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...

Our family tree

"You can tell a lot about a person by the way they....." I've heard this claim often and each time the statement has a different ending. As for my family, I would say, "You can tell a lot about my family by the way we decorate our Christmas tree."

In our house, each ornament represents a special moment in time and as we decorate the branches of our tree each year, we take a walk down memory lane and we are reminded of how truly blessed we are.

The small white teddy bears and little, red drummer boys represent my childhood. I remember when my mother bought them and I love knowing that she picked them out and touched them as she decorated our family tree. 

Hickory Dickory Dock, Humpty Dumpty and The Old Woman in the Shoe were gifts from my wonderful aunt. My pretty, fifth grade teacher put my name in glitter on a blue ball and our dear, next door neighbor did the same on a bright, red bird. I've proudly put these ornaments on my tree since I was a little girl.

I love imaging my husband carefully making the ornament with his black and white picture in the center of a tin can top when he was a little boy. I saw how carefully he made the bulb for our daughter's first Christmas. The other ornaments in his honor show he loves cooking, football, boating, crabs and the Chesapeake Bay. And, Santa surfing on a remote control represents his ability to flip from American Pickers, to Storage Wars, to a football game in a matter of minutes.

The Brownie Girl Scout, dancer, soccer player and cheerleader represent my daughter. The beautiful angel holding her trumpet shows her love for playing music in the band even today. The collection of Barbies denotes her favorite childhood past time. And, Pokey Little Puppy reminds us of how she likes to take in life at her own slow pace. 

Harry Potter riding on his Quidditch stick reminds us of my son who has read the books time and time again. The car keys represent the year he got his driver's license. Other ornaments show he prefers Coke to Pepsi and that he's famous for trying really hard not to drop Santa's cookies on the way to the fireplace. The many Curious George ornaments represent his everlasting curiosity. 

Each ornament tells a story. For instance, Johnny Quest. I had a crush on him as a kid. There was just something about his blond hair. And then there's Scarlett O'Hara. She represents my southern roots and our shared philosophy, "I'll think about it tomorrow."

The ball picturing George Bailey and his wife Mary reminds us that it truly is "A Wonderful Life." And, the family photo in Angelo's Italian Restaurant in New York City is a special reminder of one of our favorite nights of the year.

We added ornaments to our tree this year from two special friends... a dog house featuring a precious picture of our new dog Buddy and a glimmering, handmade bulb with the logo of the company my son will go to work for upon his graduation. 

If you need to know who we are, just look at our tree. Each ornament tells a little bit about each one of us and of the special friends and family we love at Christmas time and all the whole year through.

Wishing you a happy holiday season filled with all the special memories you share with your family and friends.

Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum!

It's all in a word

One of the most interesting essay questions I recall from my daughter's college application days was, "What is your favorite word and why?" When she said her favorite word was "paste," I encouraged her to move on. However, the question stuck with me and I've often found myself pondering, what is my favorite word and why?

Over the years, many beautiful words have come to mind... believe, love, dream, faith, hope...but it wasn't until last week in a hotel parking lot in a small town in North Carolina that I finally discovered my favorite word and why.

When our family dog died in March, I vowed I would never get another dog. After all, no dog could ever be as good as our precious girl. Not to mention, I was finally free to travel without worrying about who would take care of her. I could leave the house without counting the number of hours I had been out. And, at last, I could get a good night's sleep without a care of getting up to let her out.

However, my freedom came with a price. Sure, I didn't have any worries about a dog but I began to realize I didn't have any of the joy that comes from one either.

When I left the house, a dog wasn't there to look at me sadly as if to say, "Please don't leave me. I need you." When I came home, a dog wasn't there to excitedly greet me and seem to say, "Where have you been? You've been gone so long. I've missed you so much."

A dog wasn't there to say to me, "I adore you. You look beautiful even without your makeup on and I just love that 10 year old sweatshirt you're wearing." Or, "Wow, that meatloaf was excellent. You're a great cook. You're just the best at everything." The unconditional love and devotion from a dog was gone.

