Welcome to our Kitty Wonderland

Here's the tree a few days after the kitties discovered it. It got a lot worse before I redecorated it

Christmas Eve with the kitties banished to the basement for the night.

After we lost our cat, Stanley a little over a year ago I knew it wouldn’t be long before I got another kitten. Last spring I could wait no longer and made my desire for a kitten known on Facebook. A good friend of mine happened to be a reputable kitten breeder in the area so I was not surprised when she stated that she had kittens ready to be adopted. Tom, Sammy, and I headed over intending to take one kitten but after a convincing sales pitch, we found ourselves taking two adorable grey kittens home with us. Our last two cats were older when we got them, so we were surprised at the amount of chaos two rambunctious kittens could cause on a daily basis. I spent the summer unsuccessfully trying to keep them off of the counters and table. Knowing all too well what kind of damage cats can do to Christmas decorations, (specifically the tree), I secretly decided that I would put off putting up a tree until someone noticed that we didn’t have one, hopefully somewhere around December 24^th, when it would be too late. In my dreams we would simply settle for a Christmas chair, covered with gifts on Christmas morning. There would be no broken ornaments or one of us arriving home to a tree on its side in the living room.  When our older son Robby announced his plans to venture out into the world I realized that next Christmas may only be three of us so of course the tree had to go up. I had to put aside my aggravation at coming home every evening with more ornaments scattered on the floor, branches dislodged, and lights tugged ½ way down the tree. Even in my threats to take it down, I knew that for my family, I would keep it up even with only the top 3^rd decorated. I had to remind myself that the tree was an important part of my kids’ lives and as I look at one of them possibly leaving home in the near future I could quietly fill the bowl on the table with ornaments reminding myself that this will be one of those Christmases that we will talk about years from now. When Christmas is behind us, I will pack away the memories of those goofy cats un-decorating the tree and remind myself that it really didn’t matter what the tree looked like after all.

My World of Light Colored Carpets

There are mistakes in life that we are destined to repeat. My repetitive mistake is purchasing light colored carpet. I don’t know why I do it. I just love light colored carpet. It started as light colored burbur in Sault Ste. Marie. Next it was off-white pile carpet in the first house we built. This house has light colored short shag. As I vacuum I ask myself “What were we thinking?” while I grumble about how bad it looks. The burbur was bought in the days of sand from sand boxes and red juice in sippy cups.  No amount of vacuuming can pick up sand. I don’t care what you say, Mr. Vacuum Cleaner Salesman. And hopefully the pink stains are in places that a plant or chair will conveniently cover. The off-white pile carpet was in a house that had a dirt driveway on a dirt road. You can train the humans to take their shoes off, but the pets just never quite get the concept of wiping their muddy paws on the door mat.

We didn’t live in that house long enough to watch the demise of that beautiful carpet. Our current home has the short crushed shag and we have definitely lived here long enough to see the color change. We recently called in the professionals so we needed to move the furniture. “Put it baaaaack!” I screamed in my mind. After 5 years the carpet had definite light colored marks where the furniture sat. After two tries by the professional we purchased our own carpet scrubber and got moderate success after 3 hours and a variety of cleaners (including bleach). I do think this problem could be avoided though. I really believe that carpet salesmen should only be able to sell light colored carpet when the following questions are answered correctly:

1.       Do you have children living at home?

2.       Do you have pets?

3.       Do you have a cleaning lady that vacuums at least once per week?

4.       Do you have “Stanley Steemer” on retainer?

If your answers are no, no, yes, and yes, then you will be allowed to purchase light colored carpet. If you answer yes, yes, no, and no, then you will be guided to the caramel, clay-pot, and coffee colored carpets. For now I will have to live with the error of my ways. I will be destined to a life of shame if I cannot learn from my repetitive mistake. Within the next few years Tom and I are planning to replace the living room carpet. I have my eye on a beautiful taupe colored loop carpet.

Crafting is a "Brain Sport"

In this month’s Martha Stewart Living magazine there is an article about how crafting makes a person happy.  It’s called “This is your brain on crafts” by Lisa Borgnes-Giramonti.  The author cited references from esteemed psychologists who have studied the phenomenon of how doing something you love, like crafting, has stress-relieving and calming effects on the brain.  Well, duh! I could have told you that. A long time ago I started scrapbooking. At first it was just a fun way to get out of the house one Friday a month. But before long it became an outlet for me to let go of the stress of my job and just detach and think about nothing but the layout that was in front of me. Friday nights gave way to weekend scrapbooking conventions and overnight scrap-a-thons with my best girlfriends. Once I had an over-abundance of paper and embellishments, the card-making came naturally.  

About 10 years ago I rediscovered knitting and my winter evenings were consumed with knitting scarves, hats, and the occasional pair of socks or brightly-colored dish rag. A few years later my mom taught me how to sew my first pair of PJ pants and suddenly I was sewing. Around that same time my niece Ericca taught me how to make earrings and other assorted jewelry. Finally last year I taught myself how to crochet via a You Tube video and have made several beanie hats with cute little crocheted flowers attached to the front.

As I get older I am experiencing first-hand how much less energy I have to stay at work until 5:30 and then be up until 10:00 analyzing professional journal articles for yet another critique as I write my master’s capstone paper. I practically drag myself into the kitchen to empty and fill the dishwasher each night.  But put a box of beads in front of me and I could make earrings for 24 hours straight. Put me in front of the TV with a skein of yarn and a crochet hook and I could make hats through a full-day marathon of Sex in the City re-runs.  Give me a big long table and my 3 best gal-pals and I could spend 72 hours scrapping Robby’s graduation and Sammy’s football season.

According to the article even cooking falls into the crafting category. I have really come to enjoy cooking over the years and find as much joy in creating a uber-yummy scratch-cake as I do sewing an apron for one of my nieces.

As I spend the next two months finishing my master’s paper I force myself to focus while my crafting supplies beckon. Nope, you didn’t have to tell me that crafting is good for the brain. My brain already knows.

T-shirts, shoes: Same difference

This is one of the t-shirt quilts my mom made for Tom.

After the overwhelming response I got from last month’s column, I felt it would be fitting to write a follow-up. The parent of one of my students came up to me during meet-the-teacher day at school and the first thing he said was “No, I don’t understand the shoe thing. My wife has about 50 pair of shoes!” Once I figured out what he was talking about (Oh yeah- I write a monthly column!), it suddenly occurred to me that my husband has a t-shirt collection that easily rivals my vast assortment of shoes. So of course I told him that. But I couldn’t get that out of my mind because it seems like women get called out on our shoes, but we choose not to talk about that dirty little secret which is a man’s vast array of t-shirts. It might not always be on purpose, like Michelle’s husband who has acquired his through various events sponsored by his work, which usually get passed on to his son. What I am talking about here is those who hoard t-shirts. Every memory must be sealed through the purchase of a commemorative t-shirt. Jeff Foxworthy once said “You can find out anything you ever wanted to know about a redneck by his t-shirt collection.” Although a guy doesn’t necessarily have to be a “redneck” to have this type of collection. My friend Kari was losing the battle with what seemed to be hundreds of 100% cotton memories that her husband was not willing to part with. She did manage to free up some dresser space when she convinced him to preserve those memories with a t-shirt quilt. When I found myself being squeezed out of my precious shelf space in our closet with yet another Harley-Davidson t-shirt, my mom offered to make Tom a quilt. That was all we needed to be able to do a clean out of sorts. My mom put together two amazing quilts with what he had reluctantly sacrificed. I guess the thing that kept cropping up when I put the question to a Facebook poll, was that these men just won’t get rid of shirts without a fight, even if they really only wear a few with the rest permanently being squished by the weight of the more beloved shirts. When we say “You never wear these, so why don’t you get rid of them?” we usually find ourselves accused of trying to destroy precious memories. Tom still accuses me of getting rid of the shirt he got in the Bahamas when he was twelve and I forever stand by the argument that it just disintegrated in the wash, captured by the lint trap in its final moments. Whether its shoes or shirts, no one is innocent here. So if your husband or significant other makes yet another unnecessary comment about that Payless bag in your hand, simply repeat those famous words from country singer Miranda Lambert: “We’re just like you, only prettier.”

