I could have –in fact, did – predicted this mood. I am home sick.

There is only one reason that I bought this old and ailing farmhouse, I wanted it to be home -- the last place I would ever move to, the place I could settle in to slowly, collecting things and memories; a place perhaps where my children (or more likely their children) could build memories. Since I left home for college, I have had thirteen addresses, in seven different towns across five states (Alaska, Virginia, Michigan, Florida and New Hampshire). I always claimed to like moving – “I’m a gypsy at heart,” I’d chirp – but I think the reality is far more complex (as it usually is). With every move, I moved swiftly to set up house – organize, decorate, make it homey. But whether from Wal-Mart or Pottery Barn, those homey touches only create the illusion of home.  Family, friends, security – those are the makings of home.

Okay. I am here in Vermont – surrounded by beautiful nature and welcoming neighbors – in the house I’ve wanted since I was a little girl. I am lucky enough to be sharing this adventure with a man whom I love very much (and who is quite handy too!), to be visited by friends and family, and to be healthy and financially secure to enjoy the time worry free.  And yet … because I am here alone for a week or so essentially tucked away in two small rooms in the middle of a construction zone (that happens to smell like dead mice and old wet dog) … the home sickness creeps in, loneliness trumps reflection.

I also feel sure that if the house were odor free, had a working kitchen and one useable bathroom (instead of two that are each only half usable), with a comfy couch from where I could watch 60 Minutes on a September evening, the homesickness would abate.  Ironic, maybe, but home sickness is also the need for the familiar, the predictable, and the routine.  And (silly me), I was determined that my six weeks of vacation time would be anything but.  (My partner could testify to the many times I’ve griped that we are in a rut, as we sat on just such a comfy couch in front of the TV!) So, yes, I am getting what I wanted, and it is making me quite uncomfortable, melancholy…. home sick.

The good news is, as anyone who ever went to college or summer camp, home sickness is temporary. It responds well to activity, exercise, fresh air and a sense of accomplishment. And, eventually, you either get to go home or you look up one day and discover you are home. So tomorrow, I commence Yoga classes, supervise the installation of a new heating system, finish painting the trim in (what will be) the living room, find an insulation contractor, and maybe go for a bike ride.  But until then … I just need to unwind!

Be Simple

Turning 50 | Am I Really That Old?

I don’t remember the moment it stopped, but I think about it every time it no longer happens. What seems like not so very long ago I almost always heard this in reply to the stated ages of my children: “No way … you must have had them when you were 10!” or something to that effect. I only hear that about ten percent of the time these days, but that’s okay. Many of my peers are still raising teenagers, or even toddlers, so I will take the recognition that I’m of a certain age. I’ve earned it. Even if “I can’t wait until I grow up” has been replaced by “am I really that old?”

I’m not sure how I feel about 50 – ambivalent is what I guess we’ll call it. It feels weird to say, but not to be -- not as weird as 30 did, anyway; and, not as significant (oddly enough) as turning 40. There are expectations when you are 40 and with that comes a bit of pressure, but at 50… I think younger folks (I’m talking hard-working, exhausted parents of ‘tweens in their 30’s and 40’s) who are a little bit envious. As they should be. At least I think so.

Having been 50 for only just a few weeks now, I can’t say for certain what’s good (or bad) about it. I only know I personally feel a sense of anxiousness and excitement – like that summer between high school graduation and leaving for college. The previous five decades were just practice, real life is about to begin and the possibilities are endless! I know something else too … I’m really glad I’m not thirty.

At age thirty, the pressures are immense. If you aren’t married with children, the question is “why aren’t you?” Mostly asked by the thirty year old women to themselves (yes, I said it… put political correctness aside; tradition rules in this realm). “At least you’re successful in your career?” “What? You’re not? Then why wait to get married?” Or you are married and people say. “I can’t believe you got married so young, don’t you miss going out with your friends?” And on the flip side “you are making home-made organic baby-food and keeping your husband on his gluten-free diet, while blogging in your spare time….aren’t you?” Perhaps you are successful in your career, which is great, you chose it, made it happen – but if you don’t ask yourself, the cover story on Atlantic Magazine will … “what have you sacrificed?”

At age fifty, people just say “wow, what’s that feel like?” Then they go on to say how fabulous you look, how lucky you are and other chat about the freedom and adventure that lay ahead.