Fortunately, my husband was feeling the same way and the search began. I knew I didn't want a puppy and hoped to find a rescue dog. For months, I combed rescue websites until finally,  I found the one. She was with a rescue group in North Carolina and I would pick her up on my way home from visiting my family in the south.

But things don't always work out like we plan. The day before I left home, the foster mother called to say my dog had gone to another family who had inquired about her first. I was crushed. Just in case, I packed the crate in the back of my car hoping the adoption wouldn't work out.

As I sat on my sister's front porch in South Carolina, my cell phone rang. It was the foster mom. I anxiously answered thinking I was getting my girl after all. But, no. She was calling about a new rescue. The perfect weight, the perfect color, the perfect age, the perfect breed but it was a boy. She asked me to open my heart to a boy and sent pictures in an email. As soon as I saw his picture, I felt attached.

I headed north on Friday to a small town in North Carolina to meet the little guy. The foster mom met me at the Holiday Inn Express 40 minutes off of my route toward home. When he hopped down from her car, he immediately came to me and sat down. Our connection was instant.

From the very first moment, I knew this dog was meant for us. Our bond was obvious. And that's when the foster mom said, "I believe in providence." I should have known the meaning of the word. After all, I was born in Providence Hospital. I knew it meant something close to another wonderful word, serendipity. And it did.

Merriam-Webster defines providence as: a) divine guidance or care b) capitalized- God conceived as the power sustaining and guiding human destiny.

From the time he jumped in my car and crawled into his crate, he gazed at me as if to say, "We were meant to be together. Thanks for finding me." I have found the perfect dog and along the way I've discovered my favorite word and why. I believe in Providence.

We were meant to be.

Worth the wait

My brother has a way of making his opinion sound more like fact. So, when he called the night my labor pains were getting close to ten minutes apart and said, "You need to get to the hospital. You won't have any problems, you have wide hips," I believed him.

Armed with that promising thought, my husband and I anxiously headed to the hospital for the arrival of our first baby. For the first time, wide hips sounded like a good idea. 

We checked into the hospital around 9:00 on a Friday night. I figured I'd be holding my new baby by midnight. But, hours passed.  I labored and labored. We waited and waited. By morning the doctor said, this baby's not budging and I was rolled into the operating room for a c-section. How could this happen? I had wide hips.

Little did I know that this waiting game was a sign of things to come. We would spend years waiting for our daughter. Time after time, my husband and I paced back and forth while our son sat quietly as we waited for our daughter to come down stairs to go somewhere. Anywhere. Every time.

She simply doesn't like to hurry. And while it may be one of her most frustrating habits, it is also one of her most wonderful qualities.

You can't accuse her of not taking time to stop and smell the roses. She stops. Smells them. Admires them. Compares them to other flowers and then takes pictures of them. She takes time to appreciate things most people don't even notice... a bunny under a tree, a squirrel eating a nut, a little girl with a cute haircut, a duck bobbing along in the water, a group of toddlers walking in a line holding onto a rope. I know. I have the pictures to prove it.

When she lived in New York City, she texted pictures of the Empire State Building to me every few days as if she were seeing it for the first time. She took her lunch to Central Park and sat on her favorite rock to enjoy a sunny day. She walked 22 blocks to and from work everyday to take in the city even in the pouring rain.

She looks up as she walks so she doesn't miss a thing. She notices the most ordinary things and helps you to see them as extraordinary. She embodies the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Life is a journey, not a destination."

Today she celebrates her 24th birthday. No doubt she will take her time to delight in everything that comes her way... a cupcake with a candle in it, a birthday card with a funny message, a child she sees joyously swinging on the playground, a cute dog hanging its head out of a car window, an inch worm. And no doubt, her radiant smile and unmistakable laugh will show all who cross her path that she is happy, appreciative and worth waiting for.

Happy Birthday to my wonderful, pokey little daughter! Thank you for helping me see everything from Paris to bunnies through your eyes.

Hold on! Look at this cute, little bunny!