Men: Don't Try to Understand the Shoes

Sorry I'm a little late getting this one up. I'm consumed with second grade! Here's August's column!

There are some things about women that will always be a mystery to men, like our love of shoes. I went to Walmart recently to purchase plastic shoe boxes to use as book totes in my classroom. I needed roughly 40 boxes because I was sorting my books into categories. When I told the cashier that I had 8 five-packs she looked at me funny. “What are you using those for?” When I explained she said “Oh, I thought you had that many pair of shoes.” I laughed for a second, but then I said, “Well, actually, I probably do.” When she looked at me with a shocked expression, I continued with “uh, that includes sandals and flip-flops too, you know?” Then suddenly the woman behind me in line piped up “And the shoes you don’t wear anymore.” Then the cashier joined in and described a pair of boots she only had worn once because they were so uncomfortable but she couldn’t bear to get rid of them. My love affair with shoes began when I was in high school. A friend of mine had a 3 tier shelf that extended the length of her closet and was covered with shoes. She had seasonal shoes, boots, athletic, casual, and dressy shoes. I gazed with envy at that beautiful shrine of shoes and decided then and there that I would have to have just as many. Fast-forward to 2012 and my 40+ pair of shoes. My husband doesn’t seem to understand my need for a variety of footwear in an assortment colors and styles. The topic came up in a conversation with our friends a few months ago. Lisa had gotten a new job and would need shoes she could wear to work and stand on her feet in all day. She needed two pair- one brown, one black. Her husband didn’t understand the need for both brown and black as the shoes were a bit pricy.  While I thought she could uses several other colors, depending on her wardrobe, my husband piped right in and explained how I have to purchase a new pair of athletic shoes every time I take up a new sport, which in his opinion was utterly ridiculous. You’d think that after 20 years of trying to explain it to him he’d understand my reasoning. The shoes must fit the purpose in both color and style.  I think my friend Keni summed it up best when she was explaining to her son the reason why his younger sister would be getting the room with the bigger closet in their new home.  She said, “Boys only need 3 pair of shoes: school shoes, gym shoes, and church shoes, but girls need lots and lots of shoes.  So your sister needs the bigger closet to hold her shoes.” So simple, yet so true.  I guess there are just some things guys will need to accept without ever fully understanding. Love me-love my shoes.

The Quest for Cool

I realize that there are many parents out there who are around my age (40-something) who want to be "cool" in the eyes of their children and their friends.

They dress well and drive awesome cars. They hang out with their kids and their kids see them more like friends.

I also know that there are some who want only to be parents, and if nerdyness is part of that equation, then so be it.

I fall somewhere in the middle. I realize that most likely no matter what I do or how hard I try to be "cool," my attempts will be met with rolling eyes or "Stop, Mom!" While I do try to dress in style, when Robby's friend asked, "Why does your mom dress like she's in our grade?" I took that into consideration and adjusted my wardrobe accordingly.

Recently I got my dream car. Well, it's one of three dream cars, but a dream car no less. Tom and I happened upon a 1979 VW Super Beetle convertible.

We decided not to let this one go by and took the plunge. I was so excited! And to me and almost everyone I told, the response was the same -- "Cool!"

Of course "cool" is relative, generationally speaking.

When we brought the car home the boys both said that they wanted to learn to drive a stick so they could also drive it. Ah, success. They thought it was cool, too! While being cool in my sons' eyes isn't on the top of my priority list, it is a nice validation from time to time.

Tom got to work on making some necessary mechanical upgrades as I waited out the rain in order to drive the car.

The week after we got it, we were getting ready for church and when I was barking my usual Sunday morning orders to get in the car, I heard Sammy say, "We aren't taking that goofy Bug, are we?"

Wait a minute. Goofy?


Is my adorable little car not cool in the eyes of my teenagers after all? How could we have gotten this wrong? They want to learn to drive it, so wouldn't that make it cool in their eyes?

So while I've come to accept that for now I am just a huge geek in their eyes, there will still be a small part of me which hangs on to the notion that someday I'll hear those four magical words -- "Wow mom. That's cool!"

Uninvited Guests

A few years ago, when we were on our way to the hospital to visit a sick relative, one of my sons said, “I don’t want to go. I don’t like hospitals. They make me uncomfortable.” My response was simple. “Sometimes we have to do things that make us uncomfortable so that we can make those we love happy.” He seemed to accept that and we went about our visit. Recently my husband came home and excitedly announced “Jerry Joe is getting married! The wedding is Saturday in the U.P. and I want to go!” My responses were the usual wife-type responses to this. I reminded him that we can’t go to a wedding reception that we weren’t invited to. It’s just rude and there’s a name for that, it’s called “wedding-crashing.” But he protested that because it was Jerry Joe’s wedding, that it didn’t matter if we were invited or not. I know that to men, invitations are simply a formality. I think men feel that verbal notification from a friend-of-a-friend is good enough. Tom hadn’t seen Jerry since we moved here 12 years ago and was determined to go. As the day approached I drug my feet and tried desperately to find something else to distract him. When Saturday arrived, not only were we still going, but we were riding the motorcycle. I was just beside myself. Now we were going to a wedding we weren’t invited to, dressed totally inappropriately for a wedding and with helmet-hair. Tom assured me that it would be similar to one we attended about 15 years ago in Barbeau (also in the U.P.) in which those in attendance wore jeans and concert t-shirts. When we arrived, not only were there no concert t-shirts, but the reception was obviously a formal affair. I was livid. I informed Tom that if he wanted to embarrass himself that was fine, but I would be waiting for him in the lobby. Tom proudly walked right through the tastefully dressed guests and up the stage stairs and sat down at the head table right next to Jerry, who at that time was sitting up there by himself talking to someone directly in front of him. I stood in the doorway and watched as after a couple of minutes of not being noticed, Jerry suddenly turned around and saw Tom sitting there with a big grin on his face. Jerry just lit up as the two old friends reunited. We ended up staying for a quite while as Tom caught up with more old friends. He was really happy. On the ride home I was reminded of my statement to my son all of those years ago. Yes, sometimes we do have to do things that make us uncomfortable. I know it sure made Tom happy and that in turn, made me happy too.

Column published June 23, 2012

The Phenomenon of the Extra Kid

When someone said the average family has 2.5 children, I think I know what he meant. We have two kids.  When Tom and I decided to stop at two kids I thought it was a good idea at the time. I was a working mom and I convinced myself that I shouldn’t have more kids to simply put them in daycare. A year after we made the decision “final” I began to struggle. Had we been too hasty? I struggled for years with that decision even to the point of looking into adoption. But what I didn’t realize is that I didn’t need to beat myself up too badly. All I had to do was wait for the extra kid. Our family is really no different than most. I think most parents can agree that there is usually at least one extra kid hanging around at one time or another. When I was growing up Chris was our extra kid.  She called my mom and dad “Mom and Dad.” She ate dinner at our house 2-3 times a week and spent the night at least once a week. Tom’s extra kid was Brian. Tom spent a lot of time at Brian’s house and Brian went on sailing trips with Tom’s family.  If you’re still not sure what I mean, the extra kid I’m talking about is the one who is around much of the time. The extra kid is the one who is at the house so much that your grocery bill is affected. He even knows where the sheets are so he can make up his couch when he stays. You have stopped saying “Make yourself at home” because he already does. This is also the kid who is around so much on weekends that if he isn’t there you start to wonder where he is. In addition to that the kids don’t even ask if he can come over anymore. He is just suddenly here with a friendly “Hey Ms. Hovie, Mr. Hovie.”  He also becomes part of the family routine. He brings in the groceries, takes his plate to the sink, and feeds the dog or helps with the dishes if he’s asked to. You also just figure that the unidentifiable clothes in the laundry belong to him. Our extra kid is even in line for hand-me-down clothes. There are many advantages to having this additional part-time family member. He loves everything I cook. He is always polite and never gets mouthy.  Actually it’s really the ideal situation. We’ll miss him when he leaves home, but won’t have to pay for college. We’ll attend his wedding but won’t have to pay for that either. So if you’re young parents wondering if you made the right decision to stop having kids all you have to do is wait. Your extra kid will be along in no time and you’ll love him like he’s one of your own. I know I do.

