The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I’ve been trying to think of ways to entertain you during these bleak times, but I have to say, it is rough. Not a lot of good news, and certainly nothing to poke fun at, though there are some creative people out there who are making witty videos and memes, but that is not my medium. So while we are doing what we are supposed to be doing, which is staying inside and away from others, I’m going to put on my thinking cap filled with levity and hope I can come up with something, but I make no guarantees…

The Good

·      I am grateful that for now at least, our close family and friends are healthy.

·      The most obvious change in our lives as a result of the virus is SNAP! just like that, we are no longer empty nesters. The kids are home in all of their constantly eating, laundry making, techno music playing glory. I am grateful to have them home for many reasons, but mostly because I would be worried if they were not with us, and second they have brought energy and knowledge to our home. Mac has given me a refresher on macroeconomics and the roles of the Federal Reserve and the Treasury department, so that was embarrassing. And he also has a lot of interesting knowledge about bats after having spent time in China and southeast Asia in 2018 (before you go blaming the bats and the Chinese for our predicament, read this article   https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2020/02/200210144854.htm.  

·      Mandatory family cocktail hour, and post dinner dance parties (Shaye has some great new moves!) are also really fun and allow everyone to let off steam during quarantine. Although, I was reminded that alcohol can suppress the immune system and we shouldn’t drink too much.  But the quarantini ,which is comprised of orange juice (vitamin C), vodka (kills germs), and a rim covered in emergenC crystals, can’t be all bad? 

·      I am pretty proud that I embarked on a new hair color routine a couple of months back, called “Shadow Roots” which would allow me to only frequent the hair colorist every 7-8 weeks instead of 5-6. My forethought has really paid off in this area. I even consider myself a bit of a trend setter now that everyone is going to be sporting this new and exciting look. Whatever you are doing, you just have to do it with confidence, but it really doesn’t matter because no one is going to see you for the next 3-4 weeks anyway.  This is a good time to grow out your eyebrows, give your nails a rest from polish, get a face lift or practice some DIY face care.  Like using these New and Improved Frownies!

·      The big winners in this adverse situation appear to be the family pets.  Everyone is home and giving them unprecedented amounts of attention. They get long walks every day. They are truly emotional caregivers in every sense of the word. Someone is hugging, petting, or snuggling with a dog almost every minute of the day.  

·      Virtual book club using Blue Jeans was the highlight of my week. There was good energy, lots of laughs, and another reason to have a cocktail. Although we need to work at our video conference etiquette. Perhaps giving each person a certain amount of time to speak while all others MUTE.  We are new to this, and muting is not a strong suit for any of us, but I’m sure we will be better next week when we discuss our TED TALK.

·      Hiking outside with my friends while maintaining a social distance of 6 ft has also been life- saving.  Hiking with friends is my therapy, my DOG exercise, MY exercise, my religion. If I did not have that, I would be a mess. I feel very sorry for the people in large urban areas that don’t have this release. I can’t imagine how they are coping. I saw a beautiful large herd of elk running through Round Valley last week and it reminded me that many of us crave our herd. We need others and being kept apart is the hardest part of this whole thing.

·      I love movies and this gives me a guilt free reason to stay inside and watch them. Every night.  Here is my list of favorites that I’ve seen recently: Marriage Story, Jo Jo Rabbit, It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, BookSmart, Late Night, The Report, Biggest Little Farm. Series: The Morning Show (Apple TV), The Outsider, The Good Place, Peaky Blinders (Netflix).

·      I love to read.  Here is my list of the best books I recommend: Daisy Jones and The Six, Dear Edward, America’s First Daughter, The Untethered Soul, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, (Guilty pleasure: Demi Moore Inside Out), The Power, The Silent Patient, Circe, Bad Blood.

·      Creative pursuits. To date, I have not done one damn creative thing. I’ve been trying to get everyone organized, get enough food, cancel travel plans, etc. and have not had the time or mood to be creative.  Not to mention that one kid or another is in my office taking an online class or doing a call, so my space is no longer my own.  As soon as their bathroom remodels are complete (yes I had amazing timing on this one, the kids arrived home just after I had completely demo-ed their bathrooms) I hope we can all spend time in our assigned spaces and I can have my office back as a place of reprieve and reflection (aka hiding from my family and being depressed).

·      Emptying out the freezer and pantry.  In an effort to minimize my time in public places, I’m trying to grocery shop less which means eating food out of the pantry and the freezer. Feels good to be getting rid of some of that inventory on a FIFO basis.  On the downside, I now feel like maybe I should have stockpiled a few more things in case these viruses become something we encounter more regularly.

