Category Archives: Uncategorized

02.21.14
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Help Wanted: Sisters to Get Me Through Life

The sweet Valentine my niece Megan sent to her sister Tamra

The sweet Valentine my niece Megan sent to her sister Tamra

Oh, how I wish I had a sister!  This has been a life-long refrain.  A recent Valentine post on Facebook between my two nieces, Megan and Tamra, stirred my envy embers anew.

As a little girl, I regularly begged my mother to make one more trip to the hospital to bring home a little bundle of pink sister joy.  Getting no results from her, one Christmas I elevated the request to Santa, still to no avail.  As the youngest of three siblings and the only girl, I tired of the never-ending rough and tumble of boys.   At home, my brothers used me as unwitting pawn in their sinister boy games, setting booby traps and ambushes that left me in a perpetual state of suspense. One brother abducted my paper dolls, snipped off their heads, and hung them on the clothesline.  And when they did invite me to play with them, it was usually a physical game in which I invariably turned up injured since they were so much bigger than me.  One game of ball tag ended with a head-on collision between my older brother and me.  He remembers the sensation of being momentarily slowed by some minor turbulence.  My recollection is of being flattened by a Mack truck. That same brother enjoyed fabricating and telling chilling stories designed to scare the bejeezus out of me.  One particularly complex tale told of the origins of a mole over his lip, recounting a terrible accident in which his lips were pulled off his face after they froze on a car door outside, and ending with the startling revelation that the mole was anchoring his lips.  (He did get in trouble for that one after I ran screaming to Mom begging her never to remove Tom’s mole lest his lips fall off.)

Me with my brothers and Mom. Notice how my mother seems to be protecting me from harm.

Me with my brothers and Mom. Notice how my mother seems to be protecting me from them

My brothers especially enjoyed the nights my parents went out and left them in charge of babysitting me.  They were then free to wreck havoc unfettered by parental interference.  I still remember my attempts to fall asleep looking pained, sure that when my parents returned they would look in on me, see my look of torture and then give my brothers hell.  That never worked either.

Of course it wasn’t all bad having brothers, and one benefit was that I had my own personal goon squad.  My brothers could torment me endlessly; however, if someone else looked at me cross-eyed, my older brother wanted the name and address of the perpetrator, and he was off to take care of business.  There were few repeat offenders.  But I was convinced my life would have been perfect, or at least calmer, had I had a loving sister as a companion.

Then I grew up and married a guy who came with a son.   I later gave birth to one more male and no females, and again found myself grossly outnumbered.  Further, none of the males in my nuclear family are particularly sensitive types. There are no art lovers or musicians or writers.  My husband’s favorite pastime is watching sports, any sport, preferably contact.  My son played just about every sport, and in his free time enjoys grisly video games, like Call of Duty and Halo, that I can’t even watch without getting nauseous.  There were many days I came home after work to find football on one TV, COD on the other, and dirty sweat socks hanging in every bathroom. I did insist my son take piano lessons, but his complaining was so incessant that I finally let him quit and he never went within six feet of the piano again. But my upbringing was good training for this environment, as I know the rules to just about any sport and I know how emotionally simple guys really are.

Throughout my life, my mother was a calm island of estrogen in my vast ocean of testosterone.  She and I were close, and we did girlie things together as time and money allowed, although neither of us was overly girlie, and probably out of convenience I developed into a tomboy anyway.  She told me repeatedly how happy she was to finally get a daughter after being surrounded by males the first 8 years of her marriage, and as I grew into my own version of token female, I understood the sincerity of that statement.  I really miss her. Since she passed away, I find myself the only surviving female from either my family of origin or my nuclear family.

Oh, how I wish I had a sister!  I know people who have sisters they wish they didn’t.  I know sister relationships can be rocky and emotionally fraught. But some shining examples of sisterly love abound in my extended family.  They have an emotional bond and deep DNA understanding that seems fundamentally different from the brother-sister connection.  Women tend to be more natural caregivers and nurturers, and when you have a best friend who is also your sister, what a blessing!

My friend Sue and her little sister Kathie

My friend Sue and her little sister Kathie

One early “sister act” that made me think I was missing out was my childhood friend Sue and her younger sister Kathie.   I met Sue in 6th grade math class and before long I was spending time at her home.  The Warrens’ house, unlike mine, was clearly matriarchal with a definite female sensibility.  Sue’s mom ruled the roost, along with Sue’s grandma (Sue’s mom’s mom lived with them) and there were no brothers.  I only vaguely remember Sue’s dad  – usually sitting in the living room watching football games by himself.  Sue and Kathie adored each other and their house was like a sorority.  If I had a problem I need to talk over, I could go to Sue’s and have a ready female support group of four available for consultation and advice.

My lovely nieces. Clockwise from left, Alyssa and Kelsey; Genoa and Carey, Megan and Tamra

My lovely nieces. Clockwise from left, Alyssa and Kelsey; Genoa and Carey, Megan and Tamra

My two nieces, Megan and Tamra, probably love each other more than any two sisters I have ever met.  My husband’s sister Judy, their mother, once told me that Megan fell in love with her little sister Tamra the day Tamra was born and they have been best friends ever since.  They have supported each other through thick and thin, and are now facing a serious health issue together.   But in the midst of everything, they laugh, they talk, and they love being together.  My husband’s brother Rich also has two daughters, Genoa and Carey, who share a similar bond of love and affection.

My brother Jim was rewarded with two girls of his own.  Besides his two daughters, he has a severely disabled son, which has complicated and challenged their family life.  Yet my nieces Alyssa and Kelsey are growing into gorgeous, gracious, capable young women who support each other and their parents and who inspire me with their adaptability.

Don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t trade my husband, son or brothers for anything.  I love them all to death.  I adore them.  I enjoy hanging out with them.  I love sports!! I just wish I could inject a close female relative into my nuclear world.  I often crave that female perspective and hug in those situations where the guys either want to “fix” me or just get that clueless befuddled look.

And more than just wanting a close sister/friend I can talk to at Thanksgiving, there’s a practical side to this problem.  One that is picking up more urgency the older I get.  Who will take care of me in my old age?  One thing I learned, in caring for my parents during their decline, was that either a sister or, more commonly, the oldest daughter in the family is typically the caregiver.  That was me for my parents.  Who will be that for me?  My son wanted nothing to do with visiting grandma in her assisted living facility and he found her rather disturbing once dementia claimed her mind.  One day, during my Sandwich Years, when I had him as captive audience while driving to school, I went on an embarrassing (in hindsight) rant that went something like this:

 Me:  [out of blue]  “When you meet a girl that you think might be The One for you, I want to meet her right away.  Right away!!!  You need to understand – this girl is going to be very, very, important to me.  Why?  Because when I’m old and Dad is dead and I get dotty like Grandma, who do you think is going to take care of me?  Not you!   No, hopefully your wife!   She’s going to tell YOU where to go and what to do, and she’s going to decide what to do about ME.  If she doesn’t like me, I’ll get parked in some God-forsaken Looney bin, and nobody will even visit me.  If she likes me, maybe it’ll be a nice place and you guys and my grandkids will come visit.  If she loves me, maybe I’ll even live with you.  So, [picking up steam] I get veto power over this girl that you are getting serious with.  Understand?!!”

Son:  “Mom, I’m only 14.”

Me:  “I know that!   Future reference.”

