I really like color. Bold and bright and big. But when it comes to my surroundings, not so much. But give me a white room, a white anything, really and I am living the life. It’s calm, it’s serene, and it is always my go-to color. Doesn’t it get dirty? Well, yes it does–it’s white. But I just throw it in the washing machine and it gets clean again. I’m not such a perfectionist with my white. Life happens. Even to white, but you know that’s ok. Anyway, color trends are announced every year in the design world, but for me white is forever.
I have written about my dog Riley before. And about how much I love him. And about how he really is this (wo) man’s best friend. But it has come to my attention, and Riley, cover your floppy ears, I really love all dogs. Even dogs I don’t know, or have ever seen. Case in point: Sandy.
Sandy lives a few streets over. She was hit by a car 48 hours ago, and then ran off from her owner, clearly injured, but well enough to make a getaway. In Brookline, where I live, we have something called the Green Dog Program. It’s an effort to allow dogs to use parks during certain hours, in order to run free. I think it’s really great, since Brookline has many houses with small yards, and enough traffic, that people don’t necessarily feel comfortable allowing their dogs to walk off leash. Anyway, I am on an email list, comprised of my local green dog peeps and pups and received an urgent message two mornings ago that Sandy had been hit, and to please be on the lookout for her. My heart fell, my stomach lurched. I could imagine exactly how frantic and overwhelmed the owners must be, and I could also feel how scared the dog must be. Now, as you know, I am human, but I am wondering if I might be at least part canine, because I really started to experience this dog’s fear (I have never once told you that my sanity was in tact in this blog, so you can decide). Anyway, while I walked Riley and started to look around. I was kind of peering under bushes and in backyards. But all I came up with were some candy wrappers (which made me wonder if we needed a litter campaign). The emails continued to come with news. My friend Leah, another part dog person like me, put up a Sandy post on Facebook. Sandy had still not been found. We were asked to please look under our porches, and in our garages and yards. I volunteered to help in any way I could. I walked Riley yesterday, and once again, snooped my way around the neighborhood, including telling a woman on the street who was walking a dog. She was very nice, but I did notice she scurried off when I started to get teary. I saw a flyer on an electrical post with Sandy on it. The campaign to find this dog was in full swing.
I kept telling my family how worried I was about Sandy, but they weren’t very moved, which I took offense at, and which made me start thinking that I might not be as balanced a human being as I thought. I was about to leave to go get a haircut, when my friend Dave called to talk about Sandy (FINALLY, a normal response) and ask me to go take a peak in his garage. No, don’t get excited, she wasn’t there. But I did appreciate Dave’s concern. And I am moving him onto my “favorites” list on my phone.
Anyway, I got an email yesterday, actually I got several emails, from the Green Dog Park list, from the Emerson Garden neighborhood list, and from the owner himself, to let me know that Sandy had been found! I wanted to have a parade! Someone had brought her to Angell Memorial, and because she had a chip, they were able to locate her family. And she seems to be in pretty good shape. You’d have thought I had just won an all expense paid trip to Bora Bora, when I heard this news. I was so happy and excited that this dog was ok.
I am very grateful to live in a place where dogs are considered people. I am so happy to know if my furry guy ever got loose, and ran away, that people in my hood would take it seriously, and go looking for him. That means a lot to me. Dog people are a different breed. And I’m happy to call myself one of them. Notice, I am not calling myself sane here, but I am calling myself a dog person. And that may mean a little nuts, but that’s just fine with me.
When I was 9, I had a crush on my first fictional character. “Davy Jones.” I carefully cut out pictures of him and artfully displayed them on my walls. My mother didn’t like that I used tape to give my room “Davy” wallpaper, worrying that it would remove the paint, once I had abandoned my love for the vocalist of “Day Dream Believer.” I can remember the feeling that guy gave me. I had my own little secret affair with him in my bedroom. All romance and pretend. I remember that I was quite certain that if “Davy” met me, he would fall in love with me and we would get married. I look back and can’t believe the confidence I had!
And then there was “Pete” on “Mod Squad.” More sophisticated at 11, I did not use photos of “Pete” to declare my love, I just daydreamed about him. He was handsome and had a swaggery cool I was mad for. I grew my hair like “Julie’s,” and waited for him to call. He didn’t.
Fast forward to the show “Moonlighting.” “David Addison” was hysterical and HOT. I fell hard for this quick-witted cutie. He was attractive, but really it was his sense of humor that put him on my list. Why couldn’t Cybil Shepard see this? She couldn’t have done better. At the time, I wished I could find a real life guy with such a quick wit and good lines.
From the moment that “Sawyer” survived the plane crash on “Lost,” I was in lust. That guy was part bad boy, part heart, and 100% HOTTIE. I had a major league thing for Sawyer from 2004 straight through to 2010. In fact, I used to dream about him! And I liked him so much, I rooted for his relationship with “Juliette.” I mean, if I couldn’t have him, I wanted him to have someone like her. Oh “Sawyer,” I miss ya, man.