The Bad

·      Because I am back to full-time stay at home mom status (stay at home now being literal instead of figurative), my routine is interrupted, and I feel like the maid and cook again. After this first week of everyone settling in, I plan to delegate the chores and the cooking as well as support our local restaurants by ordering takeout. 

·      After washing, washing, washing my hands they look like a worn-out sponge that needs to be discarded.  No amount of moisturizer is going to bring these babies back, but I have found one product that does make a bit of a difference  CND Almond Moisture Scrub.  And in case you think I’m trying to be some sort of influencer, no one pays me to do anything in my life and this is no exception. I’m not proud of this, it is just a regrettable fact.

·      Being grounded.  I was only ever grounded once in my life as a teenager so I’m not familiar with this feeling. Being grounded makes me sad. I guess that is the point because it was offered as a punishment for bad behavior. But now we are grounded out of preservation for ourselves and others. This requires a shift in thinking that most Americans cannot or will not absorb. We don’t like it when our freedoms are taken away, especially when we’ve done nothing wrong. So instead of calling it social distancing, suppression, or being grounded we should adopt something more euphemistic like NOT DYING or NOT LETTING YOUR NEIGHBORS DIE. Maybe that would make people understand and embrace this new reality. As Governor Cuomo said, words make a difference. Governor Cuomo is my new chosen leader because he is intelligent, he listens to the experts, he doesn’t lie, he is compassionate and human.

·      I eat chocolate and ice cream every day.  Why the fuck not? But one of the things I miss the most is the routine of my group fitness classes and gym workouts. I have been consistently working out for 32 years (yes there is a direct correlation to when I started dating Blake) Even though I’m working out at in my pseudo gym inside my bedroom, it is just not the same. Coupled with the fact that I’m eating chocolate and ice cream every day does not bode well for the long term.

·      Watching John Oliver record his show with no audience in front of a white screen with no people laughing other than our family. Anderson Cooper reporting from his home library and not in the studio. When the mainstream media takes a break, you know something is fundamentally wrong. It really brought the apocalyptic feeling of this whole crisis right into my living room.

The Ugly

·      The hoarding that went on. I was out of town when the shit really started going down and so did not have time to get to the grocery store. Because there are only two of us, I just had a regular supply of TP in the house (10 rolls), and only one box of anti-bacterial wipes. I’ve looked everywhere and there is no TP or wipes in UT. Or on Amazon or Walmart or Boxed. I borrowed some from my mother in law until they can restock the shelves, but really people?  Just buy your fair share.  VP Pence assured us that we will always have access to grocery stores and supplies. Don’t you trust our propaganda wielding government leaders? When I run out of ass wiping supplies, I am going to poop on your front lawn and wipe my butt with a leaf from your aspen or blue spruce.  It will be painful and inefficient, but I will do it. 

·      I feel like at some point the news people are going to start to look like they did in that Batman movie when the Joker puts chemicals in all of the makeup. They won’t have hairdressers or make-up artists so they will all look normal like the rest of us: wrinkly with large pores, blemishes and frizzy hair. But then Batman will come and save us and all will be well. Although he is probably carrying the virus so don’t get within 6 feet of him, as you now know from reading the above referenced article, bats have a crazy immune system and can live for decades with 300-400 viruses in their system. 

·      Here are the stocks I would buy if I was an unethical senator with insider information: any teleconferencing software company like zoom or blue jeans; weight watchers, P&G, Petco/Chewy, Peloton.   

The Foreboding

Sitting around reading too many articles has resulted in my feeling more philosophical. This is the first time some generations have had to live with scarcity and suppression. But this is just a small harbinger of what the world is going to look like when the planet implodes. This is eerily parallel to what is going on this very minute beneath our feet, in our skies and oceans that we have been ignoring for 50 years. The curve may not be as drastic, but it is going to happen.  We can all make small changes now (like we should have been doing 2 months ago for COVID19) or we are going to have to give up big things. The result of having everyone stay at home, not traveling and consuming is having a positive effect on our planet, (and hopefully flattening the virus curve) but a catastrophic effect on our economy. This is not where we want things to go in the future.  It is a drastic measure.

We must collectively acknowledge that the scientists are right (as they are about COVID19) and do what we can to quell damage to the climate today by being prepared and adopting innovative technologies. There are incredibly smart, industrious people all over the world who are developing alternative ways of doing things that don’t hurt the environment. When we are all wearing facemasks and experiencing respiratory problems because of pollution, we will look back on this time as the great foreshadowing. The world is giving us a wake-up call.  We know we can come together and do the right thing when we are forced to, but let’s not let it get to that point.  So when this is over, and it will be over if we can all stay still for a while, this is our next priority.