 Oh, how I wish I had a sister to discuss all this with! But the sad fact is, I don’t have a biological mother, sister or daughter.  I do have wonderful sisters-in-law, nieces, cousins and aunts, but they mostly live in other cities. I have noticed, particularly in the past few years (once I started slowing down in anticipation of retirement) that I have instinctively put more energy into friendships, particularly my female friends.  Furthermore, I’ve increasingly reached out to long-standing friends and family members, in some cases renewing connections that had been dormant for years.  I am finding these relationships to be deeply comforting and rewarding.

What is it about sisters and close female friends that are so impactful? For answers, I did a little research, and my findings confirmed what I’ve already discovered from my own non-scientific experience.    The need for community with other women is biological.  In The Tending Instinct, by Shelley E Taylor, (as described in the article “The Girlfriend Instinct – The Value of Female Friendships” by Debbie Haupert) a variety of studies lead to the following findings:

 Longevity – Married men live longer than single men, yet marriage is not a determinant of life expectancy in women.  Rather, women with strong female social ties (girlfriends) live longer than those without them.

 Stress – Women don’t have the same ‘fight or flight” response to stress that men do.  Rather, women under stress have the need to ‘tend and befriend.’  We want to be with our young and our friends.  Time with our friends actually reduces our stress levels.

 More stress – When we’re with our girlfriends, our bodies emit the “feel good” hormone oxytocin, helping us reduce everyday stress.  By prioritizing our female friendships and spending time with these friends, we take advantage of a very simple, natural way to relax.

 Even more stress – One study show that prairie voles, a monogamous rodent, have a similar response to stress.  When a male vole is put in a stressful situation, he runs to his female partner.   Female voles, when stressed, immediately run to the females they were raised with.

 Health – Women without strong social ties risk health issues equivalent to being overweight or a smoker!

So, now it all makes sense!  I have instinctively been assembling a close network of “sisters” that will support me and nurture me, friends that I can talk with and laugh with, who know me well, and that I can discuss my feelings with. My lunches with friends are actually inexpensive therapy sessions and important emotional work.  (In fact, I wonder if I should write them off as medical expenses?  I’ll ask my CPA – who’s a man. Never mind.) And hopefully, someday my “sister-friends’ will visit me at the assisted living facility (in case that future daughter-in-law thing doesn’t work out.)

02.17.14
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Cleaning out the Closets

I’ve been mulling over the term “spring cleaning” lately.  I’ve decided it’s a helpful metaphor for me in my current life stage.

The phrase connotes a seasonal aspect, like my new season of life, as I leave behind a 25-year corporate career and begin early retirement and my next life phase.   Spring suggests renewal, a time of new life and new discovery.    The expression also refers to a process of cleansing – washing, scrubbing, scouring, and dusting  – that is necessary after a winter of neglect.

It’s now been six months since I retired.  The first few weeks were akin to waking up in the Recovery Room after surgery.  I was ecstatic to be done, but felt groggy and needed rest and time to heal.  In mid-September we embarked on a hectic (some say manic) travel schedule, including a dream trip to Paris and multiple visits to the east coast.  Then came the holidays and one more trip east in January.

Now we are home for a spell.  I’m rested and relaxed.  I can’t imagine returning to my former corporate job.  And it feels like springtime – besides the unseasonably warm weather we are experiencing on the west coast, it’s as if my sensation of the world around me has sprung back to life, after what I now realize was a prolonged period of stress-induced numbness.  I’m enjoying the exploration of new activities and hobbies.  Every morning I wake up excited to experience the events on my calendar.  On weekday mornings, I walk to the YMCA, filled with gratitude, and participate in exercise classes.  I’ve particularly fallen in love with yoga.  At my first yoga lesson, I could barely touch my toes and had no clue what a downward facing dog was.  Now I do a kickass cat/cow pose and I find it unbelievably relaxing. On Wednesdays, I go to golf lessons.  Sure, I hit the guy next to me on the driving range (ball to shoulder) with an errant swing, but then I occasionally drive a shot straight and clean and bask in my moment of awesomeness.   I’ve joined a Women’s Bible Study on Tuesday evenings and we are doing a study on the book of James.  I like the women in the group and the Beth Moore curriculum feels like it was written just for me.  On Wednesday evenings I plan, cook and serve dinner to my husband.  I’ve had not one culinary disaster and we are both enjoying this new tradition.  I’ve reconnected with my good friend Cissy from my women’s prayer group 20 years ago, and I’m helping her start a nonprofit corporation.  I see this as a good way to learn the nuts and bolts of nonprofits, while having regular lunches with my very entertaining friend in the process. Finally, I’m still getting kicks out of all the adult education classes I signed myself up for.

But in the midst of my excitement and renewed energy for my current and future life, I’ve realized there is some “spring cleaning” needed following a long winter season.  When I stopped and really thought about it, I was stunned to realize I endured a 12-year-long winter, that only just ended with my retirement.   It started in 2001 when we put our townhouse on the market and then bought a fixer-upper house in a new town  just a few miles away.  In the midst of the moving process, we suffered the death of my stepson.  After we moved to our “new” house, I returned to a full-time work schedule (I’d happily worked an 80% schedule for 10 years beginning when my son was born).  Soon after I went full-time, I was offered and took a challenging new leadership role with my company. I was given 2 big promotions and increasing responsibilities in the next four years.  Within a year after taking the leadership position, my father was diagnosed with cancer, which was especially tragic given he was the caregiver for my mother, who was suffering from dementia.  My father’s cancer diagnosis began an incredibly challenging five-year period (my Sandwich Generation years), ending with the death of first dad and then mom.  I was strained to navigate end-of-life issues with both parents (with minimal help from my siblings who lived afar) while balancing career and my own family.  If there was ever a time in my life I came close to cracking, it was during my Sandwich years.  And somehow, somewhere in the middle of all this, we remodeled our house, requiring us to move into a rental for 14 months, and my uncle and father-in-law also passed away.  I am shocked now as I write all this, but at the time I just tried to put one foot before the other and not think too much about what was happening in my life.

Following my parents’ deaths and the conclusion of our home remodel, I was left feeling completely disorganized and very out of control.  We moved many of our things to off-site storage during our first move in order to clean out the townhouse for showing, and then decided to just leave belongings in the storage shed until after our remodel.   Over time, possessions of my stepson and our parents were added to the mix.  Our garage was increasingly filled with clutter.  But, I still had a very stressful work life that was sapping my energy, and I was too weary and beaten-down to address the mess.  At some point, I just decided to defer cleanup to retirement.

Our garage, which is the most egregious, but emblematic of other messes in my life

Our garage, which is the most egregious, but emblematic of other messes that need sorting out

Now that I’ve retired, and our initial travel blitz is over, its time to start the cleanup!  My husband and I have taken some baby steps in the past couple weeks to attack the garage, which we’re finding a highly unpleasant and disagreeable job.  (No wonder people don’t clean out their garages!) But more than the physical cleanup, I’m discovering there’s emotional tidying to be done.  It seems I am now constantly opening closets and pulling up rugs and finding messes that I’d left for another day. The deaths of my stepson and parents recently bubbled up.  (See my  post about how these losses smacked me anew.)   As I was going through my parents’ boxes, I opened one containing my mother’s favorite china.  A rush of wonderful memories flooded me, followed by my still-confusing range of emotions surrounding my mother’s descent into dementia.  The other day I walked by my son’s empty room (he’s away at college) and felt a weighty sadness about our empty nest and my son’s absence.  Now that my husband and I are together 24/7, we’re adjusting to new rules of engagement and it’s harder to skirt those pesky relational issues we’ve artfully ignored for over 25 years. And then there are questions of my own sense of worth and ego.   If I’m not bringing home the bacon, am I still important?  My springtime renewal seems to include the entire range of emotions.

