Upside-down Sundays

There's something about Sunday afternoons. For as long as I can remember, they have been a source of anxiousness for me.

As a kid, I remember hanging upside-down on the couch and yelling at my mother.

"I'm bor-r-r-red," I whined. "What's for din-n-n-ner," I belted out repeatedly. "What can I do-o-o-o?" I cried upside-down.

I'm not sure what caused this unusual, restless behavior. 

Maybe it was the fact that Sunday wasn't a big play day in the neighborhood.

Perhaps, it was the fact that the television blared one football game after another.

Or, it could have been the realization that the weekend was coming to an end and the anxiety of returning to school was setting in.

I'm simply not sure.

Interesting thing is, I still get that restless, unsettled feeling on Sunday afternoons. 

Much like my childhood days, Sundays still tend to be relaxed, unplanned days and football plays throughout the day.

At least school is a distant memory.

I should welcome the carefree, easy going feeling of Sunday afternoon. I should kick back and read a book or watch a movie. 

Of course, there are plenty of things I could do.  I should do. That I need to do. Clean out a closet, a cabinet, even a drawer. 

I just don't want to.

Honestly, I'd rather just hang upside-down on the couch... and whine.

Feeling Sunday upside-down

. 

Positivity challenge but not a chain

My heart pounded when I found a chain letter addressed to me in the mailbox when I was about 10 years old. A chain letter for me!

I excitedly ran to the house ready to do my part.

After reading it carefully, I was to copy it, in handwriting, and send it on, by US Postal Service, to seven of my closest friends instructing them to do the same.

I'll also never forget my mother's reaction to my exciting chain letter.

"Absolutely not," she said. Seemed chain letters were the work of the devil in her eyes.

I never knew why she felt so strongly about a chain letter but the horrific feeling she instilled in me was everlasting.

A few days ago, I received a chain letter of sorts from a dear friend on Facebook.

I was invited to take part in a Positivity Challenge. I was to post three positive things for five days on Facebook and ask three friends to participate each day of the process by tagging them on their page.

That fateful chain letter day resonated in my head along with my mother's voice.

"Absolutely not," I could hear my mother say.

To this day, her influence runs deep in my veins. The memory of my mother's reaction paired with my fear of commitment, made me decline the invitation.

However, I loved the idea of being positive and appreciate my friend for stirring up positive thoughts and images in my mind ever since.

After days of pondering what is positive in my life, I realized many of my good thoughts come from the people I love and care for and what they are experiencing in their own lives.

*  My friend and her husband taking their beautiful newborn, baby boy home from the hospital

*  My friend enjoying a weekend visit from her son who now lives across the country
   
*  My father-in-law spending a month near his beloved Chesapeake Bay

*  My young friend who is like a daughter to me setting up her new kindergarten classroom

*  My nephew pastoring at his own church

Positive thoughts also flood into my mind when I think of the major moments in the lives of my family and the important times I have with family and friends.

*  My son on his first business trip

*  My daughter moving into her very own apartment

*  My upcoming weekend with my family of four

*  My weekends filled with good friends and good times

*  My monthly Bunco group with 11 treasured women

And, thanks to the little things in life, I see positivity around me from morning to night.

*  My cup of coffee every morning that greets me like a warm friend

*  A delicious cucumber from my neighbor's abundant garden

*  Looking up at the starry sky when I take the dog out at night

*  My dog's fast-wagging tail every time I look his way

*  My bag of bite-sized Dove dark chocolate squares with little messages in the wrappers

Fortunately, my list goes on and on. My cup runneth over.

I know my mother would approve of me recognizing all the positive thoughts in my life...
as long as it's not in a chain letter.

I love real mail delivered by the mailman too!
But, please, no chain letters.

No more tears

On my birthday, I often find myself singing the 1963 pop song, "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."

Interestingly or should I say oddly, as a child, I actually did cry every year on my birthday. It seemed the tears came after the candles were blown out and we were eating cake.

Don't misunderstand, I didn't have big overwhelming parties like the ones I threw for my children with lots of kids, Disney themes and guest performers.

My parties consisted of my parents, three siblings, two cousins and my best friend Alice. We simply gathered to eat cake.

But, even that seemed too much for me to handle.

When I was about four or five, I had an unexplainable fear of having my picture taken. Every time someone snapped a photo of me, I cried. A lot.