Stay inside as much as you can, get some fresh air using the 6 ft rule, wash your hands, stay sane, and hug your pets. This too shall pass.

  

Christmas in the New Age

          The kids are gone, the Christmas decorations are put away, the decadent treats are now on my thighs or in the trash; all that is left are dirty sheets and towels, assorted droppings from the offspring, some Metamucil crackers, and a paltry looking refrigerator. Post-holiday blues in the empty nest. Even the puppies walk around in a state of perplexity. Why so quiet? Where are the pets, snuggles, and romp sessions? Where did everybody go?

Just as I was making peace with our childless situation, they all come home again and fill our house with GEN XYZ music, snacks, laundry and laughter. We get used to having them around and fall back into our pre-college era ways. Not to say the holiday season is all bliss and happiness. Not in the least. We are now a mix of part-time parents who act like full time parents, teens that think they are adults but still act like teens, and young adults who think they know more than their parents. Trying to navigate these ill-defined roles is challenging. We are still parents who worry about their whereabouts, health, and future. We still feel the need to give them advice on any and everything it seems. They are adults, who spend more time living without us than with us; they are still dependent on us financially but make their own sometimes good/sometimes questionable choices. They are getting an education, so they feel pretty smart, but they are far from wise. 

The first few hours are great, we get hugs, updates on school, sports, and friends. Inevitably one of us does something annoying, and the eyes start rolling and they re-engage with their handheld devices (attached to their appendage like a rabid alien sucking the life out of them). The giddiness of being home wears off quickly and we all struggle to adapt to our new positions. After operating in our respective Id like existences, we have to hit the reset button and figure out how to function as a family again. Having been free of my maidly duties for several months I start to feel unfairly burdened by the expectations of meals and clean clothes. I want to be that mom that cooks and takes care of everything but find myself disgruntled. My husband immediately gets back into “Dad” mode and finds teachable moments at every turn, which is not met with much enthusiasm. I should say “humor your dad by listening to his advice and please put your dishes in the dishwasher to help your mother.” They are only home for a short time, and I don’t want to start nagging at them so soon. Consequently, mutual resentment mounts resulting in palpable levels of silent but deadly anxiety. 

I have been made aware by well-meaning friends that my expectations for Christmas are over the top. I imagine a hallmark movie where we make cookies, decorate the tree, go sledding and ice skating together, listen to Christmas carols and do snowman puzzles while drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows. We did do some of these things and if you follow my Instagram account, you probably think I might actually live in a Hallmark movie – being in a snow filled resort town and all. What I didn’t include in my posts was the complaining, arguments, Netflix binging, and overall laziness that took place most days.These things don’t happen in the world of Hallmark.

“Can’t I grow out of some of these traditions?” my son asks as he decorates an anatomically correct gingerbread man accessorized with blue balls. 

His idea of Christmas music is now a thumping piece of techno “music” called Red Light Green Light by Duke Dumont (kind of catchy, but definitely no Sleigh Ride or White Christmas). My daughter shows interest in the holiday festivities, but I know some of it is just for me. Lurking in the back of my mind is the reality that this is probably the last Christmas where we will have 2 full weeks to spend together. Next year my son will hopefully be fully employed and probably not inclined to spend his entire allotted vacation time with his family over the holidays. I’m reluctant to let go of our precious time together as a foursome even if the conditions are not perfect. 

We live in the age where instead of waiting for Christmas to get things we need/want, we buy them when we need/want them. Gift giving during the holidays is anti-climactic at best and at worst involves a lot of returns. Even though we toned it down a lot this year, the boxes and waste fill our truck bed as we head to recycling. I’m thinking of getting rid of the gifts all together in 2020. The years when you spent $100 at Toys R Us to watch them exclaim in delight and play for hours are long gone (along with Toys R Us!). I find myself appreciating the quiet moments sitting around the tree or walks with the dogs at dusk when all of the Christmas lights begin to twinkle around town. 