Which brings us up to my most current crush. Inescapably embarrassing and practically illegal. Obsessed with “Friday Night Lights,” I have been gobbling up five seasons nightly (I just started season 4–I know what you’re thinking–“Read a book, for God’s sakes.”) Anyway, I have the biggest SUPER CRUSH on “Tim Riggins,” bad boy, heart of gold, good with his hands, bad at the books, street smart, romantic, GORGEOUS AND SEXY football star of the Dillon Panthers. Now I have not apologized for my other fictional crushes, but people, this dude is supposed to be in high school! I am in major “rob the cradle” territory here. I MIGHT BE IN THE EARLY STAGES OF COUGARDOM. I would like to add that I am also super crushing on “Coach Taylor,” who is more my age, but married with two children. Stop judging me, and watch the show.
Anyway, I am grateful for all these fictional crushes. C’mon, they’re fun and harmless, and fun is always good. I will end this now, Tim is waiting for me. Yes, he’s in high school. Yes, he’s fictional. But as Mia Farrow says in “The Purple Rose of Cairo” about her celluloid film star crush, “You can’t have everything.”
The “peace on earth” christmas card I made them pose for. It might be the only time in their whole childhoods they got along for a moment.
I still am trying to recover from the near constant fighting my kids did for their whole entire childhoods. These two were pros. They fought all day, every day, and I’m fairly sure they fought while they slept. There was no rest for the weary. What did they fight about? Go ahead, shout out a topic and you you will be right. Because what they fought about was EVERYTHING. Snacks, check. Sesame Street, yup. Bed time story, uh huh. Toys, yes sir. The park, indeed. A bagel, a car ride, a stuffed animal, what part of the couch they wanted to sit on, the legos, the bathroom, YES. YES, YES AND YES. There was no moment, no event, no time that forced these two to agree. Was it my breast milk? Was it my choice of crib? Was it the adorable clothes I dressed them in that made them so miserable with one another? It was a mystery, but all I knew was that these two kids, who I had to overcome three years of infertility to have, seemed as though they were opposed to speaking one civil word to each other. I had birthed two children who might be the first kids ever to actually put themselves up for adoption. This was deeply upsetting to me, since I grew up with two sisters, who were eight and fourteen years older than I was, and with whom I never fought. And yes, I was the midlife surprise! I guess it was because the age difference was so dramatic that we got along. No sibling rivalry, no problems with sharing toys, or clothes, or attention. So, having these two little monsters was confusing to me, and made me think that they would never get along. NEVER. And that was most upsetting to me.
As I watched other siblings play together and their parents describe them as “best friends,” I felt a deep sadness. Our life was a screechy near constant battle, with two little kids as soldiers, vying for position. Not one to neurologically handle discord well, I would feel unsteady and crazy. Time outs were common. Tears were even more common. There was always someone crying (and sometimes it was me). Friends would always say, “Oh they’ll get along when they’re older, you just watch.” I would look at them shaking my head, and say, “Yeah, I’m not so sure that’s ever going to happen. You don’t know MY kids.” And it was true. With each passing year, things just did not improve, giving me less and less hope that the future would ever be better than the past.
Anyway, just when I thought that my kids were destined to be enemies forever, it happened. It was last summer. Cue the hallelujah chorus. They just suddenly got along. They just suddenly started to call one another best friends. They just suddenly were the brother and sister I had always dreamed of. I have no idea what happened. It really was like magic if you ask me, because it was so sudden, so out of the blue. But was I grateful? AM I GRATEFUL for this transformation? Oh yeah, I am so happy to have two children who get along. Who are one another’s biggest cheering squads, and who I now know will have a long and loving relationship. Jake and Ally. Brother and sister. And best friends. Finally. It took long enough. But hey, I’ll take it.
First of all, contrary to popular opinion, I was NOT the oldest person at the Pink concert. By a long shot! I have always really liked her because she has a super empowering message. But what surprised me more than anything was her show. She made Lady Gaga’s show look like a still life. She is an athlete and gymnast and apparently NOT RISK AVERSE! This video was my favorite part of the concert. I literally felt like I was going to spontaneously combust because I was, and there’s just no other word for it, although I don’t like this word, but here it is–DELIGHTED! it was unexpected and insane. I’ll actually never forget it. She’s coming back in December. For a big dose of happy, you should see her.
Yesterday on Facebook, my newsfeed turned pink and red. Everybody changed their profile pictures to a red box with two pink stripes. This was done in support of the gay marriage ruling, currently hanging in the balance, in the Supreme Court. It was in an effort to tell the Facebook world that we believe in human rights. Because make no mistake that what this issue is, is one of human rights.
What I find so interesting is the idea that somehow if you are a gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender you are somehow less of a person than I am, than Justice Scalia, the lifelong gay fearing loser who is so smart he made it to the Supreme Court. How do you go to sleep at night feeling like you are above, better, superior? No, really, what must it be like?