Make no mistake – this is all good stuff.   I see my heightened awareness as a positive sign that my heart, mind and body are engaged and ready to start taking on not just the good stuff but the messes.   God has faithfully placed incredible people and experiences in my path to guide me toward healing and I welcome the process, although I know I will never be “done” and I need to remember to pace myself.  I am blessed with a husband who is willing to slog through the mud with me.   I have wonderful supportive friends. It does make me wonder, however, if what I’m experiencing is common for those who slow down and experience a place of relative calm.  Could this be why some purposely stay on the hamster wheel – to avoid the messes? I believe I will be stronger and wiser as I get my house in order.  I just wish sometimes that messes weren’t quite so messy.

02.08.14
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Honoring Losses

“Unresolved loss is cumulative and cumulatively negative.” I was recently struck by these words (from The Grief Recovery Handbook by John James and Russell Friedman).

Right smack in the middle of my current manic phase of retirement, as I was busy throwing myself into the pursuit of new and exciting opportunities for my upcoming retirement years, I experienced a profound and wholly unexpected episode of grieving for past losses.

It started a week ago on Friday, which was my stepson David’s birthday.   He would have been 43 years old, but he was killed in a snowboarding accident in 2002.  I typically don’t make any public mention of him or the circumstances each year on his birthday; rather, my husband, son and I quietly and prayerfully remember him.

David, handsome inside and out, near the ocean that he loved

David, handsome inside and out, near the ocean that he loved

This year, my niece Tamra (David’s cousin), posted a photo on Facebook of David (when he was around 7 or 8) with Tamra and Megan (Tamra’s sister), at their grandparents’ house celebrating his birthday.  Along with the photo was a touching sentiment about David’s birthday and how much he is missed in our family.   This simple act prompted an organic electronic outpouring of remembrances on Facebook, with Megan, Tamra and Kim (David’s girlfriend at the time of his death) my son and I all participating (each of us from a different city) with postings of more photos and memories.  It was a remarkable, deeply comforting and completely unanticipated community experience.

The next day I was scheduled to travel to San Diego by myself for the weekend to visit friends from high school.  I was looking forward to a fun ‘girls’ weekend, but I was still feeling raw from Friday and the long drive gave me time to reflect.  I thought about David and all he meant to me.  I was young (27) when I met my husband, who at the time was a single dad with custody of 14-year-old David (who played adorable match-maker during our courtship).  My subsequent marriage was therefore a package deal, and I became full-time stepmom (at 29) to a headstrong and spirited teenage son.  My relationship with David was one of the most challenging, but ultimately most rewarding, in my life.  With him, I learned to be a mom.  I learned about friendship and love. He could be a harsh critic, but also my most loyal steadfast supporter.   As he grew older, he became a cherished confidante. When my son was born, I wasn’t sure how David would react to a half-brother, but David loved him immediately and fervently. David couldn’t get enough of him and had great plans for the two of them. They would’ve gotten into such wonderful trouble together!

David with his little brother at their grandpa's birthday party

David with his “little bro” at their grandpa’s birthday party

When David died at age 31, he was just coming into his own.   I was looking forward with great anticipation to seeing him settle down, get married, have kids (grandkids!!!!!!!!).   People, trying to be helpful, said things like, “Feel better, he’s in a better place” or “Time heals all wounds” and there’s partial truth in those statements.  My Christian faith reassures me of his eternal life. But the dead don’t grieve; rather, grief belongs to the ones left behind.  And David’s death still hurts. My loss is a future without him.  My son, who is now 20, was 8 when David died.  I’m sad that my son grew up without his big brother – a big brother that would have been his biggest fan and so proud of his accomplishments.  For years after David died, I still looked for him to show up at my son’s sporting events, and when I saw someone that looked like David, my heart would jump and then plummet at the realization that it wasn’t him.  When the phone rang or the front door opened, I had a similar reaction.  At my son’s Induction Day at the Naval Academy, in the midst of intense pride, I felt intense sadness that neither David nor my parents were there.  I’m sad that I don’t have grandkids to help David raise.  He would’ve made an awesome dad.

My Mom, Dad and my Uncle Dick at my wedding in 1988

My Mom, Dad and my Uncle Dick at my wedding in 1988

The closer I got to San Diego, I also became melancholy about my parents.  I was starting to get annoyed at myself for all the drama, but it was rather involuntary and there wasn’t much I could do.   San Diego holds many memories, as it was there I spent my teenage years and where my parents remained until shortly before they both passed away.  For most of my adult life, my parents’ house (later condo) in San Diego was my safe haven – where I would return to visit, to rest, to drop off my son for babysitting.  My parents always gave me the space I needed, no questions asked.  If I showed up and spent four days sleeping upstairs, that was fine with them.  If I asked them to take us to Sea World, the Zoo and the Wild Animal Park (all in the same weekend), they happily complied.  When they both died, I lost my safe haven.

Fortunately, in the midst of my gloom, my visit to San Diego was exactly what I needed.   I am blessed to have close enduring friendships from my high school days that provide me with space to be vulnerable.  First I had brunch with my friend Kelly, whom I met in sixth grade, and who is one of the kindest, most compassionate people I know.  The rest of the weekend I spent with my friend Celeste, who has overcome great personal challenges with a grace and aplomb that I have long admired.  She is completely nonjudgmental and I’ve always felt comfortable talking to her about anything.  She opened up her house to me and gave me that safe haven I was missing. Being with friends who literally and figuratively embraced me for the weekend, who gave me room to talk and rest, who know me well enough to both challenge and support me, was life sustaining.

As I left San Diego for the drive home, I reflected again on loss.  I thought about how, as we get older, the losses begin to accumulate.  Throughout our lives we experience broken relationships, job loss, divorce, death, empty nest, and, most recently for me, retirement, which signals the end of a career.  I thought about how important it is to pause to recognize losses, to honor them and the attendant grief.   One of the benefits to me of this blog is that writing helps me to identify and process.  More important is the experience of being truly heard by others.  I realized how important the past three days had been, and how God placed key people and events in my path to help guide and comfort me through some unexpected but necessary grief.

I will never be completely “over” grieving my past losses and I will have new wounds to face.  As I head into retirement, I need to be aware of any grief over leaving my career and that phase of my life. But as last weekend reminded me, when I was slapped in the face with unforeseen and powerful grief, I have less to fear from sorrow and loss when I take the time to honor and recognize it, surrounded with people who know me and care for me.  Sometimes in my quest to charge forward, I need to stop and look backward.  And rest for a spell.  Time does NOT heal all wounds.

01.31.14
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The Manic Self-Discovery Phase of Retirement, or Finding What I Was Born To Do

I haven’t had much time to write my blog posts, as I’ve been busy finding myself.   As you may recall, I recently experienced the first “adjustment anxiety” of my fledgling retirement, triggered by the prospect of extended time at home with (horror!) nothing specific to do.  That in turn sparked a flurry of activity designed to thrust myself into and through the next phase of retirement (the “re-orientation” phase) as quickly as humanly possible.  Being the goal-oriented girl I am, my objective is to get to the “completely comfortable and enjoying retirement to the hilt” stage in record time.  I am completely aware this may not be sound strategy and I may need to be patient and contemplative, but that’s not my strength and I can’t really help myself.