I have proof in a old, family photo album. In a small, square photograph, I'm sitting in front of my birthday cake holding my hand out in front of my angry, red, tear-stained face shielding it from the focus of the camera.

This unusual "fear of the camera" stage still amuses my brother to this day.

When I was seven, my aunt carefully brushed my hair and clipped it up into a fun party hair style. Wearing my favorite, blue jumper with white polka dots and sporting my cute up-do, I was feeling rather fancy as I blew out my candles.

Unfortunately, someone made a comment about my hair while I was eating cake. This sent me reeling and running to my room where I cried hysterically and viciously ripped the barrette from my hair. The memory remains oddly fresh in my mind.

I guess I just didn't like the attention.

All that has changed.

These days, I have to admit, I love my birthday. I happily accept all the well-wishes and attention that come my way.

I look forward to my dear friend making a lemon pound cake for me like my mother used to make.

I  can't wait to see how my husband will surprise me each year.

I anxiously await the arrival of the annual box filled with fun gifts from my sister.

I treasure the cards and emails I get from my family, friends and yes, even the stores I frequent.

I simply embrace everything about the day even though it means I'm getting older by the minute.

This year, as I blow out my candles on my homemade lemon pound cake, I will smile as I think of all the support and encouragement I have received this past year from my dear friends and family.

Although I won't be wearing my hair pulled up in a clip, I will allow my picture to be taken. And, I think I will switch up my tune, "It's my birthday and I'll smile cause I want to!"

Happy Birthday to me! And my blog!

Today, I share my birthday with my blog, Musings, Morals & Bees. It is one-year-old.

Thank you all who have supported and encouraged me as I've shared my musings on everything from Barbies to fireflies. Your support is an ongoing birthday gift!

Hard-headed in the right direction

When my daughter was born, she had a head full of dark hair and olive skin. She didn't look a thing like me. She looked exactly like my husband.

A few years later, on July 23, the baby I had always envisioned came into my life when my son was born. He was blond and fair ... and looked like me.

I'll admit. I liked it.

As he grew up, I saw more similarities between us. I found myself repeating the phrases I had heard when I was a child.

"You're so hard-headed," I would say just as my grandmother had said to me.

"You won't take no for an answer," which were words straight from my mother's mouth.

He frustrated me.

But, if truth be told, I liked it. He made me laugh with his undying determination. He impressed me when he figured out how to get just about everything he wanted.

Over the years, however, what has impressed me more is how he is determined to help others.

If you are in search of something, he won't rest until he finds it for you.

If you don't understand how to work something, he will figure out how to fix it for you or will help you understand how to do it yourself.

If you have a problem, like a wise owl he is ready to disperse a few short lines of wisdom.

I am proud to be like him but even more proud of the ways he is different from me.

As he celebrates his birthday today, I hope he feels as special as he makes others feel. I hope he laughs the way he, and only he, can make me laugh. And, I hope his determination keeps getting him where he wants to go and blessing the rest of us.

Happy Birthday to my wise son!

Your cake!

It's as simple as looking up

When I traveled to Paris last year with my daughter, she repeated over and over again, "Look up." 

But looking up wasn't easily done as I tried to navigate down unfamiliar streets while constantly guarding my pocket book.

When I finally focused on raising my eyes as we walked through the city, I discovered all the amazing things the city had to offer. I saw the most beautiful doorways and rooftops, gargoyles and carvings, bridge views and breathtaking vistas. I now understand why they call Paris "The City of Light." 

I recently discovered that the practice of "looking up" is equally important at home as it is in a beautiful, foreign city. 

One of my favorite things about summer is seeing the first lightning bug.  I feel like a kid when I spy the little light flitting about the yard. 

Since I have been taking a dog out for the last 14 years, I have seen my share of lightning bugs. They never cease to delight me.  

Last week when I did my nightly dog duty, I saw the first lightning bug of the season. I smiled as I welcomed the first sign of summer. A few nights later, I saw at least 50 little lights blinking across the yard. I went to bed happy.

But then, a night later, I saw the most incredible sight. After years of nightly visits to the yard with a dog, I looked up.

In the trees lining our backyard, I saw the most spectacular light show. Thousands of lightning bugs twinkled like stars in the trees. 

I felt like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz." "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard."

Well, I won't go quite that far. 

I appreciate seeing new parts of the world and I will always treasure the sight of the sparkling Eiffel Tower lighting up the night sky.