Jay is our "extra kid" on the left.

Spring Break RV Style

We have not been known for our outstanding family vacations. To tell you the truth, when the four of us return from a family vacation speaking to each other, we deem it a success. Because of this, our family vacations are either brief (no more than two days) or spaced several years apart. I don’t know why cramming the four of us into a vehicle for more than 2 hours brings out the worst in us. I mean, we should be able to travel and have a relaxing time, but for some reason it doesn’t seem to work out that way for us. It was with some trepidation that we told Robby that we would take him wherever he wanted to go on his senior spring break. We were relieved when he chose Florida because we are familiar with that state and how to get there, but nervous because that would mean 25 hours in a cramped car together which at times has been a deal-breaker. We tried to avoid that by looking at airfare, but the prices were not within our anticipated budget. So we decided to try renting an RV. The other problem we have is that the four of us all have completely different ideas of what fun is. As the trip approached I suffered a couple of migraines worrying that we just wouldn’t be able to come to any sort of agreements about where we would go in Florida or what we would do. Tom surprised me the most saying that it would be “great” and that he was excited to go.  We had one spirited (to say the least) family meeting about our activities and settled on a few different things to do. I was actually looking forward to ride in the RV. I had daydreams of whipping up a delicious meal while we tooled down the highway. I quickly realized that my imagination had obviously gotten the better of me. The night before we left I had an attack of vertigo and found myself mostly confined to the front seat.  Moving around in an older RV heading down the highway is far from smooth sailing. It’s more like hurricane sailing. I didn’t get sick, but I have a variety of bruises from being thrown around as Tom kept us from getting sucked into the path of a passing semi or rear-ending someone in the bumper to bumper stop and go traffic in Indianapolis. Since we could usually go no faster than about 63 miles per hour, the trip to Florida took about 5 hours longer than expected. But a funny thing happened. We all got along. It’s amazing to me that a little space and an on-board bathroom does wonders for peoples moods. We got some much needed R&R and quality family time. I can honestly say that we had a good trip. Actually, I’d have to say it was outstanding.

A Wrinkle in Time

This is my 24th Column! Happy 2 year Anniversary to me! I can't believe that two years have passed since I started sharing my life with my readers. I love writing and this has been a great outlet for me. I continued to be surprised when complete strangers comment on my column. Thanks for 2 years of encouragement (and material-haha).
Dawn

Published March 24, 2012:

I found a new wrinkle recently and I am not happy about it. It’s a horizontal line between my nose and upper lip. I’m guessing it’s some sort of laugh line. I think the name is misleading. I may have gotten it from laughing, but I’m not laughing now. I’ve watched the progression of wrinkles closely for years now. I figured that I would be looking at premature wrinkling due to my sun abuse in my younger days, yet I continue to be surprised at the appearance of those pesky fine lines. The frown lines (a much more appropriate name) were the first to appear. These are the prominent horizontal wrinkles across the forehead. When I had bangs it was easier to cover these up, but because of the motorcycle helmet, bangs are no longer an option. For years I have seen those crinkly crow’s feet on the corners of Tom’s eyes, but they have not seemed to go much further on him. Of course, wrinkles are distinguishing on a man, right? I have been preparing for wrinkles for years, starting with moisturizer in my early twenties and although there are people who are still surprised that I am 44, I can clearly see the elasticity disappearing from my face. When I wake up from a nap the telltale pillow dent can stay on my cheek for hours. My husband smirks and says “Sooooo, did you take a nap today?”  One morning I wore a crocheted hat to work and the bumps from it stayed on my forehead almost until lunch. The only good thing about that was that they distracted from my frown lines for a couple of hours. So I moisturize more with specific creams targeted for specific areas of my face like my eyes. I would consider more drastic measures but I hate needles so Botox isn’t an option for me. Plus I have seen too many rubber-faced women on TV who probably look worse than if they had just let the wrinkles progress naturally. My aunt once told me that she is embracing her wrinkles and trying to love each one. She is 10 years older than me so maybe she’s a little further along in the process of acceptance than I am. I’m sure I’ll get there some day. For now I plan to continue on my daily regimen of cleansing and moisturizing along with religious use of sunscreen.  Unlike grey hairs that can be covered in dye, wrinkles are a daily reminder in the mirror of middle age and the approach of old age. But I guess if I have to acquire more wrinkles I’m going to make darn sure that they are the ones that are named for laughing.

Being Seasoned Doesn't have to be a Bad Thing

In education, teachers try to put a positive spin on just about everything so as not to bring on discouragement or low self-esteem.

There is a term that we use to describe older teachers. The term is "seasoned" or "seasoned veteran."

The term "seasoned" still has somewhat of a sting to me, now that I fit that classification. Most teachers have their master's degrees. In fact, I am one of probably three teachers in our district that doesn't. A couple of years ago I decided to put forth the effort and cost and join my colleagues with that esteemed distinction of having an MA behind my name. So I enrolled in a fully online program through Northern Michigan University.

When I was a college student in my younger years, I would glance around the class at what we referred to back then as nontraditional students. I thought that they had sort of an air of confidence about them while at the same time wondered if they felt out of place in a classroom of young 20-somethings.

In my online program, we have the luxury of not being able to see each other and therefore the playing field is somewhat leveled as far as who is seasoned and who is young (for lack of a better term). In every online class I have had to write a bio and include a picture and then read and comment on other classmates' bios.

For some reason, I was shocked to see pictures and read bios of first-time moms, recent graduates, and one or two other nontraditional students, including myself. As I would leave comments to others about their exciting futures as parents and educators, I would read comments on my bios that said things like, "I am looking forward to the expanse of knowledge and experience you will bring to the class as a seasoned veteran."

There it was.

I was the old lady of the class. In that first class I decided to tread lightly and not let my experience show, so to speak.

But as I proceeded through the coursework, I realized that I did have something to offer.

I quickly saw that my experience was met with appreciation. The younger teachers seemed to want to hear what I had to say. They weren't rolling their eyes and commenting about me under their breath, not that I could see anyway. I have come to embrace my role as an educator with experience that can bring a different perspective to those who have not been in education long.

With that, I think I'd like to update the term "seasoned" to something that describes how I feel inside.

I think I like "zesty" a little bit better.

Published February 25, 2012

Rethinking the Appeal of Empty Nest Syndrome

This is one of Robby's senior pictures.