By the end of the break, we reestablish or redefine our familial jobs. I decide to stop cooking and cleaning. Mac picks on Shaye and Shaye picks on Mac, we all cuddle the dogs at every opportunity, and Blake realizes that perhaps the kids have to actually make mistakes to learn a lesson instead of being instructed on what to do (like driving out of the garage without adjusting the position of the mirrors so they don’t hit the side of the garage and snap off). Before my son returns to school he says, “I’m trying to picture what you and Dad do here by yourselves, I think of it as something out of zombie movie where you stalk around aimlessly and grunt at each other and race to the door when the doorbell rings to eat your next victim.” He punctuates this remark by doing his best zombie impression in the living room. This made me laugh out loud as it is nowhere near the truth. I will admit that our wardrobe choices when home by ourselves are not vogue worthy, and we do occasionally grunt at each other, but mostly we are content. They cannot envision a life for us without them in it and for a while, I couldn’t either. We will probably have a few more years of trying to figure out the ever-fluctuating landscape of having grown children, but at least we will be well equipped for the zombie apocalypse.

The Girls Trip – Travel Journal from Mexico City and San Miguel de Allende

        When we first see each other, we embrace and talk for hours over drinks -- barely stopping to breathe. We have months of details to catch up on and world problems to solve. We compare notes about raising children in the digital age, the craziness of high school sports, our husbands’ less than desirable qualities and how we love them anyway, the absolute and ongoing shock of the Trump presidency, and the cute guy that was on the flight. Sometimes we have martinis, other times Prosecco, but when in Mexico, we choose TEQUILA. 

Our cultural exploration begins early the next morning in the historical city center. Traffic is terriblé so we nurse our café con leche in the back of the car as we navigate the streets of Mexico City. Much like Park city, we are in the high desert climate, but our proximity to the equator makes the temperature more pleasant. The city square is still decorated for Dia de los Muertos, but the crowds have mostly gone. There are skulls the size of small cars painted by local artists dotting the Avenue Reforma, the Mexican equivalent of the Champs Elysees, which are fun to browse while we sip our coffee and continue waking up during the ride. When we emerge in the Alameda Park, we join a free walking tour to get oriented. There are random folks on the tour with even more random questions so we stick it out for a while and then discreetly peel off to do our own thing. Our agenda is too big for our narrow window of time, so we have to sacrifice expanding our knowledge of Mexican History. (Ok, we are also slightly hungover, and our attention span is reduced to that of a five-year-old). But we do learn a thing or two about draining a lake to build a city that is home to 23 million people. In general, not a great model for sustainable architecture; there are definitely some Pisa Towers in the making. Perhaps one of the most stunning buildings on our tour is the post office. It is decorated with gleaming brass, black marble and onyx. Large mosaic pictures crafted from antique postage stamps are particularly alluring and there are cascading stairways where we envision an elegant bride descending. But there are no brides, and no people in this giant edifice, save for two lonely postal workers. We exchange critical glances wondering why this remarkable building is solely dedicated to a service that is known for taking weeks to deliver mail. Strange. 

 We peak into the Cathedral on the Zócalo (historic center Plaza); it is centuries old but still serves as a place of worship among modern day Catholics and tourists. The Mexican churches, while lovely, are littered with levitated wax bible figures and fake flowers which kind of ruins the old world feel I associate with an oversized cathedral. Also, Jesus seemed to be engaging in some new activities I had never witnessed before. But then again, my biblical knowledge is not exactly up to par, so it could have been some other forlorn religious man and not Jesus at all. 

We eat lunch at a touristy spot on the square, walk through some preserved ruins, and ooh and ah at a few more significant architectural feats before heading back to Chapultepec Park. The thought of sitting in a car for another forty-five minutes to travel five miles is intolerable. Luckily my friend is well versed in the use of the Jump electric bikes (featured on your Uber app). This is definitely one of the highlights of our day. I LOVE experiencing a city by bicycle, it is one of my favorite things to do. We load our sweaters and purses into the convenient basket and we’re off – blazing down the streets in the bike lane, passing the restless drivers trapped in their autos. I feel slightly reckless at first because it’s Mexico, so helmets are not required, or even provided. I would advise my kids not to do this, and my kids would definitely advise me not to do it as well, but we are all adults here so away we go. The breeze blowing through my hair as I take in the sights and smells of the city while barely expending any physical effort gives my heart a thrill that outweighs my fear of smashing my noggin on the pavement. I feel indestructible as I literally throw caution to the wind, we both have silly huge grins on our faces as we outsmart the transportation system. I’m sure we are imbibing massive amounts of carbon dioxide, but at least we are moving, and the traffic is not. 