I have no superior feelings. I am just another person fighting the good fight to be happy and fulfilled and live a meaningful life with people I love. That’s it. That’s all. And that’s all I want for all people. To be able to have the same legal rights, the same shot at happy and fulfilled. My, my the fabric of society could go down the crapper if we allow gay people to legally marry. Well, that’s a crapper I’m willing to live my life in. Because that’s fair. If I get a slice, then you should get a slice too.
I ask that today, all you pink and red FBer folk, keep your eye on the prize and say your prayers to whoever your personal God is, that the Supreme Court will come to its senses and remember we are all people. All the same. All equal. Keep it in your heart today. Send it out into the world. It’s time.
No, it’s not cocaine, it’s salt. And I”m addicted.
I have an unhealthy relationship with salt. A sprinkle here, a sprinkle there, and I’m a happy eater. Even more than that, give me my lover, potato chips, deep fried and covered in just the right amount of salt and I’m feeling me some nirvana (I don’t eat them much, but I would like to eat them at every meal, every day, until the end of time).
You need salt for a healthy diet, but not nearly as much as I eat, or would like to eat. The daily salt requirement is 2,000 miligrams per day. I have no idea what that looks like, but I’m betting I’m over the limit by like a bajillion grains. And I’m not an unhealthy eater, really. I eat tons of vegetables (which I like to eat with salt) and lots of fruits, and I try to stay away from processed foods (which have insane amounts of salt) and stick with lean cuts of meat and chicken, but when I cook whatever it is I’m cooking, salt is one of the starring ingredients. Dancing on my food like the Rockettes. You would think my blood pressure would be somewhere near Pluto with the amount of salt I eat, but it’s not, it’s actually low. Still I would like to eat less of it, but can’t really imagine a life without the stuff.
You’d think I might be able to appeal to my vain self to reduce my salty intake. But even though the shaker gives me puffy eyes, and a bloaty tummy, I still continue to reach for the glass S. You should see me after a night at the movies, chomping down on movie popcorn, a vice and huge indulgence. I look a lot like a blowfish, which of course, is one of my best looks. And don’t even start me on Chinese food, or barbecue–I get that Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters look. Again, it’s me at my cutest.
People say, “Use herbs.” And I do, but guess what–herbs are not salty. They do not provide the satisfaction to my salt loving self that leaves me feeling satisfied. Herbs are lovely. They are just not salty.
I have had all sorts of salt. I love thick and crunchy Kosher salt. I adore lemon pepper salt. I have had black salt from Hawaii and pink salt, and rosemary salt. And oddly, I used to collect salt and pepper shakers. I had like 40 sets and was always trolling for more. I outgrew that little hobby, but not the salt. It seems obvious to me that if I had a salt lick in my backyard, I would probably be out there like an animal licking it everyday. And so it is, with shaker in hand, that I salute salt today. I love that stuff. I wish I didn’t love it quite so much, but there it is.
These little babies have changed the life of my hair. Not to mention my daughter’s pony tail, that is the actual width of a real pony.
The gratitude game doesn’t require something big. It just requires you to stop for a moment and think about one little, or big, or medium-sized thing that you feel grateful for. There is nothing so small, that it can’t help you focus on what’s good. So, today, I give gratitude for covered hair elastics. Yup! That’s my gratitude. (Don’t be all judge-y, that’s what it is.) Now, I’ll tell you why and maybe you’ll get it. When I was a kid, I had really, really long hair (except for that time my sister Joni cut it up to my chin while my parents were out, and was grounded for nearly the rest of her life). My mom would always say, “wear it away from your face.” I didn’t really love doing that, and when you’re young, does anyone really like to do what their mom says, or should I say, do daughters like to do what their mom’s say? Because I would say no (and so would my daughter). Anyway, back in the day, all we had were elastic band elastics. I do not recall having covered elastics! Now, I am admit to being old, but I didn’t grow up during the rise of the dinosaur. And yet, I’m telling you that I don’t think we had covered elastics! So, when I would put my hair in a ponytail, it would inevitably get stuck in the damn elastic and it would hurt like all sorts of hell to get the thing out. In general, there would be scissors, and possibly a section of hair gone that my mom would ususally say, “Nobody will notice that,” with a dismissive expression that really meant, “that’s the first thing anyone will notice.”
I don’t know when the “covered” elastic was invented, but did this person get the Nobel Prize in hair accoutrement? My daughter, who has four times the amount of hair that I have (seriously, this girl is possibly part horse), would not even be able to go to soccer practice, or do anything without this stretchy invention (which I wish I’d thought of, and don’t understand why I didn’t think of). So, there it is, the hair elastic is it, for me today, in the gratitude department. And that’s really all it takes. One little thing to stop and give thanks for. What’s your little gratitude today? Give me a holler and let me know. As you can see from this post, it can’t be too small.
*the gratitude-a-thon 