My partner Sandy and I with our Chicken, Lemon and Olive Stew at my cooking class

My partner and I with our Chicken, Lemon and Olive Stew at my cooking class

So, this week found me in a state of manic self-discovery.   I signed up for eight adult education classes over the next two months.  The first, last Saturday, was a seminar entitled “What Were You Born to Do?”  The second, a five-week series of golf lessons, began on Wednesday.  The third, a cooking class called “Winter Soups and Stews” was on Wednesday night.  I also scheduled exercise classes every morning at the local YMCA (including two yoga classes, which is new for me).  Last Saturday, before my adult education class, I met a friend at a Paint Your Own Pottery studio and painted a plate.  On Monday, I drove an hour to visit my college roommate who was in town visiting her mother.  On Tuesday, my husband and I had a dinner and theatre date with another couple.  On Friday night, I have my monthly Book Club meeting.  On Saturday morning, I’m driving to San Diego for the weekend to visit high school friends.   I fully recognize the overexcited, Energizer Bunny quality of my life right now, and I don’t think I can or should keep this up forever, but it has been invigorating!

Getting back to the seminar on Saturday (“What Were You Born to Do?”), I was intrigued by the description in the class catalogue, but wary it might be crackpot. “You were born to make a unique contribution to humanity.  Progressing toward this purpose brings joy and abundance. Straying from it causes stress and emptiness.  To accomplish this mission one of the 33 Natural Talents is wired into your DNA.  It’s so subtle, you rarely notice it; yet so powerful, it’s the source of your highest potential.”  I was hoping my Natural Talent was something lucrative.

The class proved to be surprisingly effective and energizing. The instructor, who reminded me of an older version of the Professor on Gilligan’s Island, began by describing his own life story and how his recurring dissatisfaction with the jobs he’d held had spurred intense self-analysis. This led to recognition of his own “Natural Talent” and its under-utilization.   He eventually quit his job and began giving seminars, helping others to recognize their Natural Talents.  He has fine-tuned the process and the list of Natural Talents through extensive research and working with “thousands” of people at the seminars he’s conducted over the past twenty years.

Materials from the What Were You Born to Do? class (coming to a community college near you!)

Materials from the class (and coming to a community college near you!)

During the course of the 3-1/2 hour class, through listening to descriptions of the Natural Talents, completing questionnaires and quizzes, class discussions, and reflection on my life and activities, recurring behaviors, likes and dislikes, I concluded that my Natural Talent fell under the general category of Creative Arts, and more specifically, Writing.   During one class exercise, I recalled that some of my favorite activities as a young girl were reading, especially biographies of famous women; writing stories, letters and diaries; and making up elaborate stories regarding my dolls and other toys.  I also remember winning writing contests, especially short story fiction. In college, unlike almost every other classmate I knew, I loved writing research papers.  In law school, I made Law Review based on the strength of my “Comment” (a research paper on a topic never before published).  In fact, I was named Law Review Comments Editor, and the next year edited others’ Comments.  As I reflected on my favorite part of my business career, it was the writing – letters, presentations, reports – that I enjoyed the most, and it was always important to me to “tell the story” in my writing.  And most recently, writing my blog since retiring has been a source of great satisfaction for me.

It all seemed to resonate, and gave me a sense of both calm and excitement.  Calm because it provides a direction to focus on.  The endless possibilities for the rest of my life can seem overwhelming, and having a narrowed focus feels more manageable. It is also exciting to think of doing something I truly enjoy and that will utilize my God-given talents.  Of course, I immediately flew into What Exactly Can I Do With This and How Can I Make Money Writing mode.  The instructor gently reminded us that making a change into a new field or activity is a process and will not happen overnight.  He advised us to always take steps in the direction of our Natural Talent, but to also let it simmer internally and let our subconscious work on the exact fit for ourselves. Another indicator I’m on the right track was the list of other classes I’d registered for, before the seminar on Natural Talents.  It was interesting to see I’d chosen “Writing Your First Book,” “Publishing Your First Book,” “How to Give Seminars and Workshops,” and “Blogging for Fun and Profit.”

The beautiful thing about retirement is that I no longer need to consider earnings potential when picking an activity.  I would love to parlay writing into an enjoyable AND lucrative second career but there is no rush or imperative.  In the meantime, I can dream about the possibilities.  Novel?  Humor?  Travelogue? Researched nonfiction pieces on politics, or history?  A biography?  An expanded blog?  All I can say is, now I’m down with the re-orientation phase!

01.27.14
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My First Wednesday Night Dinner

My recent meltdown (which after further research I self-diagnosed as being the 4th stage of retirement) unexpectedly produced several positive outcomes.   As detailed in my previous post, my husband and I agreed that I would henceforth make dinner every Wednesday night.  More importantly, it spurred honest conversation, which helped us both.

To be clear, my “existential crises” (or meltdown as I half-jokingly referred to my recent discomfort) was not particularly serious.  After my last post, I realized I must have caused some concern, as a few friends reached out to me to ensure I was all right.  I assured them that I was simply going through a bumpy but perfectly normal phase in my journey.  It is important to me, in writing this blog, that I be honest and transparent about both the ups and downs of my first year of retirement, which may make some uncomfortable or cause worry.  But I fear the tendency to sugarcoat our lives not only causes others to feel inadequate in comparison, but also circumvents the opportunity for our community to identify with or assist us in our pain.  My hope is that others can learn from and benefit from my experiences.  (And I certainly appreciated the calls of concern!)

Getting back to my first Wednesday night dinner, which was last Wednesday, I must say it was marvelous.  I picked that day because my husband does volunteer work every Wednesday and I have the house to myself. I reasoned it would be a good day for me to learn and experiment and mess up in peace, and would cause my husband less heartburn not having to witness.  I know how to cook, and in fact kept myself reasonably fed during my twenties when I was single, but I’ve become rusty the past 10-15 years. I also wanted to play loud disco music while I was cooking.

The salmon and tomatoes

The salmon and tomatoes

I chose heart-healthy recipes from my “Cholesterol Down” book (the diet plan which I’ve used to control my LDL levels) including walnut-encrusted salmon, peas with dill and margarine, roasted tomatoes with garlic and, for dessert, baked stuffed apples.  I’ve been lobbying for more fish on the menu, and I dearly wanted to prove I could make a tasty AND healthy meal. I assembled my list of ingredients and on Tuesday, we went grocery shopping together and bought what I needed.

In order to be ready to eat at around 6:30 pm, as my husband was due home at 6:00, I started the prep work at around 4:00, figuring that would give me plenty of time.  (Wrong! We didn’t eat until 8:30 pm.) My first task was to chop cilantro.  Since we bought fresh cilantro, dill and basil, and they’re all green, I wanted to make triple-sure I had the right herb, so I ran to the computer and googled “What does Cilantro look like?”   After looking at images that assured me I had the right herb, I googled “How do you chop cilantro?”  I found a short You Tube video of some amiable rotund chef who explained that one folds the bunch of cilantro in half, that the stems may be included in the chopping, and then demonstrated chopping.  I ran back and replicated the amiable rotund chef.

Then I decided, as long as I’m going to all this trouble to make a nice meal, I should also make a nice presentation.  So, rather than sit at the kitchen island while watching the news, like we usually do, I set the table in the dining room.  I put out place mats (ones that reminded me of France), silverware, cloth napkins and a candle.

For the next recipe, I needed to chop dill, so I ran and googled “What does dill look like?” and “How do you chop dill?”  I found the amiable rotund chef again on You Tube who explained that one should NOT include the stems when chopping dill and again demonstrated the chopping process.  I went back to the kitchen and chopped my dill.  For the last recipe I repeated this process with the basil (except this time by process of elimination I cleverly identified the basil). By now, I felt incredibly grateful and bonded to the amiable rotund chef.