We park the bikes and head into the Chapultepec park (basically Mexican Central Park) where mariachi bands are playing regional tunes beneath large marigolds crafted of papier-maché. Purple and orange lights add glitter to the lake in the center of the park. Vendors sell traditional Mexican baubles that look suspiciously like they are made in China. Street food looks enticing, but the aftermath of that whim, not so much. The park is home to a variety of museums and other tourist attractions including the anthropology museum which contains thousands of Mexican relics excavated from all over the country. It is an authentic structure that exploits the indoor/outdoor lifestyle to its maximum benefit. Seventy-five pesos (around $4 US) allows entry into most of the cultural options on display in the city, a far cry from the $25 demanded by the Met in NYC. The true gem of the park, in my opinion, is the Chapultepec Castle sitting high above the city. The views are stunning, the building is a study in European architecture, the furniture and grounds are stately and well preserved. My friend strikes a Madonna-like pose to mimic the statues for a funny Instagram moment. The whole time I feel a little guilty fawning over the opulence that the ruling class enjoyed, while the working class suffered. Some things don’t change. Our day in Mexico City concludes with Aperol spritzes at the hotel, followed by a five- course dinner at Pujol, rated one of the best restaurants in Mexico and it did not disappoint. One of my friends who is much more in the know than I am about these things made the arrangements, and it is a memorable meal of modern Mexican cuisine prepared in creative and unexpected ways. 

We depart early Saturday morning in a Volkswagon driven by Oscar headed for San Miguel de Allende, a quaint artist colony located about three hours northwest of Mexico City. Getting back to the VW though, there are a suspiciously large number of them clogging the streets of Mexico which makes me wonder if the Germans dumped off the falsely energy efficient vehicles on the unassuming Mexicans. Hmmm. Anyway, we download a bunch of Ted Talks so we can discuss them during the drive. Once again, we explore relationships, solve more world problems, reminisce about college, and engage in a little more Trump bashing, because – the material is simply too entertaining and in abundant supply 24/7. 

           Finally, we begin our descent into San Miguel, which is surreal. One minute we are careening along a highway which looks like it could be in Arizona and the next we are barely able to get a small, environmentally unfriendly Jetta through the narrow cobble stone streets of this UNESCO village. We are thoroughly charmed already as we pass a local vaquero dressed in authentic Mexican clothing and sombrero next to his donkey looking at…… his cell phone. Wow. So much for being transported back to the 17^th century. After a twisty ride through the edges of town, we arrive at our hotel, which is absolutely stunning and one of the nicest I have ever stayed in (also from a tip I received from aforementioned well-traveled friend). There is no check-in desk, we are greeted by a staff member who speaks perfect English and shows us around the property while we sip a wheatgrass iced tea. I could be completely content to never leave the grounds, roaming the manicured gardens filled with fluffy grasses that rise 12 feet into the air, every sort of palm tree, bubbling fountains, local statues, Dia de Los Muertos themed artwork, not to mention the cozy trappings of the tequila bar. One of the many great things about the girls’ trip, is the ability to indulge in a nicer hotel because you are splitting the room cost, whereas with your husband, it all comes out of the same budget (see honey? I’m always saving you money!!) But I am eager to explore the little village that I have heard so much about, so we unpack quickly and head out. The first thing we notice, even though we had been duly warned, are the cobble stone streets. These are not your run of the mill cobble stones, they are treacherous, and not for the weak of ankle. Properly clad in sports shoes, we venture up and down street after street like one of those dogs with the treat hidden in the maze of their toy. There are no windows to peak in, every residential or commercial space is guarded by a large stucco façade, when the door is open you might see a sunny courtyard store filled with local arts and crafts, or a restaurant peddling mezcal and tacos, or churros con chocolate. Starved after the long ride, we opt for a healthy lunch of shrimp salad with grapefruit and a couple of cervezas at Mamma Mia. 

It is easy to get lost or forget which street you have already surveyed because they all look the same until you solve the mystery of what is behind the magical door. The architecture lends a feeling of constant surprises, which is attractive for the gatherer in me, but somewhat frustrating for the part of me that has no innate sense of direction. I walk down the same street 5 times before I realize I have been here already. Because the door is the proverbial window to the home, they are all uniquely adorned, a cultivated glimpse into the soul of its residents. I snap photos of dozens of them in the hopes of painting or drawing them later. 