A few days after Christmas our oldest son, Robby turned 18. I remember the day he was born like it was yesterday. I can see the day when he leaves the nest rapidly approaching and it makes me kind of sad. But that feeling hasn’t always been there. When our kids were in the years of early adolescence when the arguing and defiance were at an all-time high, my husband and I questioned whether Empty Nest Syndrome actually existed and why anyone would consider it a syndrome. Aren’t syndromes supposed to be bad things? We would go to open houses and chuckle on the way home saying “Those lucky dogs! We can’t wait for Empty Nest Syndrome!” We could see the days of no children in the house as refreshing and relaxing. We fantasized about packing boxes and turning bedrooms into craft rooms. The frustrations that go along with raising teens seem to be as endless as the eye-rolling and sarcastic remarks. Our longing for the elusive “Empty Nest Syndrome” continued until our oldest son became a senior. An amazing thing happens when a kid gets to be around 17 years old. He seemed to turn this mystical corner of maturity. He still thinks he is of a highly superior intelligence than his dad and I, but he has also become much more agreeable. He doesn’t seem to get mad at us nearly as often or stay mad as long. We actually like having him around and find ourselves saying stuff like “Don’t you want to hang out with us tonight?” We are feeling our sentiments change from “Don’t let the door hit you in the…” to “Sure, you can live at home and go to community college.” We breathe a sigh of relief because although he’s graduating in June, he’s not leaving for at least another 2 ½ years. We find ourselves re-thinking our fascination with Empty Nest Syndrome as we tell our younger son, a high school freshman, that there’s no reason for him to go away to school right after graduation. He is welcome to stay home after high school and attend North Central Michigan College like his older brother. We say it’s because of the money but we know deep down that we don’t want to let him go either. We remind ourselves that when he is at his most frustrating, that it is just a phase and we survived it with Robby.  Visiting my friend in the hospital as she welcomed her new baby boy in early December brought tears to my eyes as I remembered friends saying “You’ll blink and they’ll be teenagers.” That is exactly what has happened to us and we wonder where the time has gone. We still joke out loud that we’ll claim their rooms the moment they pull out of the driveway, but secretly know that we won’t. Not for a while anyway. I’m here to verify that yes, there is an Empty Nest Syndrome and yes, we will have it too. However we no longer welcome it and we are desperately trying to stop blinking.

Published January 28, 2012

Sometimes Dirt Doesn't Hurt

The boys and I at the youth group campout

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to be chaperones on a youth group camping trip for our church.
Since I am a planner and an organizer, camping is not one of my strong suits — it is not something that can be planned and executed perfectly because there are always those unique circumstances that arise that can ruin the whole experience for me.
When I set out to go camping with my family, I want it to be memorable.
What better way for things to be memorable, than to micro-manage every minute, right?
Because I didn’t plan this trip, we simply had to show up and help out with the kids when needed. I was able to sit back and observe some of the things that to adults can be trip-wreckers, but not to kids.
One thing that just irritates me to no end is that my feet are inevitably dirty the entire trip.
The ground is usually some sort of gray color and my flip-flopped feet just never seem to be free of it.
As I watched these kids walk around barefoot, moving the dirt around with their feet at the campfire, and then of course, go to bed that way, I wondered what I was so worried about. I knew the sheets could be cleaned and so could my feet.
Kids also don’t tend to be too concerned about whether or not their teeth get brushed. Some did, some didn’t. And my dentist might chastise me for saying this, but will one day of dirty teeth really cause advanced tooth decay?
I realized too that I don’t need modern conveniences like electricity or showers to have fun. Tent camping takes me back to my youth, only in a better, more water-resistant tent.
That brings me to my last point — rain.
I have come to realize that the only ones that seem to be bothered by rain are the adults. Kids and teens don’t have any trouble continuing to have fun on a camp-out when it rains.
As they get older they do, but only because of listening to us grumble about it. Fortunately we avoided rain until our final night.
The kids swam, ate banana boats and hobo dinners, played a game of predator in the woods at night and whittled knives out of sticks.
Our youth intern, Matt, did a wonderful job making the experience fun and memorable for everyone. All was done with dirty feet and questionable oral hygiene.
I loved every minute of it.

Published August, 2010

Breaking Up With the Sun

Even Molly has trouble staying away from our beautiful beaches in the summer!

I knew there was such a thing as skin cancer, but never thought it could happen to me.
But a few years ago I had a brush with melanoma. Although the test results were officially inconclusive, I still ended up with a 2-inch excision scar on my hip and dermatologist appointments three times a year.
That experience was enough to end my 25-plus year relationship with tanning beds and golden brown skin.
I have always loved being tan. I have skin that’s so pale in the winter that my husband says, “If you stand against that wall I can’t see you.”
I have always spent summers on the side of some pool or beach working on my perfect tan. I had two to three suits that insured I wouldn’t have defined strap marks.
The smell of Coppertone has always been intoxicating to me.
Since my skin cancer scare, my dermatologist has done a very good job at instilling fear in me. I don’t want any more icky moles or excision scars.
Last year when the weather was colder, I didn’t have as difficult a time staying out of the sun and away from the beach. I really felt that I was able to get to the point where I thought to myself, “I’m over 40 now. Is it really that important for me to get a tan?”
My derm told me in February that I could stretch my next exam to six months and see her in August.
“But you’d better not be tan!” she warned.
This year it’s warmer. The call of the beach is stronger as my scar fades.
The love of the sun and desire for brown skin is something with which I am definitely struggling.
I think to myself, “Who cares if I have farmer lines on my arms? Seriously, does it really matter that my stomach isn’t tan? No one sees it anyway.”
And in wanting to at least be seen when standing against the dining room wall, where do I draw the line so that I don’t look like I have the flu, but don’t look like that 20-year-old who spent the entire day on the shores of Gun Lake covered in baby oil, flipping every half-hour?
Getting older means letting go of some relatively silly things, such as being tan, that in the grand scheme of things really aren’t that important.
So with a lot of sunscreen, some sunless tanner and a new attitude, I think I’ll be able to show up in my derm’s office with my head up and my moles clean.
I guess it can happen to me.

The 'Good Little Cooker'

A recent recipe success- Chicken/bacon alfredo pizza. Yum!!

The other day my husband Tom and I were in the car and out of the blue he said, “You’ve really gotten to be a good little cooker.”
To tell you the truth, that’s quite a compliment considering how far I’ve come with my culinary skills.
As I was growing up I never had much interest in learning how to cook. When the food was on the table, I sat down and ate it.
When I got married my lack of experience was evident. I don’t remember a whole lot of my cooking from back then, but I do know that I made spaghetti so much that Tom began calling it “Old Standby.”
Tom grew up with a mom that was an excellent cook. She loved cooking and was very good at it — actually, she still is. Back then my incompetence in the kitchen reared its ugly head on more than one occasion. I called her frequently with my culinary emergencies.
The first thing she did was give me cookbook titled “The Absolute Beginner’s Cookbook: or, How Long Do I Cook a 3-Minute Egg?” by Jackie Eddy and Eleanor Clark.
Since she lived much closer than my own mother, she made dinner for us about twice a week. She’d include the recipe with the food, so if we liked it, I could make it again.
To this day I am extremely grateful for her help and generosity.
When we moved from Sault Ste. Marie to Charlevoix I was on my own again. We were back to “Old Standby” and lots of BC Pizza.
I did try, but I hadn’t built up the confidence to make anything that didn’t have cream of something soup in it.
A few years ago I flipped to Food Network and caught “30 Minute Meals” with Rachael Ray. She made cooking seem so effortless. It was like she was talking right to me.
As I continued to watch her show, print off the recipes and then make them myself, my awkwardness and fear of making meals containing more than five ingredients started to fade.
I started to hear, “This is good Mom. Make it again!” I got more and more confident and began to take risks in the kitchen. A friend even mentioned to me that my son, Robby, told her Rachael Ray had saved my life.
I don’t know if she really did save my life, or if it was my mother-in-law, or my incredibly patient and understanding family.
All I know is that I wear the title of “Good Little Cooker” with honor.