But for a magical, simple pleasure this summer, I'll just take the dog out... and look up.

I have my own city of light.

My city of light! What a gift.

Better than ruby slippers

My husband and I exchanged our wedding vows 30 years ago today. We repeated after the minister. For better for worse. Check. For richer or poorer. Check. In sickness and in health. Check again.

Little did I know that my husband had another vow in mind that he would check off from that day forward. If he had written it in, he would have said, "I will do my best to make all your wishes come true." It's almost as if I was granted the pair of ruby slippers I had always wanted. 

Over the years, he has taken me to places I've always wanted to see. He has given me the most heartfelt gifts. And, he has carefully looked out for me as we've navigated through life together.

When our daughter was born and suddenly I was at home all day with a brand new baby, he brought home a couple of cassette tapes. (Itunes had not yet been invented.) He thought I would enjoy the company of some new music. I loved his thoughtfulness.

I also loved the Gloria Estefan cassette tape he picked out. I sang along to "Don't Want to Lose You" and "Cuts Both Ways." I took the tape in the car, on trips and played it as background music when friends came over. But, somewhere along the way, the cassette disappeared. 

When Christmas rolled around, he asked me what I wanted. I'm sure I gave him quite a list but one thing I knew I wanted was the missing cassette tape by Gloria Estefan.

I wrote: Gloria Estefan tape, the one we had, the one we lost.

Christmas morning arrived. No doubt he had checked off my list. I figured I would find the cassette at the bottom of my stocking. But it wasn't there. He explained. 

He had searched several music stores for Gloria Estefan's, "The One We Had, The One We Lost."  On Christmas Eve, he headed to Tower Records, the largest music story in our area.

"I'm looking for Gloria Estefan's, 'The One We Had, The One We Lost,'" he said to the store clerk. 

She replied, "I've never heard of it."

Slightly irritated, he said, "You must have. We used to have it."

After exhausting all possibilities, she invited him to look through a big box filled with old cassettes they kept behind the counter. After riffling through the box to no avail, he finally gave up. 

Giving up was not an easy task for him since it's not in his nature and he wanted to give me exactly what I wanted.

After telling me the story of how he had searched all the music stores, how he had confronted the store clerk and how he had sat on the floor and dug through the big box of old cassettes, he asked, "Are you sure that's the name of the album?" 

That's when I had to tell him, "No. All I know is, it's the one we had, but we lost it."

I can't remember what his reaction was nor can I remember what I actually got for Christmas that year. However, I will always remember what he went through to give me exactly what I wanted.

In the end, his effort to make me happy was far better than any real gift he could have given me.

The story of the "One We Had, The One We Lost" has been told time and time again. And every time I tell it, I'm reminded of how my husband has spent the last 30 years trying his hardest to give me everything my heart desires. I guess I don't need ruby slippers after all.

With these slippers, I thee wed.

  

Eleven years of wonderful

I realize how much television and movies have influenced me when I try to describe my mother. Like Mary Poppins, she was "practically perfect in every way."

Other references  that come to mind ... the first line from the "Love Story" theme, "Everybody Loves Raymond" and a line spoken by Julia Roberts in the movie, "Steel Magnolias."

I can hear Andy Williams crooning, "Where do I begin?" I could belt it out myself.

Where do I begin to tell the story of how great a mom can be? It's impossible for me to explain all that made her wonderful. 

My mother had a knack for turning ordinary household items into the most magical play things. She knew how to make everything special. 

A jar of buttons in all shapes, sizes and colors poured onto a tray was one of my favorite past times. I loved comparing them, sorting them and picking out my favorite ones. I just wasn't good at sharing them.

A small paper bag filled with the rubber rings from Mason jar tops could keep me occupied for hours. The rings became my bracelets that painfully pinched the hairs on my arms as I pushed them up to my elbow. I loved to toss them, stack them and count them. Again, I just wasn't good at sharing them. 

My mother could fold a piece of white paper and make a few cuts and suddenly I had a string of paper dolls all holding hands. She cut the bottoms out of paper cups and behold,  I had a pair of sandals. She turned a bowl full of water and a bit of dish washing liquid into a giant mountain of bubbles with a few cranks from an old-fashioned hand-mixer. Before I knew it,  I had the most magnificent foamy drinks for my tiny tea sets. Pretend drinks, of course. 