            The town square revolves around the Parroquia, a 17^th century cathedral, which is stunning in the day, but even more so when it is lit up at night, and in our case with a full moon. Orange trees line the garden square which is surrounded by shops, restaurants and local vendors. We happen upon a Quinceañera as we enter one of several churches in San Miguel and end up intermingling with the guests and the band. Later we find ourselves in the middle of a wedding celebration in full parade blocking one of the narrow streets. Everyone is singing and celebrating the happy couple; the group is led by two figures who are wearing large papier maché heads that resemble the bride and groom (I assume- we couldn’t actually view the newylweds through the crowd). We wind our way up to the Fabrica de Aurora, an old textile factory converted into thirty artist stalls. I could spend an entire afternoon here, but at this point we are a little overwhelmed by everything and are on the verge of exploding blisters on our feet, so we decide that a little pool time is in order. After a margarita, chips, guacamole, and an afternoon nap, we mosey up to the rooftop of our hotel, aptly named Luna, to experience the sunset. We choose some sort of blue vodka drink (I tend to get over-tequila’d by the 2^nd or 3^rd day in Mexico) complemented by a blood orange garnish and take way too many photos of the exquisite city below us with the late afternoon sun reflecting off of the ancient buildings -- our travel fantasies are completely fulfilled. The hotel provides us with cozy blankets to protect us from the evening chill as the sun plunges behind one of the thirteen churches in this small city. We shower, don an appropriately Mexican off the shoulder number and head to dinner at the rooftop restaurant, Quince, where we have an unencumbered view of the cathedral at night. We nibble on ceviche, sushi, edamame, and this time I have another vodka concoction, but this one is imbued with cardamom, one of my favorite spices. A live tight rope walker entertains the group as he hovers over the garden below. Mexican bars are more civilized than those in America, the bars themselves are gorgeous and adorned with colorful bottles as well as flowers and plants. No one stands around them and spills drinks on each other, guests are required to have a table or a seat. The crowd is comprised of an ideal blend of locals and tourists and the DJ plays music accordingly, mixing American and Mexican tunes seamlessly, a perfect ending to our day.  

            The next day is Sunday, and our hotel is known for its All You Can Eat Brunch. We prepare for the event by working out at the well-equipped gym on the second floor of the hotel first thing in the morning. This buffet is no Chuckorama, people, this is a full-on Mexican extravaganza of local specialties like homemade tortillas, bone broth soup, and spicy grilled vegetables and shaved pork, but there is also a full display of desserts, cheeses, fruits, salads, and our personal favorite, the crepe bar, which speaks the universal language of Nutella, complemented by bananas, caramel sauce and pecans. Heaven. Our bellies sufficiently stuffed, I head out on my own while my friend decides to relax by the pool. The sign of a good girls’ trip is being able to separate for a few hours and forge your own travel experience. I can’t ever call a city “mine” until I have roamed solo and gotten lost in the streets and that is exactly what I do. I gravitate toward the Benito Juarez Park behind the hotel and am excited to discover several local artists displaying their art on park benches and stone walls. There are watercolors and oils, dappled with acrylic and sculpture. Some depict touristy sites in town, while other artists feature portraits and still life. As I stroll beneath the green trees, my shoulders lower a few inches and my breaths are long and deep. Nothing speaks to my soul more than art in a park. I keep going and pass by an old school, a restaurant with a picturesque interior garden, lovers kissing on a park bench. The sound of church bells lures me further up the hill and I encounter an aged stone church. It does not seem as formal as most of the catholic churches I have seen in my travels, it has a casual small town feel about it. The locals greet each other and talk happily with their religious leader before they begin worship. I hike up as far as I can go and catch my breath as I take in the village below through the lens of the cross sitting atop the church. 

As I head back down to the more populated town square, I am pushed to the side by a long line of Mexican vaqueros on horses, I briefly wonder if they need different horseshoes to navigate the cobble stones. While there are still quite a few tourists, the feeling in town is not as hurried as the day before as residents leisurely go about their Sunday rituals. I stumble on openings in the adobe walls where men are selling architectural remnants from old buildings, like the flea markets of Paris, which is completely enticing if I had a way to ship them home. There is everything from souvenir trinkets in the artisan markets ranging up to high-end design items for the home, and of course hand-crafted treasures from local artists like cowboy boots, hats, silver and gold jewelry, encaustic art, and ceramics. I can shop til you drop with the best of them, but for me the gift is the trip itself. Placing myself in an unfamiliar place and opening up every one of my senses to the world around me refreshes my spirit. My college Spanish begins to re-engage and I feel like I’m back in Sevilla on a term abroad. Our last evening ends with another rooftop dinner featuring a fine bowl of paella and a local mariachi band playing in the main square. Families are dancing together, their smiling faces illuminated by the moon as it lingers over the cathedral spire, inviting our gaze up to the sky and expressing gratitude for our time together in this village, whose heart beats with an artistic soul. 