Peas with dill. Who knew the potatoes would take an hour to simmer?

Peas with dill. Who knew the potatoes would take an hour to simmer?

And then at 5:00 a curious thing happened.  My husband came home early. He explained that his last appointment cancelled.  When I heard the key in the door, my heart sank.  I really wanted to have everything ready when he walked in the door – to wow him.  I also worried that he would be uncomfortable with me cooking in his kitchen, or that he would hover while making “suggestions” or I would have some catastrophe while he watched.  Instead, I heard him say “Ooooh!” as he saw the table set in the dining room, and then he walked into the kitchen, gave me a big kiss and hug and said “I’m really glad we’re doing this.  I’ve been looking forward to this meal all day. I’m sure it’s going to be great!”  And with that, he went to the computer in the family room and quietly checked email and news while I continued working on the meal (and no comment on the loud disco music).

Everything took a little longer than I thought, and I have to say, the recipe for roasted tomatoes with garlic was a pain in the ass.  It called for me to cut tiny tomatoes in half and fresh garlic into slices and then “stud” tiny tomatoes with even tinier garlic slices.  When I looked up “what [the hell] does it mean to stud something with something” on Google, the amiable rotund chef was nowhere to be found, but I gleaned from other sources that it meant sticking a garlic slice into each tomato.

The potatoes that were simmering with the peas took forever, so I decided to begin dinner without them.  I lit the candle, my husband opened a bottle of wine, and we seated ourselves in the dining room and started on the salmon and tomatoes.  Later the peas and potatoes were served, and we finished with the baked apples for dessert. I was thrilled with how well everything came out.  We talked and laughed and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in our dining room. I recounted all my googling and what I learned about chopping herbs (which actually impressed my husband). He very thoughtfully and sincerely told me, “These dishes are all fantastic.  They could honestly be served at a fine restaurant.   I hope that you will cook more often!”

And the pies de resistance…the baked apples!

And the pies de resistance…the baked apples!

All in all, a successful beginning to my “re-orientation” phase.  It was a satisfying day, and most importantly, we’re both looking forward to next Wednesday!

01.19.14
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The Basketball Tripleheader: My Life as a Groupie

I think I’m becoming a Navy sports groupie.  Perhaps I need to “get a life.”  But in the meantime, a highlight of my last trip to Annapolis was a full-day Navy basketball triple header.   We started the day at 9:00 AM, watching the Navy JV basketball team (of which our son is a member) play the NAPS (Naval Academy Preparatory School) team.  Then the Army-Navy basketball doubleheader kicked off in Alumni Hall with the varsity women’s game at 1:30 PM and the varsity men’s at 4:00 PM.

Our son’s game was in the old Halsey Field House gym where my husband used to play when he was a midshipmen. It was a rather unremarkable game, other than the fact that my son got a Charlie horse on each leg and hurt his foot when someone stepped on it. But just being back in a gym watching my son play basketball was pure gold.

After lunch we moved over to glittering Alumni Hall for the Army-Navy games.  For the uninitiated, it must be understood that a primary goal of the U.S. Naval Academy (“Navy”) is to beat the U.S. Military Academy (“Army”) at everything and anything they can.  Likewise, a primary goal of Army is to beat Navy at everything and anything they can.  At times that seems a larger mutual objective than preparing for any foreign enemy. When Navy plays Army in any sport, emotions run at a fever pitch, and a carnival atmosphere results.  It is impossible not to be swept up in the spirit of the Army cadets and Navy midshipmen.

There were so many enjoyable things about the day.  First, I love watching the level to which women’s sports have risen. Having parented only boys, I’ve watched only men’s games for years. Title IX has certainly changed the complexion of the sporting world.  At my high school, the big sports for girls were swimming and softball and I don’t recall the teams given much priority.   Although I’m sure it happened, I don’t remember girls winning athletic college scholarships. It was not particularly cool to be a female “jock” in high school.  I felt my heart swell with pride watching the Navy women play basketball. They are strong and skilled yet still feminine.  Off the court, they are studying science and engineering at one of the most rigorous technical universities in the country. They give me hope!

CDR Becky Calder after her jersey was retired at USNA (photo US Naval Academy)

CDR Becky Calder after her jersey was retired at USNA (photo US Naval Academy)

The halftime entertainment was a group of precision jump-roping elementary and middle school girls called the “Firecrackers.”  They were unbelievably proficient in their tumbling and rope-skipping routines, bringing the midshipmen to their feet with applause. Also at halftime, the Naval Academy Athletic Association retired the first jersey of a woman basketball player, Cdr. Becky Calder (formerly Dowling), a member of the USNA Class of 1998.  As I listened to her biography, I was impressed with her accomplishments on the basketball court.  She was credited with sparking the first successful era for the Navy women’s basketball program at the Division I level. Her class’s four-year total 80 victories set a school record at the time and helped the Navy women win their first Patriot League regular season title. 
Individually, Dowling was selected as the Patriot League’s “Rookie of the Year” in addition to a trio of all-league accolades. She still ranks among Navy’s top 10 career leaders in 15 statistical categories, including 1st in rebounds, rebounding average, steals and minutes played, while also standing 6th in points scored.  Even more so, I was impressed with her accomplishments after graduation from the Naval Academy. Dowling attended flight school and trained to fly the F/A-18 Super Hornet. She became the first female pilot to graduate from Navy’s Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor program, more commonly called TOPGUN. Dowling was an active duty pilot for 14 years, serving aboard aircraft carriers during Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom.  When interviewed after the game, Becky said “I’m extremely humbled to be the first player in program history to have my jersey retired. I’m proud, but what makes me most happy is knowing that I won’t be the last.” I loved that the current Navy women’s team stayed court side during the half-time ceremony, and the look of inspiration on their face was priceless. Way to keep chipping away at that glass ceiling!

After halftime, the Navy women went on to beat Army by 10.  I noticed during the women’s game, many of the male players came out of the locker rooms to cheer on the women.  The tradition after an Army-Navy game is for each team’s alma mater to be played, the winning team’s last.  Both teams (and cadets and midshipmen in attendance) stand at attention for each other’s alma mater, but Army ends theirs with “Beat Navy!” and Navy ends theirs with “Beat Army!”  It is inspiring to watch young people from both academies show their mutual respect to each other and to their rivalry.  (Note that nobody yells “Beat Air Force!” which really gets under the “Zoomies’” skin; in fact, I once saw a bumper sticker that said “Go Navy!  Beat Army!  Air Force is irrelevant.”)

Then it was announced that between basketball games, members of the Navy football team would be in Alumni Hall signing autographs.  I was beside myself.  I bolted from my seat to search out my favorite Navy players.  Mainly I wanted to see Keenan Reynolds (QB) and Nick Sloan (PK).  Although I tried not to be TOO obvious, I have what I can only describe as a “Mom-Crush” on these two players; meaning I wish I could be their second mom.  It is totally irrational, but through three seasons of attending most Navy football home games, and following the ups and downs of the team and individual players, I found myself bonding from afar with these young men. I feel an odd kinship and pride in them like they were my own sons. Reynolds, because we’ve watched him play out the all-American success story – thrust into a big game as a freshman to relieve an injured (and ineffective) starting quarterback and leading his team to victory and who is on his way to becoming one of the most successful QBs in Navy history.  Sloan, the kicker, because he’s from San Diego and I admire how he kept his composure this past season to achieve success following crushing failures.