Published May, 2010

Boredom: Learning to Love it

This was my very first column back in April of 2010

A few years ago my friend Brenda gave me the book “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, 100 of the Best Inspirations from the Best-selling Series.”
In a variety of short essays, the author teaches the reader how to chill out and enjoy life. Since I tend to be a little high-strung, this turned out to be the perfect book for me.
My favorite, marked by a sticky note, is titled “Encourage Boredom in your Children.” When I read it I realized we adults need to do the same.
My husband and I have taken on the daunting task of living within our means. We decided taking vacations would only be done if we could pay cash for them.
Year after year, I would watch longingly as my friends began their late-winter ritual of building a base tan before going someplace warm and tropical for a week.
I would avoid the teachers’ lounge for the first two weeks after spring break so I would not have to listen to the excruciating stories and see the beautiful tans. Once the tans faded and the stories finished, I could return to daily lunches with my friends.
Many years, I would go so far as to purchase my own tan so when everyone returned, I wouldn’t get “Oh, you poor thing, you had to stay in this cold and miserable weather all spring break” looks. They don’t mean to do it, but they can’t help it. With a tan, people would assume that I had a fabulous break too, and hopefully wouldn’t ask about it.
As I felt more and more sorry for myself, my husband would try to cheer me up by saying things like, “Oh they’re just putting $3,000 on their Visas that they’ll have to pay off” or “There’s no way I’d be trapped in a car for four days just to go to Florida.”
It didn’t help.
I wanted to slather on Bain de Soleil for that St. Tropez tan and lounge in the sun by the pool. I wanted to wear shorts and flip flops, and my cute tankini with the little skirt. I continued to wallow in my self-pity.
Until this year, that is.
Every so often we are blessed with a two week break. For Christmas, we didn’t go anywhere and I decided to do as little as possible (a long time ago I realized the less busy I am the more slowly time goes by). I did a little cleaning, poked along at the laundry and laid around.
When the two weeks were over, boredom had set in and I was ready to go back to into the routine of my job. It felt like I had a month off.
This spring break, boredom hit about three days before the end.
Ready to go back to work, I was refreshed and recharged. My skin was pasty-white, but I wanted to see my friends and their tans, wanted to hear about wonderful trips and see pictures.
I’ve come back from vacations feeling rushed to do laundry and unpack, and go back to work tired, frazzled and grumbling, wishing break had not gone by so fast.
I have decided that there is value in not having to go on a fabulous trip every time there is a break.
Don’t get me wrong — if I have the opportunity to do something fun and fabulous somewhere warm and tropical, you can be sure that I’ll be there.
But I’ll pay for it with cash, and when I am there I will make sure I schedule in time just to be bored.

You Can't go Back...or Can You?

Robby and I at the Homecoming football game at half-time

I recently found out that you can live vicariously through your children. I came home from work one day to my son Robby, a senior at Charlevoix High School, calling me up to his room because he needed to tell me something. Actually he needed to tell me three things. I have no idea what the first two things were because the third thing sent me skyward. He was on homecoming court. I jumped up and down and babbled a bunch of nonsense with a few “Oh my gosh’s!” thrown in. I bolted downstairs trying to figure out if I was going to text everyone I knew, call my mom, or post it on facebook as he sat there dumbfounded. My son obviously was not as excited to be thrust into the limelight as I was for him to be. My high school dream of being nominated for homecoming was being realized by my own flesh and blood. Back in high school I literally had more than 8 chances to be nominated and never once was my be-nice-to-everyone way of life rewarded with that one announcement that just about every girl waits with baited breath for “and the nominees for homecoming queen of 1986 are…” When I say I had numerous chances it’s because my high school did things a little differently. Each grade elected a king and queen for both football and basketball seasons. And that really wasn’t all. There was also a school-wide king and queen who were seniors and got elected during basketball season. And if you didn’t manage to get on any of those courts (or even if you did), there was always “King and Queen of The Ledge.” That’s right; Grand Ledge’s own yearbook royalty. Back in the 80’s the homecoming nominations were much more of a popularity contest than they are now. You had to be popular. Not just friends with a lot of people; friends with a lot of popular people. You had to be the envy of roughly 90% of your class and although I was nice to everyone, I was not popular in the “getting nominated for homecoming queen” sense of the word. I am happy to see that things have changed. The nice kids do get nominated right along-side the popular crowd. Oh that’s not to say that our homecoming court didn’t consist of nice people, many of my dearest friends held those coveted seats on the Kleenex flowered floats, waving at their adoring fans. I have come to terms with my past but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t share in the excitement of having a son on his senior class court. I may not get to buy a beautiful Cinderella dress with matching satin shoes, but I was be the proudest mom screaming from the stands in my jeans and sweatshirt as my husband took picture after picture and feeling just as elated as if I were out on the field myself. I guess that with the help of your kids, maybe you can go back.

Published October, 2011

Christmas on the Flip-Side

In America, Christmas is a time of gift-giving. We open our hearts and our wallets to show others how much we care about and love them. Generosity is at its peak during the Christmas season, no matter what religion or holiday you are celebrating. When I was younger I was always into Christmas big-time. I decorated like crazy and spent too much money on the kids. I loved doing the Secret Santa at work and mailing out Christmas cards. At this season of my life Christmas gift-giving has lost its “wow” factor. I do like giving gifts. I’m talking about no more long Christmas lists to Santa and no longer being woken up at 5 am because the kids just can’t sleep. I have 2 teenage boys who have long outgrown the excitement of waiting for Santa. No one wakes us up on Christmas morning anymore, unless the dog needs to go out. In fact, my husband is often the one saying “Go drag the kids out of bed so we can open presents!” The days of scouring the JC Penny toy catalog are gone. These days gift giving at our home revolves around much needed clothing, ski equipment, and paintball gear. I don’t have adorable little nieces or nephews to buy toys for. The lack of Christmas wonder puts kind of a damper on the festivities for me. Even putting up the tree just doesn’t hold that excitement that it used to. Unpacking those ornaments that the kids made in elementary school almost makes me sad in a way. I think my friend Roxann got it right when she and her husband took their adult kids to Florida last year as their family Christmas present. That’s what I think Christmas is about now. It’s about being together and making memories before the kids are off on their own. It’s about celebrating the birth of Jesus. It’s about finding joy in helping those less fortunate. Someday I’ll have grandkids and will be able to buy toys and bake cookies for Santa once again. But for now I’ll be thankful that we are together and healthy. I’ll continue teach my kids to focus on others. Maybe I’ll even start dropping hints to my husband about the possibility for a Christmas getaway next year. Why not?

Published December 2010

A Week without Texting: This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!

A few weeks ago we sent out son off to a camp in Colorado for the adventure of a lifetime.  One of the rules for the campers was that they weren’t allowed to take their cellphones. One of the leaders reminded the kids that if they were caught with cellphones, that the phones would be confiscated. Many of the parents, myself included, nodded in agreement. My friend and I discussed how it was important for our kids to let go of their texting for a week and focus on making friendships the old fashioned way. “They have those phones attached to their hips! They can’t do anything without having their phones. They are addicted to texting.” But as the busses pulled away, I came to the realization that my son would be literally half-way across the country and I couldn’t just check in. I couldn’t ask him if he’s having fun, or if he has enough money. I couldn’t just say “I miss you!” You see, I have to admit that I have become almost as accustomed to being connected to my kids as they are to their friends. As our kids get older and further from the safety of Mom and Dad, the thought that they are just a text or a call away is comforting to me. Sometimes my kids can get a little too much courage when arguing via text, but that is far outweighed by the feeling that I can always get ahold of my kids no matter where they are or what they are doing. I often wonder how my parents did it. How did they give us the keys and watch us pull out of the driveway without knowing whether or not we would be able to contact them if we got into a bind, or worse, an accident? I know the gut-wrenching feeling when my kids don’t answer a call or if a text isn’t quickly returned. Aside from the safety aspects of our kids having phones, the convenience of my being able to just call and say “Are you going to be home for dinner?” or if they are on the other side of Walmart, texting to say “Meet me in checkout aisle 9” is just as important. So it wasn’t just my son who had to do a week of adjusting, it was Mom who was doing some adjusting of my own. A day after one son came home, the other left for a different camp downstate, without his phone. Fortunately for me, I can email him as many times as I want just to say “I miss you!”