             

Goodbye to my Grammie

I was looking forward to celebrating my grandmother’s 100^th birthday with her in Florida tomorrow with a festive pumpkin pie decorated with candles, but alas, she was never much for milestones and took her last breath earlier this week, just 3 days shy of the big day.  No Smuckers recognition on the Today show for Lois Estelle Knapp Maloney born on October 24^th, 1919, but she did not like the spotlight anyway and was probably happy to pass peacefully, unknown to most of the world.  Only .017% of the population lives to be 100; my Grammie was certainly unique but not because of her impressive statistics.  

I have written about my grandmother several times over the years as she was a major influence in my life, and I always thought we shared a special Cancer/Scorpio astrological bond.  She lived a wonderfully full, yet simple life and I am grateful that she was part of my life for so long.   I have so many stories and memories of her that I could fill a book, and maybe someday I will.  She visited me in most of the places I lived, except for NYC and LA – she was not much of a city person.  She crossed the ocean to see us when we lived in Belgium by herself when she was 81 years old, and we took a hot air balloon ride over the hills of UT when she was 87; she drove to Boston to help out when both of her great grand children were born.  She was always there when I needed her, without judgement or questions.   

She was a farm girl at heart and had a lifelong passion for animals and her vibrant garden.   She always had a home-cooked, hearty meal on the stove, and I can still see her in the pantry with flour covering her checkered apron while she whipped up Russian tea cookies, cardamom buns, or apple pies for dessert (or breakfast, or teatime).  She hung her laundry on the clothesline between the shed and the garage for that crisp country air smell. The frugality of the WWII era made her a friend of the earth before it became trendy; she was a consummate recycler, composter, and follower of the “if its yellow let it mellow” mantra.  Her kitchen was cluttered with tools, and dust could often be found on her bookshelves, but that didn’t matter to us.  She had a quiet contemplative demeanor, never one to scold or make a fuss.  The letters that she wrote to me over the years always began with "Kristie Dear..." This was the Grammie that I loved with all of my heart and she could not have been more perfect in my mind.

She could also surprise me as happens from time to time when you glimpse an adult alter ego of someone you’ve only known in a certain familial role.  I was unhealthily addicted to the Outlander series (as many of you know) and was in the midst of reading all 8 books several years ago.  I went to visit my Grammie in her assisted living facility in western MA, where she had recently moved, and low and behold, the 7^th installment in the series was sitting prominently on her coffee table amidst Reader’s Digest condensed books and Yankee magazines.  Even though these were historical fiction books, they were quite racy and my grandmother proudly admitted that she had read all of them.   We talked on the phone just before her 90^th birthday and she was excited to report that she was able to renew her driver’s license through the mail, thus extending her freedom for a few more years.  I was happy for her, but slightly worried about the rest of the driving population in New England.

I don’t think I ever viewed her as being progressive, but in retrospect, she really was.  She wore a strapless bikini on her honeymoon in 1942.  She was an OR nurse and worked at the hospital until she was well into her 70’s.  She drove her little yellow Fiat pretty fast as I recall, a fact which I belted out in front of all the adults in the room one day, much to her chagrin.  She introduced me to coffee (with cream and sugar of course) at a young age.  She let me go out on a “car date” when I was only 14 years old (this was against the rules in my own home).  She worked when my mom and her brothers were young and throughout my entire childhood. She was a bring home the bacon (from the pig farm down the street) and fry it up in a pan type of dame.  I was remarkably unaware of her professional life, for she did not bring her work home with her.  She never seemed stressed, tired, or unhappy about having a career in addition to shouldering the brunt of the domestic chores.  In fact, I don’t think I ever heard my grandmother complain, about anything, ever.   

Even though she has physically left this earth, her presence pops up all over my house.  The antiques that she left me, the bone china tea cups she collected over the years, the collages that I made with her photographs, letters, and my grandfather’s artwork, the silver candy dishes with initials belonging to distant relatives, the sweaters that she knit for me and my children made from washable acrylic yarn (practical for washing!), and the silk table runners she wove on her loom.  But she was not a material girl, and though I love having mementos of her in my midst, she left me with much more than family heirlooms. I visited my Grammie a few months ago, and though she was mostly not herself and I’m not certain she knew exactly who I was, I hugged her and took in the smell of her soft skin and rested my head gently on her shoulder like I was a child again.  I whispered that I knew she was ready to go, and that I loved her.  I relayed to her how she had taught me to be a better mother, a good friend, a tolerant wife, and a thoughtful person.   I am so happy that I was able to share these thoughts before she died. Too often we can’t find the words or get too caught up in our own lives to tell the people we love how we feel and the impact they have on us.