The Simple Truths of Nora Ephron

We've seen all of her movies -- somea dozen times or more. Men quote Caddy Shack, women quote "When Harry Met Sally." Herewith, my favorite Ephronisms:

"I don't think any day is worth living without thinking about what you're going to eat next at all times."

“I don't want to be someone that you're settling for. I don't want to be someone that anyone settles for. Marriage is hard enough without bringing such low expectations into it, isn't it?” —Walter from Sleepless in Seattle

“Sometimes I believe that some people are better at love than others, and sometimes I believe that everyone is faking it.”

“The Wonderbra is not a step forward for women. Nothing that hurts that much is a step forward for women.”

"I try to write parts for women that are as complicated and interesting as women actually are."

"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim."

“My mother wanted us to understand that the tragedies of your life one day have to potential to be the comic stories the next.”   

"I look as young as a person can look given how old I am."

And the best of all....

"Most of us live our lives devoid of cinematic moments."

Be Simple

How to Cure Constipation

There is the physical manifestation of constipation which, thank goodness, Jamie Lee Curtis is working to eradicate!  And there is mental constipation – manifesting in my inability to summon even just 140 characters of cleverness. I have been suffering both. The hours of sitting – whether on the throne or in front of the keyboard – just wasted with nothing to show for it. 

Of course these are both symptoms of just general malaise, brought on by my pending birthday! I feel sluggish, so I slow down, stop writing, working out, and stay in bed too late in the morning. Now I’m bored and frustrated that I’m not getting anything accomplished, so I take it out on the refrigerator and eat and drink more, which makes me feel sluggish …. and on it goes. There is a long list of rationalization for my sloth – at the top of the list, no doubt, would be turning 50 in just a few weeks. 

“Why bother,” says sluggish me? “It’s time to enjoy life because really there is so precious little of it left, I cry!”  That that meant watching reruns of Guiliana and Bill and not making the tough choice between a second glass of wine and an ice cream cone (“Have both! Life is short!”) was at best ironic and in truth, just dumb.

But … not one to question why we fall into these traps or other bad behavior, I simply accept that I’m on the wrong track (again) and will try harder (again) and no, this time I mean it (again).

And yet, habit is hard to break until the habit is broken.  It was Father’s Day this past weekend and a visit to my Dad was in order and long overdue.  Rather than my usual 90-minute-drive two-hour-visit 90-minute-drive M.O., I decided that I would drive up on Saturday and spend the night … much to their delight…. and surprisingly, to mine. We had a few drinks and I learned a little bit more about my Dad - “the early years”.  If you told me I would have been sad to leave, I wouldn’t have believed you, but I ran back to give them a second hug and an “I love you” on Sunday afternoon.  I guess because we were spending time together doing what people do, it was more enjoyable than the obligatory “visit.” We took a walk, planted flowers, BBQ’d, watched golf, had a beer and an ice cream sundae.

Which was, it turns out, the last straw for my listless digestive system.  My distended belly rivaling those of Feed the Children posters, I Googled my way through “cleanse programs” and “natural regulatory relief” as soon as I got home. This morning, a couple of Colon Cleanse® and lots of water later … this post is the only measure of my progress.  And yet I feel so much lighter; this by breaking just one habit. Instead of reality TV and me time, I made two people I love a little bit happier. I also took a long walk by the ocean, and while my face my have looked like that little cartoon dude, the view was much better!

With that small “movement” (har har), my words are flowing again. I am still in negotiations to resolve the intestinal work stoppage but the feel good of doing something different – something with someone else in mind --  might just carry over to my diet as well (I bought prunes as a show of good faith).

Out There

Yes, I am pushing my bike in this photo; and, I have no shame about it. I’m a few weeks short of 50 years old and ON the mountain bike…..er… well, next to it in this case. But, I’m out there. And that’s my point.

While on the trail this weekend – in between moments of sheer exhilaration and sheer terror – it occurred to me how closely my experiences on the mountain bike parallel my life experiences. Not the least of which is how I’ve come to find particular joy “late in life.”  I took up the sport at the age of 46. For those of you who are not familiar with mountain biking, it is a far cry from the Tour de France type of biking. The tires are fatter and there are dual suspension bikes and single-speeds, hard-tails, 29’ers, and a whole bunch of other mountain bike (MTB) lingo I just pretend to know.  The main difference, in my experience, is that mountain biking takes places in the woods, along trails sometimes no wider than the width of your front tire, over rocks and roots, through streams and mud, over bridges (which took me two years to stop walking across) and around or over trees. You go up hill and down A LOT.  Actually, there is a weird phenomenon in MTB that there always seems to be more uphill than down. 