Tip off at the Navy Men's Basketball Game

Tip off at the Navy Men’s Basketball Game

I walked (suppressing the urge to run) over and found a very long table with my favorite Navy players, Keenan at the end.   I realized that (1) in my haste I didn’t bring anything for them to sign; and (2) most of the people getting autographs were under 10 years old and 5 feet tall.  So, I coolly walked down the table and stared at all of the guys.  I’m sure if any of them had looked at me, I would have creeped them out.   Then I stationed myself near Keenan at the end of the table and just stared at him for a while.  After about 10 minutes of staring, I decided to take action.  I approached Nick Sloan, said something lame about being from San Diego and complimented him on “hanging in there” and shook his hand. To his credit, he acted like he thought me being from San Diego was interesting and introduced me to the guy next to him who he said was also from San Diego and who played my high school in football.  My courage up, I went back to Keenan and waited for my opportunity.  When a break in the young autograph-seekers occurred, I shoved my hand in his face, asked if I could shake his hand, congratulated him on a great season and asked him how his eyes were. (In their Bowl game, a horrid player on the other team was caught on camera trying to poke Keenan’s eyes after a tackle.  In my role as second mom, I’ve been worrying about his eyes ever since.)  He shook my hand and said, in response to my question about his eyes, “They’re fine, ma’am.”

Reggie Miller joins the sportscasting team for coverage of the men's game

Reggie Miller joins the sportscasting team for coverage of the men’s game

Then I went back to my seat and watched Army beat Navy by five points in the men’s basketball game.  But not before Reggie Miller (former UCLA basketball star) showed up to do the play-by-play and sit less than 20 yards in front of me. The “Firecrackers” put on another spectacular halftime show, again bringing the midshipmen to their feet. At the end of the game, the Army alma mater played last, but it was still a great Navy day.  It was the kind of day I have almost come to expect when visiting the Academy, where I am surprised and delighted and inspired by the talent and character of the young people I am exposed to.    And I am never washing my right hand again.

01.15.14
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Bridge Lessons

The game of Bridge, the game of my parents, has finally hunted and overtaken me. Retirement can be a time to pick up new hobbies and try new activities.  Retirement can also be a time to revisit past challenges.  Looks like, despite my better judgment, I’m learning to play Bridge, which illustrates all of the above.   And it’s more than a bit ironic since I’ve spent my entire life vigorously avoiding the game.

My parents were avid Bridge players.  My mother played with the ladies in various groups and clubs over the years, and both parents enjoyed Bridge parties with other couples.  It was seemingly polite social activity, but make no mistake —–they were both highly competitive and loved nothing more than crushing their opponents.

My first encounter came when I was about seven years old.  My parents determined (since Bridge requires four people, two more than them) that they needed a ready pool of Bridge players, presumably to hone their skills for the kill at Bridge Club, and looked no further than their offspring to inflict Bridge lessons.   Thank God Almighty I am the THIRD child and have two older brothers.   Tom and Jim, who must have been about 12 and 14, were led to the card table like sheep to the slaughter.   My dad claimed my younger brother as his partner and Jim took the news like a prisoner receiving a week of hard labor.

I quickly deduced what was about to transpire was not going to be pleasant and wisely decided to go underground in my room the remainder of the evening.   Not even Mary Poppins (the sole record I had, volume turned high) could drown the distinct sounds of irritation (parents) and misery (brothers) coming from the living room.  I heard sounds of shouting and crying and words like “Trump” and “No Trump” and “Three Spades” floating down the hall.    I heard Dad bellow, “Mary, Jim trumped my ace!!!!”  (Dad spoke through Mom when he was particularly agitated or flabbergasted.) I did not know what this meant, but I knew it spelled big trouble for Jim.  I thought I heard Jim whimpering. It was about this time I formulated my life-long goal of avoiding Bridge at all costs.

Family Bridge lessons were perpetrated over the years but I always managed to evade them.   There were a few close calls – for example, when I was older and Mom hosted the bridge ladies, one of whom cancelled at the last minute.  My mom sweetly suggested she could “give me a quick lesson” so I could fill in, but I knew better than to take that bait!   I understood it would be a slippery slope if I capitulated, so I quickly manufactured urgent errands and fled.

You can imagine my reaction, then, when one night in November our good friends proposed a pleasant game of Bridge.  Now, Renee and Stan (names changed) are dear friends who host us in their lovely home when we visit Annapolis.  They have been more than generous to our family and we love them dearly.  Anyone else, upon mere utterance of the word Bridge, I would have refused immediately.  But I knew this was music that I must face.   My time had come.

So there I was seated at the table, with Renee as my partner.  She is affable, warm and outgoing, but with that same steely competitiveness as my mom.  Renee loves to play Bridge. She rattled off the rules and described the basics of strategy, and I tried to listen (through the buzz of anxiety in my brain and the chattering of teeth) while simultaneously controlling the terror in my belly as bad memories came flooding back. As the night wore on, I relaxed a little (once I realized Renee wasn’t going to yell at me) but it also became clear I am not a natural.  I was hoping one or both parents had genetically passed on knowledge or skill that would render me a prodigy once I got going, but sadly that was not the case.  In fact, I was rather a dolt.  I loved when I was “dummy,” which is a perfect role for me, and could just lay down my cards and cheer Renee on.  As part of my training Renee usually told me exactly what to do every step, which worked really well.  Until, she suddenly announced that I should play a hand with no help – and I still hadn’t a clue what I was doing.  Renee was gracious enough to remain calm but did say things like  “Now, why would you do that?”  It was clear I was no Goren.   I counted and recounted on my fingers the points in my hand, the bidding made no sense to me, and I could only think about playing one trick at a time.  Forget counting cards or any grand strategy for winning a round. It was pure survival.

We played Bridge a few more times while we were there and I was starting to get the basics.  But Bridge makes as much as sense to me as my son’s electrical engineering class.  There are the basic rules, and then the more advanced rules, and then the rules that good Bridge players just somehow know, and then there is the larger strategy that very good Bridge players have a mind for.   Renee assures me that Bridge is a complicated game and I will learn with practice.  I’m not so sure, but for Stan and Renee, and for Mom and Dad, I’m going to keep trying.

01.04.14
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The Return of the Cookie

My holiday season was bookended by cookies.  In retrospect I aptly titled my first cookie post “The Fellowship of the Cookie”  (a clever takeoff on “Lord of the Rings”) since my cookie-baking activity then burgeoned into its own trilogy.

After my all-day Cookie-Palooza with my friend John (“The Fellowship of the Cookie”), I had another baking day after my son and unidentified friends decimated the molasses cookies.  Due to popular demand, I spent another afternoon baking replacement molasses cookies, but this time I worked alone and the cookies didn’t come out nearly as tasty the second time.  I could’ve entitled that post (had I written it) “The Two Cookies” to follow my Lord of the Rings theme, and to explore why two batches of the same recipe can come out so maddeningly different.  But, quite frankly, I didn’t find that topic all that stimulating and nothing very funny or thought provoking happened while I was baking by myself.

However, the exciting third and concluding installment of my cookie trilogy came on New Years Day, when my son and his friends gathered for an impromptu cookie-baking party in my kitchen.    I might not have written about this as I’m careful not to embarrass my son or his friends or violate their privacy on social media, but to my great surprise, they actually asked if I would write a post (which of course flattered me no end).  Hence, I invent the cookie trilogy as a means to prolong my cookie baking stories and hereby dub this third installment “The Return of the Cookie”.