Like Raymond, everybody loved my mother. My family, my cousins, my neighbors, even my classmates.

Every Easter, she would make candy bunnies for my class using pastel colored marshmallow eggs. She carefully cut pieces of marshmallows and stuck them on as long ears and bobbed tails. And, finished them off by meticulously painting eyes, a nose and whiskers.

Since she saved everything from my childhood, I still have the thank you notes addressed to her that were carefully printed from each student. They are in a box with all of my Valentines, report cards, birthday cards and art projects in my basement. 

I know it's a fire hazard but the boxes of keepsakes are my connection to my past...my connection to my mother.

Everything about her was special. And though I only had her for eleven years, I wouldn't trade my short time with her for a lifetime with any other mother.

In the words of Shelby in "Steel Magnolias," Julia Roberts says, "I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special."

Happy Mother's Day to my mother. A woman who created my most treasured memories, who was loved by everyone and who, quite simply, was wonderful.

Thank you for all of the wonderful!

Has anyone seen my library card?

When I was a young mother of two, I read books on how to raise children. Lots and lots of books.

While each expert had their own ideas and methods on how to do it, they all agreed on one thing. My job was to prepare my children to leave me.

In the early days when my kids woke me up out of a sound sleep, fought me over eating a small spoonful of lima beans and bickered with each other over who got to sit in the middle in the back seat of the car, this idea sounded great. Leave! Leave now!

Over time, things got better and the tables actually turned. I was the one who woke them up out of a sound sleep. They both started liking lima beans and even asked for seconds. And, for the most part, they stopped fussing with each other and started laughing together at their own inside jokes. (They never stopped fighting about the seat in the car.)

Life was good. I loved my job as a mother and slowly forgot my ultimate goal of getting them to leave. I was too busy getting through each day dealing with all the ups and downs that come with raising two children.

Before I knew it, they were heading to college and suddenly... I didn't want them to leave.

At least I could count on them to come home for holidays, an extended winter break and the long, hot summer. When they returned, we resumed our lives all together. My job picked up again and I was back at work being a mother.

Their college years passed faster than I could have ever imagined. I can't believe my daughter now works and lives two hours away and in a month's time, my son will graduate from college and move away to New York City.

When I asked him if we could all get together for one last getaway before he starts his new job, he replied, "I'm not sure I can." That's when it hit me.

It's over. My job as a mother of two children and all that comes with it is behind me.

I did my job. I prepared them to leave me. I now have two adult children who are on their own. They will not be returning for the long, hot summer. They won't be home for a month at Christmas. At best, I will get to see them now and then for an extended weekend.

I feel like Donald Trump has pointed his finger at me and said, "You're fired."

These days as I watch my kids drive away I get tears in my eyes. The tables have turned yet again. When they were little and I went out for dinner and a movie with my husband, they would cry as they watched my car drive away.

Wait a minute.

Scratch that. (Insert the skin crawling sound of a record needle scratching off a record.)

My children never cried when I left. They always loved the babysitter.

Why am I feeling so sorry for myself? I should start celebrating a job well done and a care free life with my husband.

I know it's what is supposed to happen. Like everything else in life with children, it's just another adjustment. As soon as you adjust to them walking into kindergarten, they are moving on to middle school. And, high school and college after that.

It's time for me to adjust. Again. I guess it's time to go back to the library for some new books as well.

What should I read about next?

The color of frustration

The weather has done me in. It has been raining for days and now the wet ground is covered with snow. Again.

Nothing nice comes to my mind. I feel like a giant thumb is pressing on my forehead. Or, as my daughter aptly described, like an anvil is weighing on my shoulders.

For some reason, I'm reminded of a day when I was very young. I had a big, red coloring book. In fact, I think the words on the front actually said, "My Big Red Coloring Book."

If my memory serves me correctly, my mother told me I had to get a shot.  I turned to a page in the book that featured a simple picture of a shirt. That's all it was. A shirt.

I took my red crayon and pressed as hard as I could and wildly scribbled back and forth across the page paying no attention to the outline of the shirt. While I can't say for sure, I think I broke the crayon.

That is how I feel today. I need a coloring book.

A bad picture of a shirt with scribble. Not nearly as satisfying as a crayon.

A slightly better etch of the fire place turned on due to cold on March 30.