A bit like life, eh? So, too:

Coasting | There are times when the path seems easy, the hills have been replaced by a slight downhill and since you’ve worked so hard to get to this point, it seems only fitting that you give  yourself a bit of a rest while you coast in neutral. Except, right around the corner is a hill, a steep one, and if you’d only kept your momentum up, it would have been a piece of cake, but instead you must grind it out, or worse … get off the bike and push.

Grinding | On the subject of grinding, let me just say, it sucks. It hurts; it physically hurts; you make animal noises, it hurts soooo bad. But when you make it over the obstacles and up the hill, well, then you … You. Rock. Star. You. Hard work probably did kill someone sometime, but mostly it just feels amazing than you did something you didn’t think you could possibly do.

Downhill | Or should I just say over the hill?  Not much explanation needed here.  The downhills in MTB are exhilarating – but also terrifying. What can I say? I get scared if I feel like the bike (or the world) is moving too fast. But I’m also learning that that terrifying feeling never goes away, and that’s maybe not such a bad thing. Keeps you on your toes.

 Need for Speed | There is one of those whacky inverse proportion laws on the trail.  The rockier, rootier, steeper it is, the faster you must go.  Pedal harder. Slowing down when obstacles arise is a recipe for disaster, for only momentum and effort will carry you over the gnarliest of terrain.  Applying your brakes when you have momentum just means a broken rib or broken ambition … ask me how I know (on both accounts).

Look at Where You Want to Go | You’re going downhill, the trail is steep and twisty, there is a tree ahead of you (many trees actually, but this one is really big and really in your way). Look at the tree, hit the tree. Look at the path you want to follow, the tree moves out of your way. I don’t know how this works, I just know it does.

Bruises | Life is full of them. If you don’t have any, I’m not sure if I would call you lucky. We get hurt when we open up our hearts. We get battered when we face the storms.  We get beaten when we try to win. (If, however, your wounds are not metaphorical, get help.  I mean it.)

To sum it up … I’m not that good at mountain biking and I don’t have the cute spandex bike outfits.  I’m not that good at life either and I’m one PMS-binge away from elastic waist pants. But, I'm out there.

BeSimple

My Dry January - Week Two

I am not one to make New Year’s resolutions. I think I’m fine just the way I am, thank you very much. That said, I suppose I did “resolve” to give up my daily (and I do mean daily) consumption of wine and beer. I mean wine or beer ….. er, actually I guess wine and/or beer is technically more accurate.  Anyway, I am at the mid-way point.  That’s right; I am not making a life-long change – just 30 days on this wagon ride.

During week one, I gathered a few pros and cons about the experiment. Chief among them, that one mustn’t assume weight loss benefits if one replaces alcohol with sugar and carbs in other forms. Crap. The other major benefits include a better night’s sleep and more productive time in the evening.  The Kardashian’s are not bearable without some sort of sedation, so I read a book, work on my writing.  On the whole, week one was easier than I thought it would be and I was quite proud of myself.

The next seven days were a different story though. A glass (or three) of wine at the end of any day of my work week would have been totally understandable. Twelve hour days, lots of drama and instant messages from colleagues featuring beer mug and martini icons tested my resolve. Fortunately, it was something like 12 degrees outside and the only alcohol in my house is a bottle of Cointreau used for Christmas baking.  This, a clear indication to me that indeed I do not have an actual drinking problem. As much as I would have enjoyed the company of one Mr. Kendall Jackson, I wasn’t going to go out looking for him in the bitter cold.

The next big challenge was the weekend. I had totally forgotten about the NFL playoffs. How does one sit in a room with nachos, chicken wings, and beer-guzzling friends and drink diet ginger ale? The answer: double up on the wings and drink hot cocoa (with a half bag of mini-marshmallows).  

So what have I learned at the mid-point of my 30-day sobriety? (Yes, I know January has 31 days, but give me a break!) With alcohol, as with anything else I suppose, there is a potential Venn diagram of addiction, habit, and enjoyment – each thing separate, but at risk of overlapping. I am beginning to clarify where my daily drink was mere habit (guzzled, frosty, dry-hopped thirst quenchers) versus mindful, feet-up, laughing with friends (or at the Kardashians) enjoyment. 