The New Years Day cookie gathering was rather fluid.  The day before, my son mentioned in passing that two of his friends, Maryam and Nicole, wanted to come over and bake cookies on New Years Day.  My husband developed a nasty cold on New Year’s Eve, so on New Year’s Day he was locked in the bedroom coughing and sneezing. When my son got up at about noon, I asked him about his plans for the cookie baking get-together at 1:00 and he said he didn’t have any.  I asked if Nicole and Maryam were bringing the ingredients or if we would be supplying them and he didn’t know but guessed they would use ours.  He then suggested that I oversee the baking.

I was pretty darn steamed to have all this sprung on me, right?  Au contraire! I was [secretly] thrilled!!! Because this meant I was free to openly spend the entire afternoon with my son and three of his friends (that I adore) doing an activity that I love (baking, of all things).  I could not have scripted a better day myself, but since they conceived it, they would find the whole baking experience entertaining.  Bravo!

So how did it go?   It was beyond fun.  Maryam and Nicole came over first and we chatted and laughed for a while.  The kids compared notes on their New Years Eve activities. Maryam and I discovered a mutual love of the Sound of Music soundtrack and performed an impressive impromptu duet of “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.”  Then we started on the cookies.   I laid out my recipes and they chose two – shortbread and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

New Years Day Cookie Party in my kitchen

New Years Day Cookie Party in my kitchen

Their friend Jacob joined, as they were finishing up the shortbread dough.  While the shortbread was in the oven, they started on the oatmeal cookies.  Throughout the baking process, they worked together as a team, talking and laughing and catching up.  The four of them had been in the same high school theatre class.  Jacob was a freshman when the other three were seniors.  Now Jacob’s a high school senior and the other three juniors at different colleges.  I loved being a fly on the wall and listening to their easy banter.   I let them do the actual baking, but I provided supplies and washed dishes and cleaned up and was available for questions and emergency consultations as needed.

The shortbread cookies were magnificent.  They were cooked just right and the buttery flavor superb.  In fact, the kids clearly did a better job than I since I badly overcooked my shortbread two weeks ago.   There were high-fives all around and a shared sense of accomplishment.  I don’t think any of them had done much baking before and it was fun to see the excited look of discovery on their faces.

The four of them worked like a well-oiled machine

The four of them worked like a well-oiled machine

Then the timer went off for the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.  My son had been placed in charge of the beaters, and after creaming the egg, sugar and shortening he’d voiced some concern with the consistency (i.e., lack of creamy-ness).  When the cookies emerged from the oven, they looked odd (fixed in the same hard ball-shape as when dropped onto the cookie sheet).  We each simultaneously tasted a small sample and were collectively relieved and pleased with the taste…warm and sweet and oatmeal-y….. and then KA-BOOM!  We were all slapped with a powerful surge of SALT.  We suddenly and concurrently needed water, and fast. We almost did synchronized gagging and spitting.

During our post-mortem on the oatmeal cookies, we realized that a miscalculation of sugar content had occurred.  Rather than the 1-¼ cups of packed brown sugar the recipe called for, only ¼ cup was added.  (I personally blame this on my mother-in-law’s handwriting on the recipe card.)

In any event, given the level of brainpower and applied education assembled in my kitchen, it’s not surprising that a clever fix was quickly identified.  I believe it was Maryam who proposed that, rather than a taste problem, we simply had a branding issue on our hands.  After some discussion, and great deal of laughter, it was agreed that we had not made bad-tasting oatmeal cookies; rather, we had produced awesome oatmeal pretzel balls.  Pretzel balls that taste really good with beer.  With that, the entire endeavor was declared a huge success and the kids each took home a sample of the shortbread cookies.  Unfortunately, re-branding notwithstanding, the oatmeal pretzel balls were left behind.

Since my son was leaving the next day to head back to college, the good-byes were heartfelt and poignant as the kids spoke wistfully of not seeing each other again until next summer.  But before they took leave, they decided to make cookie baking at our house a New Years tradition.   Looks like I’ve added two new traditions to my holidays and they both involve cookies and good friends.  And I couldn’t be happier.  Here’s hoping that next year we indeed have “The Return of the Cookie!”

01.01.14
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Special Report from the Debutante Ball

This past Saturday I crashed a debutante ball.  OK, I was an invited guest, but I frequently felt I’d made a wrong turn and walked into the wrong hotel ballroom.  Days later, I’m still pondering the whole thing.

My son was asked by the daughter of our close friends to be her escort at her debutante ball. Her mother asked if he would wear his dress military uniform.  Much to my surprise, he agreed to both.  From that day on it was clear that, because of him, our entire family would be ball VIPs.  (In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if my son were now a beneficiary in their family wills.)  I highly recommend the role of mother of the escort, which carries no responsibilities, few financial costs, yet yields significant reflected glory.  The exhausted mothers of the debutantes, by contrast, appeared well on the road to nervous collapse.

The official program

The official program

I had scant previous working knowledge of debutantes and their balls.   I was slightly curious but the topic never really registered on my radar.   I have no sisters or daughters. My mother was raised poor on a farm in Michigan. I was a tomboy who grew into a feminist and bookworm.  I don’t remember any of my high school girlfriends “coming out” in society, and I was under the impression that the debutante ball was a relic of a bygone era and/or the deep south.

After we moved to our town a decade ago, I noted the photos in the local paper each year of the high school girls who were being “presented.”   But again I didn’t pay much attention and said another quiet prayer of thanks that I was a boy mother.  Hanging out in the gym, the football stadium, the tennis courts, the Boy Scout camporee and at work was more my speed.

When our invitation to the ball arrived, it said “black tie” and I was covertly excited to pull out of moth balls a satin midnight blue dress that I love and which I’d worn only once to a family wedding in 1999 – my last black tie event.  I bought a new pair of shoes (Nordstrom on-line, free shipping and returns) as the dyed-to-match satin pumps from 1999 had been jettisoned to Goodwill.  My husband predictably squawked when told he must rent a tux but quickly came around (I wasn’t passing up this photo op and he hates being left out of anything). I got a manicure and pedicure with cherry red polish. The day before the ball, I remembered I’d chucked my electric rollers sometime in the early 2000s and then couldn’t find my curling iron.  This evidences the extent to which my grooming habits have deteriorated. Oh well!  I giddily headed to Drybar to have my hair professionally washed and styled.    I don’t know how celebrities manage this every weekend, but it was great fun to get the star treatment for a day.

The centerpiece of white roses, lilies and hydrangea

The centerpiece of white roses, lilies and hydrangea

And then there was the ball.  My son was subjected to a four-hour rehearsal two nights before the ball, and was whisked away at 2:30 on ball day for photos.  My husband and I blissfully arrived at the hotel at 6 with no assigned tasks and enjoyed the cocktail hour in the foyer before being ushered to our table in the ballroom.  Then the lights dimmed and it was show time!  The rather frazzled mothers of the debutantes were led in through a door at the rear of the ballroom, one by one, by their daughters’ escorts, formally introduced, promenaded to mid-dance floor with a flourish, announced again and then seated by escorts on white satin-covered chairs on the edge of the dance floor.  Then each debutante dressed in a white ball gown and curtsying as she was introduced, was escorted onto the ballroom stage and into the spotlight by her father.  It was clear that all parties had been admonished to smile broadly and enthusiastically even as intense lighting blinded them.  As each girl’s turn progressed the smiles became increasingly forced, particularly Dad’s as he pondered the money spent for this tuxedoed walk.  The master of ceremonies, a local politician, read a biography of each girl as she glided round the dance floor with her father while the band played her “presentation song”, ending with another introduction and curtsy mid-dance floor.  We had all been reprimanded earlier by one of the Ladies in Charge not to cheer for our favorite girl like at a sporting event, which I found highly disappointing. Then there was a father-debutante/daughter waltz, followed by an escort-debutante waltz, followed by a mother-father/escort-debutante waltz.  I was nervous there might be a mother-of-escort/escort waltz coming (requiring me to fake a waltz).  I admired the impressive fruits of my son’s crash course in waltzing and bowing.