Published June, 2011

The Best Date Nights are on Two Wheels

This photo was taken summer of 2008

I’d like to say that our motorcycle saved our marriage, but in reality it wasn’t bad to begin with. After we moved down here from the Sault, Tom fulfilled his dream of getting back into motorcycling. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but wasn’t going to say that he couldn’t get one. The first bike was a Honda Shadow and he loved it. I really had no interest in riding on it and was frankly scared of hitting a bump and being thrown off the back. When he did coerce me into riding I was scared for my life the entire time. I really avoided going. At that time our kids were young and we were at the point in our marriage where they took up more time than our relationship. We didn’t spend much time together as a couple and we definitely didn’t have a designated “date night.” But he persisted. I didn’t know why he wanted me on the back of that thing, but he just did. As I got more comfortable riding on the bike, our rides became more frequent and our relationship got stronger. Date night became a regular from the time the temperature got up to around 60 in May until the temperature got down to around 60 in October. We were so excited when the boys were old enough to not need a sitter. We were able to go that much more. Our trips together have been to motorcycle rallies within our state and to places like Milwaukee and Sturgis, SD. Just this past July we took a trip to the U.P. together. We think nothing of riding up to Mackinac City for dinner.  We no longer have the Honda. My husband has since upgraded to a Harley-Davidson which he has completely modified. The bike has 40,000 miles on it, most of those miles we have ridden together. These days we mostly just ride around the lake and then “flake-out” in the grass of East Park in Charlevoix with some ice cream. We often ride with friends who enjoy riding as much as we do. People ask me if I’m going to get my own bike. I could I suppose. I have my endorsement. I don’t know if I want to give up sitting on the back with my arms around my best guy. There is something different about being together on a motorcycle that I think brings couples closer. I know it did for us. So did a motorcycle fix a broken marriage? No, it just made a good marriage great.

Published September, 2011

Home Coloring: Not so Nice 'n Easy

I’m not afraid to admit that I pluck out grey hairs. When I get in the mood to hunt them down it’s like a search and destroy mission. That usually only happens when my roots have gotten dark enough for the silver shards of old age to become visible even with my glasses off. I am far too young at heart to allow the grey to take over so I color my hair. A few years back when we went on a budget, one of the luxuries to go was my professionally done highlights. I made the sacrifice and began to color my own hair. I reasoned that the $7 box of color was much more economical than the cost of having the hairdresser do it. I would give up the highlights, but I would reap the savings, in theory anyway. However, when someone has to color and recolor her hair several times, the savings quickly dwindles. My natural hair color is dark brown. My natural skin color is Elmer’s paste. The highlights went well with my skin tone. Unfortunately I have not been able to find a box color that comes close to what Lisa was able to accomplish in 1 hour every 8 weeks. When I covered my beloved highlights I started with “medium brown”. I don’t know the difference between warm, caramel, natural, or ash brown. But from what I have discovered in my bathroom chemistry lessons is that ash is the only brown that actually turns my hair brown. The rest have resulted in a Lucille Ball meets golden retriever orange. The medium ash brown was a little too dark and did nothing for my skin tone, so I experimented with all of the varieties of light brown, each one resulting in the same shade of orange. I tried putting highlights on the medium brown and they were orange.  Last summer, I decided to just forget the light colors and experimented with dark brown, rationalizing that if it matched my roots then I wouldn’t have roots. That was just a disaster. I looked like Morticia Addams. I had to strip all of the color out of my hair and re-dye it.  It’s a wonder my hair isn’t the texture of straw. The last time I dyed my hair I found a new color, which was in the light brown family, but had a nice warm tone to it. For the first time in 2 years I had finally found a color that I liked. Of course I didn’t save the number so I had to rely on my failing memory to find it again. I came across light caramel warm brown. That sounded about right. I left it on the full 45 minutes to be sure that my extremely dark roots wouldn’t turn orange. But upon final rinse, that familiar tone taunted me in the mirror. My husband jokingly commented to our golden retriever, “Now you look like Mommy!” When will I get it right? When the economy makes its anticipated turn-around, I’ll happily skip into my hairdresser for my beautiful coffee-with-cream highlights. Until then I will return to the store and grab old-faithful, medium ash brown, and wash that grey right out of my hair.

Published April, 2011

Confessions of a (middle-aged) Shopaholic

I love going to the mall because I love shopping. I enjoy the feeling that comes with getting a cute new outfit or the perfect pair of shoes. My shopping roots run deep. My grandma and I shared a love of Liz Claiborne and shoes. When I was a middle school student, my friends and I thought nothing of spending 4 hours at the Lansing Mall making $5 last all day. As I grew older, the stores of choice grew with me. In college my favorite stores were Limited Express and the Gap.  I knew that the best deals were on the clearance racks at the back of the store and that was where I headed first. I could dress in style, on a budget. A few months ago I had the opportunity to do some power shopping at the Rivertown Mall near Grand Rapids. This particular trip to the mall had me feeling somewhat dazed and overwhelmed. It wasn’t just the fact that it had been such a long time since I had the opportunity to shop for myself. Venturing into stores like Aeropostale or American Eagle make me feel a little bit uncomfortable. I am just sure that the girls at the counter either believe that I am buying something for a teenager, or wonder what in the heck an old lady like me is doing looking for clothes in such a young, hip store. I stumbled in and out of stores not really seeing anything that I felt like I’d be comfortable wearing. I found myself thinking “Cute skirt, but too young for me.”  And I thought that a lot. I remember walking down the mall and looking up to see the Sears sign illuminating in the distance. It was like a beacon of light that guided me down the vast expanse of the mall. I entered the large store and felt a wave of relief come over me. There in front of me were the age-appropriate Lands End clothes that I had been seeking and off to the right were racks and racks of clearance items. I discovered that it isn’t important where the clothes are, but that I like them and I feel comfortable wearing them. Sure, I’ll wear the cool jeans that someone ½ my age passed on to me, but for me as a shopper I realized that I’m OK with clothes from Sears, JC Penny, Target and Walmart. Heck, Meijer has some really cute stuff too. Fortunately for me, my elementary aged students could care less what I have on, let alone where it came from.  And that’s just fine with me.

Published May, 2011

For the Love of Clean Laundry

I have always had a love-hate relationship with the laundry. Doing the laundry has been my job since I was in 8^th or 9^th grade. My mom gave me the choice of doing the dishes nightly, or taking on the family’s laundry. I chose laundry. My mom told me I could do it anyway I wanted as long as my dad had clean shirts and socks on Mondays. I got pretty efficient at it, scheduling my part-time jobs around Sunday laundry days. I’ve been doing laundry so long that I have honestly become a little militant about how I want things sorted. When summer comes we get out the clothes line and I admit I get some enjoyment from hanging clothes on the line to dry even though line drying produces cardboard-like towels.

As any mom can attest to, laundry is a never ending evil. I do laundry on Saturdays and the feeling of satisfaction that comes from that last load coming out of the dryer is met with discouragement when I walk into the bedroom of one of my boys and see a pile of clothes on the floor that has not made it to the laundry room. These days the rule has become, “If you don’t get it to the laundry room by Saturday, you do it yourself.” I think the ability to do one’s own laundry is an important life skill anyway.