I am not going to lie. I am looking forward to the end of my self-imposed prohibition. By the way, did you know that the observance of “Repeal Day” (the end of prohibition in America) is written into the U.S. Constitution? (I read it on the Internet, so I’m pretty sure it’s true). My repeal day is February 1 and I already have a glass of wine and gossip date booked with a girlfriend. What I’m hoping though, is that from that point on I can stay more in the enjoyment category with an-almost daily drink instead of resuming bad habits.

Cheers!

My Dry January

I’ve exercised enough will power to make it through the first week.  Here are the pros and cons thus far of my wine and beer-free* existence (for merely an existence it is…):

Pro: Face is noticeably less puffy and sallow in the morning
Con: Reduce puffiness … increased wrinkle visibility

Pro:  Increased ambition in the evening
Con: Ambition wasted playing Welder and Words with Friends

Pro: No more second or third glass of wine while watching Beverly Hills Housewives
Con: Watching Beverly Hills Housewives sober

Pro: No longer embarrassed by contents of recycling bin
Con: Fewer calories burned carrying recycling to the curb

Pro: Eliminating 300 or so “empty” calories per day
Con: Weight gain due to rationalizing second helpings and dessert due to aforementioned “pro” 

 

*I’m a cheap date. Never drank spirits.

P.S. you can also check out this post on Divine Caroline. 

An Unlikely Cat Lady

Pets are more trouble than children.” That used to be my standard response to stories about beloved pets – usually accompanied by an eye roll. Dogs are fun in theory, but the shedding, the drooling, the poop scooping? And what’s the point of cats? You feed them and they ignore you.

More importantly, I was a single girl of a certain age and there were two things I was not going to do: 1) buy a Subaru or 2) get a cat.  … I don’t think I need to explain this line of thinking. Then one day I found myself driving through a snow storm to the Veterinary Emergency hospital, with Kitty in the back seat. How did this happen?

Everyone was surprised when I announced that I had adopted a cat from the SPCA; perhaps, no one more than me. I’m not sure why I turned on my signal and made the left turn into the animal shelter that Saturday. I had been out shopping – scooping up new outfits, shoes, and accessories, taking advantage of the holiday weekend sales. By the time I left the mall, I was tired and crabby. Too many self-absorbed people in the mall, spending too much money on things they don’t need but think will make them feel better.  And I realized I was one of them.  Enter Kitty. I walked in to the shelter and was immediately assaulted by an ammonia-smell and cacophony of too many animals in close quarters. I tried to breathe through my mouth and looked quickly around the room. About to make a turn 180 degrees for a quick exit, I’m approached by a perky volunteer. “Are you here to adopt a cat?”. “Uh” ….. I fast-forwarded to the simple life in Vermont I have planned, complete with dogs, chickens, and maybe even a goat.  I quickly came to realize that a cat would be an entry level pet, progress toward realizing my dream!  Why not?!

Six months later, I found myself up all night to medicate the cat I adopted that day – which I cleverly named “Kitty” – every two hours in an effort to save one of her little green eyes.  How did this happen?

Kitty settled easily into my life. The food, the litter box, the nail clipping … all chores I thought I would abhor are actually soothing. A routine – not so much unlike taking care of your kids – that gives one purpose beyond your day job. Kitty is a talker … she meows out her needs or sometimes just makes small talk, and she loves cat nip and the laundry bask….Oh, ugh!  That “crazy cat lady” talk!!  But you need to know, that cat changed me. She opened my heart.  And so I got another one.I felt that Kitty needed a companion for while I was at work all day or away for an overnight. Meet Pepper – or Madame La Poivre.  All black with round eyes that look perpetual surprised and terrified, she is not nearly as charming as Kitty. She is a true “scaredy cat” but she seemed to be just the company Kitty needed. Little did I know she was also a catalyst for poor Kitty’s trauma.