I am infinitely sad that she is not here anymore, even though I know she is happier wherever she is.  I will miss writing letters to her and sharing my banal daily news and attempts at whatever creative activity I was pursuing that month. I treasure the unconditional love she gave me and her calm but reassuring presence on this planet.  I am not religious, but I do believe in a spiritual Buddhist-inspired afterlife. I picture her free of the confines of the wheelchair, surrounded by her dogs, cats, horses and yellow finches, walking around the big meadow holding hands with my grandfather. I hope that I have made her proud and she knows that she will live on in my heart, and her essence will always be reflected in the way I conduct my life, love my children, and treat those around me with respect and kindness.   And most of all in my appetite for dessert at any time of day.  

And now I write to you with 40 days of a barren dwelling under my belt.  Many are curious about my silence, and eager to know if I’ve had some sort of mental breakdown, crying in the aisles of the grocery store as I plop a handful of items into my cart, enough to feed two people with rapidly expanding love handles.  

My life has transformed for sure, but it is not the grim, torpid existence I once imagined.  I am free from the confines of the groundhog-day-school/sports practice timetable.  Instead of racing around like an idiot making 3 different meals at 5:30 pm, I can often be seen enjoying the last visage of sunshine sprinkling its way across the grass shoots while wallowing in the warm quiet of a beautiful fall day.  The less favorable result of having no constraints, is that I also often have a cocktail in my hand at this time of day.  “Why not?” seems to outweigh any arguments the angel on my shoulder might be able to conjure.  

I take increased pleasure in watching my dogs bark, play and sprint from one end of the house to the other like a competing track team.  Less than a year ago, I would yell at them to stop ruining my walnut floors with their claws during the daily canine combat session.  This was the same person who felt the need to have everything clean and be on time to every event.  Who was she and why was she so fixated on tidiness and punctuality?   Who cares if there are dust bunnies in the corners, dishes in the sink, and we are a few minutes late?   I can proffer this latently discovered wisdom to my younger peers who are in the throes of parenting until I am blue in the face, but I suspect one can only make this leap in hindsight.  When you are juggling so many balls and have little control over where they land, sometimes having a clean sink can provide at least a fleeting sense of command in an otherwise chaotic landscape.  

Some days I wake up feeling like I’m 28 again, ready to conquer the world and seek out a new career path.  The world is filled with infinite oysters, just waiting for me to crack them open and reveal a pearly white entrepreneurial opportunity.  Other days, I am convinced that I am merely a sagging, washed up, unrecognizable version of myself, who has little to show for the last 22 years other than my maternal efforts and domestic contributions.  Now that the trees are gone, I’m having a hard time finding a befitting forest to forage in, even though I frequently walk the dogs in search of it.

Embarrassingly, in my futile stupor, I’ve even found myself talking about grandchildren!  Not that we will have any soon, or perhaps at all, but it seems to be the next inevitable phase of life hurdling down the runway toward me.  This prospect has encouraged me to consider the next ten years as a selfish gift, filled with global travel, neglected passions such as writing and art, and adventures with friends.  These are the proverbial golden years where we have the gift of middle age circumspection coupled with unencumbered time to pursue life’s frivolous joys (only dampened by hefty tuition responsibilities).  

My husband has a strange compulsion to fill my day with new tasks.  He views me like a vagrant worker standing outside of Home Depot holding a sign “looking for work today”.  It is here that I need to set some boundaries, or I will end up being his slave/personal assistant for the remainder of my childless existence, instead of the free agent I hope to be.  I signed up for a couple of classes, so I am not standing in the kitchen looking conveniently jobless.  I’m hoping to jump start the creative parts of my brain again so I can populate my home with art, and these pages with entertaining banter.   

Staring out the small oval window of the cramped Delta bullet I am traveling in, I am confronted with existential, cliched feelings.  I have one life to live and I am in the second half of it.  Who am I other than wife and mother?  What do I hope to accomplish?  What will “they” say at my funeral?  Will my children question why I chose to stay home and raise them?  Or should I have worked full time and hired a nanny?  Would they respect me more?  Not to pepper you with rhetorical questions that I probably don’t even want answers to, but these are the thoughts that play in my head like a wall street ticker tape at night.  Some of the times in our family life that I stressed about the most, my kids don’t even remember; conversely and perhaps more worrisome, some of the times I cherish the most, they also don’t remember.   However, I am sure that their memories won’t fail them forever.  One day in the future when they are reprimanding their own children, their subconscious will burst through and tumble from their lips in the form of some awful utterance.  They will gasp in horror and think “My God, I sound just like my mother” and the circle of parenting will be complete.