Average isn't for me

I was an avid Barbie player as a little girl. In fact, playing "Barbies" was the number one past time for my cousin and me. She would come over toting her little case of figures and we would spend hours setting up houses and creating fun lives for our dolls.

Recently I saw a news clip about a new average Barbie. Apparently, "new average Barbie" has a more realistic body type, brunette hair and wears casual cloths like shorts and a button-down, collared shirt.

In my Barbie days, I was a slightly pudgy, average looking kid. My hair was dirty-blond as if that was somehow better than saying brown and I wore elastic waist band pants and usually one of my three smiley-face shirts. I don't recall being jealous of my doll's looks.

Maybe that's because for a long time I played with an arsenal of average looking dolls that I called my "Barbies." Maybe my mother was on to something about Barbie way back when because looking back I realize that she never actually bought me a real Barbie.

Yes, I had two hand-me-down Barbies from my sister's Barbie days, a blond bubble head and another one with black hair and dark eye shadow, but not one of my very own.

Nevertheless, I loved my dolls and playing them with my cousin is one of my fondest memories.

When my cousin came to play, we would dump out all of our average dolls into a pile and take turns picking which dolls we would play with on her visit.

The cast of average looking Barbie-type dolls included:

Tammy - a big-headed brunette whose legs could not bend, nor could she twist at the waist. She was what my dad would have referred to as a "big girl."

Pepper - Tammy's little sister. She was a cute little girl with freckles and her eyes looked off to the side as if she saw something interesting off to the right.

Skipper - a small, skinny girl with long hair and bangs. My sister begged me to let her cut her hair into a bob. She swore it would curl under at the chin in a cute, fashionable way. I let her. It did not curl as promised. (Note: Skipper later became an ill-behaved, unruly girl maybe even a boy from time to time.)

Francie - my first "twist and turn" doll. She had a beautiful face and silky, brunette hair that flipped up on the ends like Marlo Thomas on the TV show, "That Girl." She had a small, girlish build.

Jamie - a Barbie wannabe who had a push-button on her back allowing her arms and legs to swing back and forth as if she was walking. She did not have to walk at the mercy of my hand as if she was hopping up and down on her toes like all of my other "Barbies."

I was fine with all my average looking "Barbie" dolls until the day my cousin came over with her brand new Malibu Barbie.

Her hair was long and blond, her skin was kissed by the sun, her legs could bend at the knees and she could twist and turn at the waist. She was beautiful and I was jealous. I wanted my own Malibu Barbie.

While my cousin played with her pretty Malibu Barbie, I continued to play with big Tammy. Seemed her new Malibu Barbie never made it into the "pick" pile.

Finally, my birthday rolled around and I got the money that I needed from my grandfather to buy my very own Malibu Barbie. I actually still remember walking into Woolco, an odd department store that is now closed, with my mother to get my new doll. It was a big day.

From that day forward, my new tan Barbie was my number one girl. Tammy became the mother. From time to time, I think average Tammy even assumed the role of Ken until Malibu Ken arrived.

I dressed my Malibu Barbie in pretty clothes. I don't think she had a boring outfit like shorts and a button-down collared shirt. Her clothes were fancy.

And unlike me, she looked good in a bathing suit. She went to the beach with my cousin's Malibu Barbie in her cool convertible sports car.  It's what I loved about her. I didn't mind being average compared to Barbie.

Maybe I'm wrong and little girls want an average looking doll. Maybe average Barbie would make them feel better about their future bodies.

As for me, I wanted the pretty Barbie. And, I gotta admit. If someone had given me an "average Barbie," I would have been... well, let's just say, it wouldn't have been pretty.

Fun in the sun for Miss Malibu Barbie!

Of course I still have her!

Still rolling after 20 years

In the beginning, it was all about the game. Twelve women, once a month, three dice.
(Correction: Twelve women, once a month, and five dice since I got the number of dice wrong at first.)

We came together to play Bunco, a mindless, dice rolling game. A modern day bridge club meets poker night. We put up five dollars at the door and hoped to leave with some cash in hand by winning most triples, most wins, most losses or the coveted Bunco Cup.

At first, we needed an escape from our responsibilities as young mothers. The average age of our children was three. We needed a night to ourselves. No husbands, no children. Just a lady's night.

Back then, many of us were just acquaintances. Now, as we celebrate our 20th anniversary, we are more like the Ya-Ya-Sisterhood.