Recently, my washer was starting to fail and clothes seemed to come out of the washer dirtier than they went in. The spin cycle needed to be repeated just to get things from sopping to just wet. The dryer wasn’t much better. It took almost an hour to get an average load of laundry dry. The love-hate relationship with laundry was quickly becoming just hate.

My husband had been trying for quite some time to get me to break down and purchase a new washer and dryer. After a few hours at Lowes with a very knowledgeable and patient salesperson, I had my beautiful new Maytag set home and stacked in my laundry room. What a difference! These things almost think for themselves. They have really brought cleaning clothes to a whole new level.

This past week since I have gotten my new washer and dryer my hate for laundry has turned to love. I literally walk around the house with a basket in my hands saying, “Anyone need anything washed?” Sure, that makes me some sort of stereotypical middle-aged housewife, but who cares? The whites are whiter and the brights are brighter and everyone’s got clean socks on Monday.

Published June, 2011

Keeping it Real with a Fake Tree

Here's Sammy before his '09 Christmas dance. You can't even tell the tree behind him is fake!

I have been accused of being a Scrooge. Not because I don’t have Christmas spirit. I have plenty. My house is attractively decorated. It has been since the Saturday after Thanksgiving. In fact, every year I am the only one who willingly puts up the Christmas decorations. There are helpers, but they have to be shamed or coerced into helping. My house is festive and full of Christmas cheer. I give and receive presents with a minimal amount of griping and make my annual white Chex mix not only for friends, but my family as well. So why am I called a Scrooge? It’s because we have an artificial Christmas tree. I don’t know when it became taboo to have a tree that doesn’t grow in the ground. I grew up with artificial trees and don’t really see what the big deal is. I’ve heard all of the reasons. One is that you don’t have the pine smell. Honestly, I prefer the cinnamon smell to pine which I can get from pinecones at Joann’s and from candles. One friend said that the trees look different every year. Mine looks different every year too, depending on which way I bend the branches. I don’t have to tromp through the snow to find a tree. My tree always comes from the same place…the attic and I never even have to put my boots on. I have tried real trees so I know what I’m missing. When we built this house with our high ceilings, I stated that I wanted a huge, tall, real tree. It was huge all right and low to the ground. What I found out was that there are special conditions that go along with the smell and beauty of a real tree. It has to be watered. No one braved being poked in the eye by razor sharp needles to crawl under the tree with a jug of water (only to dump ½ of it on the floor) but me. I found that a tree dries out quickly and the needles tinkle off the tree like a Charlie Brown tree every time you bump it. The final reason I was not satisfied with my beautiful real tree was the sap. After taking our tree down that year I was not only met with left over needles impaling my feet, but with my socks sticking to the sap globs in my brand new carpet. After a Christmas lesson on the down sides of having a real tree, my husband and I stumbled upon the best after-Christmas sale we had ever been to. Artificial trees were 75% off!  Right there in Lowe’s I had found my little slice of heaven. It’s a glorious and festive 7 foot artificial tree that may or may not melt if put too close to the fireplace.  And from the road, it looks real to everyone driving by. Nobody but Scrooge could tell it’s a fake.

Published December, 2011

Patience: The Greatest Sacrifice

For almost 20 years I have fought long and hard to secure and keep my well-deserved spot in garage. I feel that as a contributor to the mortgage payment, having a spot reserved in the garage for my car should be mandatory. My struggle for garage space has gone all the way back to our first rented home in Sault Ste. Marie. It had a one stall garage that was claimed as my husband’s man-cave before we even moved in. Our next house had a two car garage that quickly became a workshop/pool hall. “When will I be able to park in the garage?” I pleaded. He assured me that he would build a garage that I could park in. That dream became a reality when our beautiful 2 ½ car garage was built and I finally had a place where I could park out of the Sault Ste. Marie elements. Shuffling outside in my coat and slippers to start my car was no longer necessary with it tucked away in its own little stall. When we moved down here I was without a garage space once again. Since all we had was a small shed, we decided that a remote starter would be an alternative to a shelter for my car. That helped, but it wasn’t a garage. The first house we built had a 2 car detached garage and I could once again park in luxury. Our current home has a glorious two car attached garage. For the first time in our married lives I was able to drive home in the rain or snow and pull into the garage that led straight into the house. I no longer had to dart to the car in the midst of a downpour or gale-force winds. However, my coveted space in the garage was short-lived. About two years ago Tom embarked on a business opportunity which included the need for a work space. My beloved parking spot has now become a workshop. Again I found that my hair style was sacrificed as I dodged raindrops or scraped snow and ice off of the frozen windshield. I suffered in silence all in the name of entrepreneurship. I figured all hope of my ever getting back in there was gone. But to my surprise my sacrifice had not gone unnoticed. About a week ago my husband called me into the garage, “I was thinking that if I moved the bike to the shed for the winter, got rid of one table and turned the other one, that we could fit your car in the garage this winter.” My hero!  I have never worked so hard helping him clean, but by the end of the day we were returning my car to its precious spot in the garage.  I guess Tom Petty was right when he sang that the waiting is the hardest part.

Published November, 2011

The Trouble with Thanksgiving Dinner

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone. The Christmas decorations have come out of hiding and my favorite jeans are a little tighter. I love turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and pumpkin pie. I love eating Thanksgiving dinner, but I don’t like making it. We dodged the bullet this year by going to relatives, so I only had to make a casserole and some dessert. My main problem with cooking a complete Thanksgiving dinner is timing. My dilemma is that I can’t seem to get the meal on the table without something being cold. I can understand now why almost everything on the Thanksgiving table is steamed, mashed, or canned. Since I like to cook in general, I reject the tradition that both the white potatoes and sweet potatoes must be mashed. I like baking sliced sweet potatoes in a brown sugar glaze with pecans. However, I can’t bake it because the turkey goes in the oven. If I take the turkey out and then bake the sweet potatoes, the turkey is the cold entrée. If I make the mashed potatoes too early, they are cold. If I forget to warm the rolls because I am making the gravy or mashing the potatoes, well, you get the point. The vegetables are almost always cold regardless of when I cook them. I can handle Christmas dinner. Ham is small so it can usually be baked along-side the scalloped potatoes. A few years ago I even discovered an excellent scalloped potato recipe for the slow cooker. Since I have two slow cookers, I can put the ham in the big one and the potatoes in the smaller one, which leaves the oven free for other side dishes. That means everything can come out at the same time and it will all be hot.  In order to boycott the cooking of Thanksgiving dinner we either have to go to someone else’s house, which was what we did this year, or go out. As I mentioned earlier, I do love eating Thanksgiving dinner. A few years ago we discovered the Thanksgiving dinner at The Pier in Harbor Springs. It was perfect. I didn’t have to clean my house and for about the cost of making dinner myself, we had the entire spread including leftovers. If it were up to me we’d do that every year. The problem with that is that if it’s my turn to host Thanksgiving for friends or extended family, they’ll be expecting a meal comparable to what they provide for us without having to pay for it.  I’m not saying I’ll never cook Thanksgiving dinner again. I can’t expect to be rescued by my relatives or the Pier chefs forever.  When our turn comes again, I can pull together a delicious Thanksgiving spread with all the fixin’s.  I’m just not promising anything fancy and I’m definitely not guaranteeing that it will all be hot.