Executing a perfect twirl, curtsy and bow at the conclusion of the waltz

Executing a perfect twirl, curtsy and bow at the conclusion of the waltz

I have to admit; there were times I wanted to laugh out loud and other times I felt like I’d tottered through the looking glass. The ball was an odd mix of past and present; the Vanderbilts meet Title 9.   One of the Ladies in Charge described the 18-month program of social and community service, cultural education, personal development training and etiquette instruction the debutantes completed.  As these girls strolled the dance floor in their white tulle and lace with their big hair and heavy make-up and on their fathers’ arms, the Master of Ceremonies portrayed girls who are homecoming queens, cheerleaders, Girl Scout Gold Award recipients, musicians, and who love to bake; girls who put in countless volunteer hours for various charities.  But I also heard descriptions of exceptional athletes – lacrosse, tennis, basketball, cross-country, scuba diving, softball, golf, and volleyball – who’ve won numerous awards and championships in their sports.  One deb’s passion lay in robotics and engineering – working on cars with her dad is her favorite pastime.  Another is a motivational speaker, drawing on her experience as an orphan adopted from Vietnam.  Most have aspirations of attending major universities with plans to major in areas such as business, finance, international development, marketing or communications.

After the program was over and the dinner served, the dancing started.  At first, the music too was a mix of old and new.  My husband and I danced to Big Band, Beatles, Motown, Disco and Michael Jackson.  Mercifully, no further waltzing ensued. Toward evening’s end, I recognized less of the music and the floor filled with young people.  The white-dressed debs were right in the mix, surrounded by their youthful friends – jumping, fist pumping and singing along.  One thing about a debutante has not changed; she is after all a teenage girl.

In the midst of this estrogen-fueled festivity, my husband and son had a surprisingly great time. I found it a fascinating experience.   At my first opportunity, I nabbed the official photographer and had a portrait taken of dolled-up me with my son in his dress uniform and my husband in his tux (the photo op being of course the main reason for going).  At midnight, before anything turned into a pumpkin, or I was left stranded on the wrong side of the looking glass, I headed home from my rather odd evening, satisfied with my photo op, having unexpectedly enjoyed my one and only debutante ball, and giving thanks for my son, who is not a girl.

12.27.13
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The All Guys Dinner Party

My son came home from college last week for Christmas break and I threw him the most wonderfully ridiculous welcome home dinner party.  The welcome home party has become a tradition since he left for college – when he comes home on vacation he likes to reinsert himself into the local social scene as soon as possible.  But for past parties we typically set up his XBox, PlayStation and/or GameCube in the family room, put some pizza and soda on the kitchen island, and let him and his friends go for it.

This year, as usual, I decorated the house for Christmas.  I trimmed the tree and hung the stockings.  I spent a whole day baking cookies.  (See previous post).  Then I went above and beyond.  I cleaned out all the boxes in the dining room (which had become a storage space since we normally eat in the kitchen), and then decorated the room.  I had my husband pull the boxes of our Spode Christmas Tree china out of the garage.  I unpacked and washed the china.  I cleaned out the hutch in the dining room so I could put the Spode away.  I went through all the linens I’ve collected over the years, and found coordinating tablecloth and napkins.  I read somewhere that it is trendy to mix and match napkins and tablecloth and china, so I was swinging for the trendy fences.

And then I went shopping.  First I went to Michaels Arts and Crafts – during the workweek, which almost felt naughty.  I felt an odd rush of exhilaration as I walked the aisles with hordes of women whose carts were overflowing with stuff, while Christmas carols blared over the sound system.  I don’t know why I found it all so amusing, but I could barely contain myself as I watched one lady, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and could barely see over the mound of loot in her cart, collide with a display of snow globes.  When all was said and done, the cashier refused to give me the discount on the candles I thought were 60% off, so in a moment of liberating defiance, I announced I wanted nothing in my cart and walked out the door.  (I never would’ve done that when I was working because I wouldn’t have had the time to search elsewhere).

Then I headed to Stats, which is a veritable local Christmas wonderland and superstore.  I wandered wide-eyed through the rooms of floral displays and wreaths and Santa Claus figurines. There I bought garlands and candles and pinecones.  Then I went to World Market and found napkins and rings and bowls.  After that I went to Home Goods and Pier One and Marshalls and TJ Maxx and Ross and Party City.  I don’t even remember what I found where at this point.  But I was a woman on a mission.

I even decorated the coffee table to serve appetizers. I knew the small plates and cocktail napkins would be curious to the guys but they would enjoy the extra food.

The coffee table decorated to serve appetizers. The small plates and cocktail napkins were a curiosity to the guys but they enjoyed the extra food before dinner.

And what exactly was this mission?   For goodness sake, this was a party for a group of eight to twelve 20-21 year old guys. Do you think guys that age (or any age for that matter) care whether they are sitting at the dining room table with Spode china in front of them?  Do they appreciate having a decorated house?   Of course not! In a moment of complete and utter lunacy, and which made me laugh out loud like a crazy woman, I raced to Big Lots the day of the party and bought a garland of poinsettias and a Santa yard stake because I decided the light fixture in the dining room and our front yard needed more decoration.

No, this wasn’t just about the boys.   It was about me.  For one thing, I spent the past 10 years, when I was in a senior management role, working really hard at my job and the holiday season was one of the busiest times.  I didn’t have time to plan Christmas parties and it was about as much as I could handle to decorate the house and trim the tree and buy the gifts and send out the cards each year.  I didn’t have time to savor the season.  For another thing, I want to hone my entertaining skills.  While I was busy working, my husband did most of the cooking and I have become rusty (and to tell the truth, I was never that good in the first place).  In September, just for fun, I attended a party planning class with my good friend John at a local high school. The instructor advised us to practice by putting on our own dinner party, and what better guinea pigs than a group of guys who don’t know their salad plate from their dinner plate and are happy simply having something edible placed in front of them?

With my collected merchandise, I decorated and set the dining room table.  Using my party planning class workbook, I developed a menu and a schedule for the party.   I scoped Costco for appetizers and gave my husband a shopping list for the food.  We worked together on the meal, since he is not quite ready to trust me with the keys to his kitchen kingdom.   (Probably itself another post topic.)

The All Guys Dinner Party

The All Guys Dinner Party. Notice the garland of poinsettias on the light fixture and the trendy mix of linens and china.

And was all this overkill for a group of college-age guys?  Absolutely! Did any of them make one peep about the decorations or the china or the music?  Of course not!  Did they enjoy themselves?  Enormously!   How do I know?  By the smiles and laughter I heard from the dining room as they sat around the [beautifully decorated dining] table talking to each other, and later from the family room as they played a board game and I listened in while doing dishes.  And they all thanked me before they left.  Was it worth all the work?  Totally!  Did I have fun?  You bet!  And yesterday, best of all, as I was walking out the door with my son, he asked to take a picture of me in front of the tree.  Then he wanted a picture of himself in front of the house.  After we got in the car, he showed me the “Snapchat Story” he just made.  Which is, after all, the way his generation communicates.  It was a photo of my decorated dining table with a caption that read “Ready to celebrate with friends” and then a photo of me in front of the tree with the caption “Family” and a photo of him in front of our house that read “Glad to be home.  Merry Christmas!”