And though we never took an oath by candlelight or cut our hands to become blood sisters, we might as well have. We've shared each other's successes and each other's failures. We've supported each other in times of heartache and moments of celebration. We are what our families fondly call us, the Bunco Girls.

Walking in the door each month reminds me of the theme song from the old TV show, "Cheers." They're always glad I came. When I'm happy, they are happy for me. When I'm sad, they support me. But most importantly, when I'm mad, they tell me I am right.

Month after month, they have complimented my hair cuts and noticed when I've been exercising. Better yet, they've ignored my dark roots and overlooked when I've put on a few pounds. They cheered me on when I turned 40 and again when I turned 50.

They cried with me when I lost my father. They cried with me when I lost my brother. They even cried along with me when I lost my sweet family dog. But most of all, their tears have come from laughter...over a deer in the headlights, a man named Howard...just about anything you could imagine.

In the early days, we toiled about sending our kids off to preschool, we celebrated adding new babies to our families, and we helped each other navigate the waters of motherhood.

Twenty years later, we've stressed over sending our children off to college and out into the real world, we've welcomed our first grandchild, and we've continued to help each other navigate the changing tide of motherhood.

As everything in our lives has changed, our Bunco night and our friendship has been a constant... once a month, every month... and hopefully for the next 20 years.

A wise Bunco Girl once said, "We've all been on the same train." 

“Of all the secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood the most divine was humor.”

― Rebecca Wells, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

I heart Valentine's Day

I love Valentine's Day. In the middle of funky February, Valentine's Day offers a touch of warmth with its bright red hearts and cute little cupid. Some folks think of it as a Hallmark holiday. To me, it's a day of fond memories and funny misunderstandings all in the name of love.

February 14th was my grandmother's birthday. I treasure the memory of sitting with her on the front steps of my house when I was a little girl. I slowly shared all the treasures I carried in my mother's big, hand-me-down purse. While I don't remember what we said to each other, I do remember the feeling. I felt loved and special. She must not have called me "hard-headed" that day which she often did.

The date also reminds me of the day my sister married the love of her life. As the 13-year-old maid-of-honor, I wore white socks with sandals because I hated my feet. My sister could not have cared less. She was just happy I was standing next to her. She didn't mind me smelling of my favorite lemon perfume either. Lemon? Really? I've always appreciated her love and acceptance.

The day has also brought a few misunderstandings of the heart. I can laugh about them now.

In kindergarten, I decorated a large white envelope to collect Valentine cards from my classmates. Once home with my Valentines, I excitedly looked at each one. I was having the time of my life until I opened the frilly one from Billy McDowell. On the front was a pretty girl holding a bouquet of flowers. She looked like a bride. The sentiment said, "With all my love."

My older siblings were relentless with their teasing. I grabbed the Valentine and ran. I hid it between two albums in my parent's record cabinet. Years later while going through a box of my old things, I found the envelope of Valentines. I also found the tiny, white envelope with the fancy Valentine from Billy. Apparently, my mother had found it and put in my box of keepsakes. I actually still have all of them stored away in a box in my basement.

Looking back, I don't think Billy loved me at all. I think he just randomly dropped a Valentine in my bag. My name wasn't even on the envelope. And, after all, he was only five. He wasn't ready for marriage. However, I should have known better when I was a junior in college.

It was Valentine's Day. My boyfriend called from the telephone in the lobby of my college dorm (no cell phones for loving boyfriends back then). "I need you to come downstairs," he said. I knew at that moment what he wanted. He was going to ask me to marry him. On Valentine's Day no less! We had only been dating for four months but I was ready to say, "yes."

We walked to his car. A silver Mercury Monarch. "I have something for you," he said. I already knew what it was. Something round and gold with a sparkly diamond on the top. And then, he presented me a framed picture of us dancing at his sister's wedding.  We were smiling as he dipped me in my fuzzy, yellow, lambswool dress. He also gave me another frame with little hearts painted on it and a little statue of the cartoon character Ziggy in the corner.

Oh! A Ziggy frame! 

He was so happy with his thoughtful gifts. I treasure them to this day. I didn't tell him what I thought he was going to give me that day until much later. Most probably after we had been married a couple of years.

I love Valentine's Day and the memories of special times with my family, of misunderstandings of the heart, and my "Valentine" I've kept for the last 30 years.