Freedom of Contacts Comes with a Price

One of the bummers of getting older is the dependence on things like glasses.  For the past several years my eyesight has been deteriorating, especially my near vision. Each year I go to the eye doctor, I leave with a stronger prescription. I have only been wearing glasses full-time for a couple of years now and the truth is I just wanted to return life as it was before glasses. As I told people that I wanted contacts, they would inevitably say “Can you touch your eye?” Well, of course I can touch my eye for crying out loud. I’m a girl who wears make-up. I’ve been digging mascara chunks out of my eyes for years. So when I went to see Dr. Voci I told him that I was there for contacts. “Can you touch your eye?” That again? I was determined to do this and thought it should be a piece of cake. I’ve seen people put in and take out contacts before. There was nothing to it. So I proudly went to the other room for my contacts lesson. Dr. Voci’s assistant Michelle taught me all about my new contacts and their proper care. She explained how to hold my eyelashes and “stare-stare-stare.” Well I’m here to tell you that apparently, I cannot touch my eye. There’s definitely a difference between removing stray eyelashes and putting a tiny piece of plastic on your eyeball.  After a few frustrating attempts, I got them in. She then told me to take them out. Whew. What a challenge. I don’t care how tightly you hold you eyelashes, if your eye wants to close, it’s going to close. Later that night I worked on getting them out again. I took deep breaths. I prayed. I thought I was going to have to return to the eye doctor in shame to have my contacts surgically removed from my eyes. I did eventually get them out and retreated to the safety and comfort of my glasses for the night. Day two arrived and I had to put them in again. “Stare-stare-stare” I thought. Once I got them in I could tell something was wrong. I took them out and put them in again and again. Finally I called my friend Jessie (who claims to be able to put her contacts in in the dark). “I can’t do it!” I cried. “It feels like I have a fingernail in my eye!” After a quick tutorial from her, I took a deep breath and tried again. I was finally successful. It’s been a few weeks now and I can put in and take out my contacts fairly easily. It may seem silly, but contacts have enabled me to feel like I’ve turned back the clock just a little bit. Sure I had to step out of my comfort zone and do something that was difficult and took time to master, but in the end it was worth it.

Published August, 2011

There if I Need Them

One of the few pictures I have of just my mother-in-law and I.

Our cat Stanley isn’t really your ordinary cat. He does all of the things ordinary cats do, but to our neighbor’s dog, Ivy, he’s more than that. Ivy is completely blind. She gets around pretty well according to our neighbor, Dave, but she has lost both eyes and completely depends on Dave for her care. Every morning Dave takes Ivy for walks around the neighborhood. About mid-summer my husband noticed that Stanley had begun to accompany Dave and Ivy on their walks. He said that as they walked, Stanley would walk alongside them. If they stopped, Stanley flopped down on the ground in front of Ivy and waited. Dave and his wife have come to refer to Stanley as “Ivy’s seeing-eye cat,” for good reason. If Ivy starts to venture off to one side or the other, Stanley will nudge her back. Many days when I’m pulling out of the driveway I’ll see Stanley sitting on the front porch of their house next to Ivy as she waits for Dave to come out. Sometimes Stanley will sit between our houses looking over as if to say “I’m right here if you need me Ivy.” As I sat down to write this month’s column my head has been clouded with the recent loss of my mother-in-law to a relatively short battle with cancer. At times I have felt like I’ve been stumbling around trying to make my way. I believe that God has been there, providing for me and meeting my needs, but in addition to that my friends were there to support me with kindness and love. They walked along side me, stopped, and waited. They stayed nearby saying “We’re here if you need us,” and they sat with me as I waited for the inevitable. They said things that made me feel better and had a shoulder ready when I needed to cry. They knew what I needed even when I didn’t, doing things like providing meals or watching our dog. And when the time came for us to say goodbye, they were with me then too both in person and with words of encouragement. Stanley doesn’t know it but he is an important part of Ivy’s life now. I think that Ivy loves and appreciates Stanley as much as I love and appreciate those closest to me. Ivy and I both know that when things are at their darkest, there will always be someone there to help us along.  Thank you Stanley, for watching out for Ivy. And thank you my friends, for watching out for me.

Published October, 2010

The Eternal Challenge of Feeding Boys

“We need milk,” my husband said. “Again?” I asked, “How much milk do we go through in a week?” His reply was “About a gallon a day.” I find that unbelievable. How in the world can a family of four consume a gallon of milk everyday? That’s 30 gallons of milk per month! At approximately $3.00 a gallon, we’re spending about $90 a month on milk alone. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I have two teenage sons. The amount of cereal we go through is equally staggering.  Growing boys eat an incredible amount of food. The term “hollow leg” comes to mind. My boys would probably eat 3-4 bowls of cereal as their after school snack if we’d let them. I don’t buy much in the way of snack foods, so if they want a snack they immediately reach for the cereal. Box macaroni and cheese and Ramen noodles run a close second to cereal as the snack foods of choice for my guys. I understand that my kids are hungry when they get home. The eat breakfast at about 6:45 am and lunch at around 11:00. That leaves about 6 hours between lunch and dinner.  I literally have to race them to the kitchen and then smack their knuckles with a wooden spoon to keep them from eating while I am cooking. There are weeks when I get groceries on Saturday and the cereal is completely gone by Tuesday. And I’m not talking about those small boxes either. I’m talking about those big bags and the biggest “family size” boxes. When I talk to my friends I realize that my problem isn’t uncommon. I remember my older brother sitting down and eating an entire box of cereal after school and still having dinner. That makes me wonder if I could ever keep up. Some days I think if I only bought cereal I would kill 2 birds with one stone. They could eat as much cereal as they wanted after school and I wouldn’t have to cook dinner. I recently analyzed our budget and was astonished at how much money we spend in groceries each month. As the boys get bigger, the budget gets higher. I remember being so happy when I didn’t have to buy diapers or pay for daycare anymore. What could I do with all of that extra money? It turns out I use it to buy food, and of course, milk.

Published March of 2011

The Slippery Slope of Middle Age

This past December marked my 43^rd birthday. Most of the time I don’t feel 43. In fact, I’ve heard that 40 is the new 30. I try to keep up with the times. I don’t wear elastic-waisted “mom jeans” and I’m on facebook along with my kids. But I’ve come to believe that the overused phrase “Over the Hill” was originally intended for those turning 40. Statistically, if we are supposed to live until we’re roughly 80, then I’d say 40 is the top of that hill. It’s literally middle age. We’re standing at the peak, looking down. Nothing makes me feel older though, than the rapid deterioration of my body. I hit 40 and wham! I couldn’t read books that weren’t held out to the furthest point of my arm. I got shin splints for the first time in my life. That was also the year of the melanoma scare. I started getting aches and pains I never knew could exist. Suddenly, I couldn’t scrub the shower without an achy shoulder. I couldn’t do push-ups with my workout videos without my newly discovered tennis elbow flaring up and I couldn’t play tennis without a sore neck the next day. My feet and knees snap, crackle and pop as I get out of bed. I know that I’m not the only one that has experienced this phenomenon. Many of my friends discovered the wonder of bi-focals and achy joints after turning forty. My husband has even broken down and gotten readers. Those pesky surgeries and procedures start popping up for everyone. My friend, Tracy said that after 40 she went for her annual physical only to leave the dr. office with 3 more appointments. My friend Stephanie is already looking at a hip replacement. A hip replacement? We are the same age! Talk about a reality check. I recently took the Dr. Oz Real Age Test and it had me at age 37. I didn’t think that was too shabby. Sometimes I even try to convince myself that I have the body of a teenager. One day I thought I’d show Sammy how I could still do a backbend from a standing position. Have you ever seen stars before? I actually don’t mind being in my 40’s. It’s a time of life that comes with a lot of wisdom gained through prior experiences. My marriage is solid and my kids are independent. I can laugh at myself more and I’m not afraid of the second half of life. So with my calendar full of doctor’s appointments, I’ll strap on my skis and head down that hill wearing my stylish jeans and bi-focals and thanking God for every day he blesses me with.

This column was published January, 2011