Shortly after bringing Pepper home, Kitty started to suffer symptoms in her eye that looks like conjunctivitis.  Long story short, it was finally properly diagnosed as Feline Herpes.   Longer story short, she lost the eye; or rather, was enucleated. I figure the medicines, mileage, and surgery cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $3,000 all totaled.  And throughout -- instead of being angry and annoyed that this little animal I should have known not to get was costing me so much in stress, time, and money -- I cried.I cried whenever I had to hold her down to give her eye drops. I cried whenever roll around the floor trying to remove the “cone of shame”; I cried when they told me she might lose the eye; I cried when the Vet called to say he was contributing $1,000 toward the surgery bill; I cried when my very southern pet sitter drawled on about “pooooor Kiiiiitty”; I cried when the pharmacist said she would rush my order because she loved kitties too.   

So, yes, I am a true cat lady now. I have cats – a commitment I made and must keep.  Like children, they are vulnerable and you’ve said you were going to take care of them. So you do.  I scrape out the little box daily, sometimes standing over it naked after my run while I wait for my shower to heat up. I brush the cat hairs off my desk and try to see around Kitty as she plops herself between my keyboard and my monitor. I even started a Facebook fan page for Kitty (“Wink the Magic Kitty”) because she is so real and special to me, I think she has goodness to spare and to share. 

I didn’t get the love that was possible for a pet … moreover the love you get from your pet.  Now I do. How did this happen? There is a transformative power in having a pet.  I highly recommend.

Be Simple

P.S. Pepper enjoys all the same luxuries that Kitty does and is learning to tolerate us. Kitty continues to seek her revenge.

P.P.S. To complete the transformation, I figured I'd go all in. This is my new car

The Kingdom of Simple

Spent New Year's weekend in the Kingdom. No, not Bible camp. The northeastern part of the state of Vermont was given this moniker by someone, some time ago (hey! It's not a history lesson, okay?!) Three years ago, man friend and I were introduced to the area by friends on a mountain biking trip, and we have been coming back regularly ever since. This is the home of the future simple life I am working toward. Rolling hills, dotted by cows, farms, and increasingly high tech wind farms; friendly people...hard, hard working people so different from the competition that marks every day life in the 'flatlands' of Southern NH and Mass. Locals may 'hi-ball' it down dirt roads, but when they are slowed by a tractor or a tourist or a flock of wild turkeys...they slow their pace to match, easy. The pace of living ebbs and flows here like the weather and the four seasons. All things in their time is a universal attitude. It will be hard to leave this morning, but I go with another dose of resolve to make this my home (my simple life) someday very soon. Work life begins early tomorrow with an important presentatation .... But first a walk along the Kingdom Trails. All things in their time. Be simple.

Giving thanks for food.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, assuming that the end of Daylight Savings Time doesn’t qualify (what’s better than an extra hour, really?).  This year was especially nice and I have much to be thankful for.  Only one of my children was home for the holiday – but both are safe and happy. My parents were here – only mildly frustrating, at times highly entertaining and yes, thankfully, healthy. The man was also in the house, relaxed, loving and kind as always. And, of course, the table was abundant!

This year’s menu was sponsored by The Barefoot Contessa herself, Ms. Ina Garten: 4 Hour Lamb  , Turkey Roulade, Sweet Potatoes , and for desert,  Apple Cake  . My new favorite dish though is the salad, which I owe to Martha Mesclun Salad with Shallots and Blue Cheese.The roasted asparagus I managed to do on my own.

The five of us sat down to table, with a comical “Grace!” shout out, and dug in to 13 POUNDS OF MEAT plus fixins! None of us are fat, we all “eat right” most of the time and get our exercise, so we enjoyed the largess without guilt or conflict - my Dad’s lament (now a running joke) on the missing mint jelly notwithstanding.

On Thanksgiving, gluttony and sloth are encouraged, celebrated even. You cook; you eat; you watch TV.  Life is good. At least for 84% of us.  One in six Americans do not know where there next meal will come from. One in four children – in the UNITED STATES of AMERICA – goes to bed hungry each night. How is this possible?

I am not going to get all preachy on you, but this simple girl is taking up the cause of hunger in her home state of New Hampshire and I’m going to write about it from time to time. I loves my food – breakfast is the perfect time to think about what’s for lunch and lunchtime is for dinner menu planning. But when I say there’s nothing to eat in the house, what I mean is there is nothing I feel like eating. My cupboard is never bare and I aim to reduce the number of my fellow citizens’ who are.  If asking you to get informed will help, well there you have it.  Start here, please: http://feedingamerica.org/ …. and, GRACE!