Happy Valentine's to my husband, my children, my family and friends!

Be My Valentine!

A plus for winter

As a kid, I was strangely proud of the fact that I could spell the word, "hibernate." At any given moment to anyone who would listen, I blurted out, "I know how to spell hibernate." Then, in an annoying up and down voice, I began. "H-I (deep breath) B-E-R (a gasp for air)  N-A-T-E (sigh)." Apparently, spelling a nine letter word required a high pitched voice and a great deal of breath .

Years have passed and I no longer feel the need to spell the word "hibernate" in an odd, out-of-breath manner. I do, however, feel the need "to" hibernate. I have had enough of the cold temperatures hitting me in the face every time I walk outside.

I do not want to wear a scarf. I do not want to put on gloves. I do not want to zip my coat and wear a hat. It's the middle of February and I feel like I'm the main character in a Dr Seuss book. It's too cold to go out so all I can do is just stay in the house and just sit, sit, sit, sit.

What I'd give for a big cat in a hat to stop by for some amusement.

Show me what you got, cat.

I'll admit. I like living in an area where a white Christmas is an actual possibility and I appreciate the idea of a change of seasons. I just need winter to be about two months shorter.

At this point, everything looks gray... the sky, the atmosphere, my hair. And, everything appears lifeless... the grass, the trees, my face.

Every time I look in the mirror I can't help but break into song. "Who is that old la-dy staring back in front of me? "It's my version of "Reflection," from the Disney movie "Mulan."

Christina Aguilera's lyrics are about what a young girl sees in herself as she looks into the mirror. I've altered the words to accurately describe my reflection. My song features an old woman with dry, wrinkled skin and flat, lifeless hair. Her hands are cracked and her nails are brittle. All the cruel affects of the harsh winter weather.

I know spring is coming. It always does. Unfortunately, though, according to that irritating groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, the forecast for an early spring is out the window.

But, something good has come out of writing about my dreadful feelings about winter. I now know how to spell Punxsutawney.  Glad I didn't brag about that one when I was an annoying kid who didn't care to use a dictionary. I would have breathlessly spelled it wrong, "P-U-C-K (deep breath) S-A (gasp for air) T-A-U-N-Y (sigh)!

That's one for winter!

Can you spell, "This sucks?" 

A change of instinct

We all have our own unique instincts.  Some people have an instinct for business. I do not. Others have an instinct for finding bargains...the kind of person who can sift through the packed racks at TJ Maxx and find a name brand jacket for an amazingly low price. Not me.

I have an instinct for quitting. Seinfeld's George Castanza put it best when he said, "I'm a quitter and I'm good at it." That's me!

My earliest recollection of my special instinct goes back to early childhood. I was into coloring. When my picture wasn't turning out like the masterpiece I had envisioned, I would press the crayon down on the soft page of the coloring book and scribble back and forth violently until the picture was covered with one solid color. I often pressed so hard that the crayon would break. And then I'd walk away. Who wants to color with broken crayons anyway?

Quitting came naturally when I practiced the piano as well. When I wasn't able to play a piece perfectly, I would spread my fingers out like two five stars and begin to bang on the keys. After several loud bangs, I stormed away from the piano. Who cares, I thought. I'll learn it another time.

As I got older, I was known to quit with a dramatic flare like the time I was losing in a game of Chess to my cousin. I knew she was winning and (as I recall) she was being irritating about it so with one beautiful, swift move, I swiped my forearm across the board and watched as the Queen, King and all the King's men flew off the board. "I quit," I yelled. (Surprisingly, we can laugh about it now.)

Other times, I quit quietly. Like the time I decided to cross-stitch Rainbow Row, a famous row of pastel-colored houses on a quaint street in Charleston SC. I bought everything I needed. The white cloth with the tiny, little holes for the stitches, the numerous bundles of thread, the proper needle and a little brace thing that was required for the project. I got as far as a bush and lost interest.  Today, the project is packed in a box in my basement in some unmarked box.

Coming off the holidays, I have been slow to sit down and face my blog. Quitting after such a long break would have come naturally to me. However, thanks to the support from my family and the encouragement from many dear friends, it wouldn't have come easy to me.

I'm happy to be sitting with my fingers on the keyboard. I can't quit. I don't want to this time. It's a good thing that I didn't make a New Year's resolution to keep writing my blog. You can imagine the fate of those.

Just keep blogging...