Green, Blue and Yellow

I returned late Monday night from my Spring Fling 2012, a five-day visit with Julia. It was wonderful! And as with all getaways, time passed too quickly.

Before I get back into full-blown Re-Entry to Reality mode though, I wanted to share with ya'll (yes, ma'am, I've been in the South) some of my thoughts and sights - in living color.
     
                                                                     GREEN!
                                                                       

Green velvet hills

Typical Lexington street

Everything everywhere in Kentucky is green, verdant and lush. And of course the natives don't "get it," because that's all they've ever known. I truly believe their eyes would bleed if they were to drive down I-5 in California (the Golden State) in the middle of summer.

So yeah, there I was...ensconced in glorious green-ness, symbolizing (to me anyway) Spring, growth, fertility, rebirth, nature. And then it happened: I turned more than a smidge green myself. As in, green with envy. 

There. I said it. 

I mean, forgetting the mother-daughter relationship, when a 54-year-old woman spends a concentrated period of time with a 20-year-old, one can't help but suffer a mild (or moderate) case of jealousy and irritation.

I'm envious that in Julia's world, cottage cheese is...just that, and it's on the top shelf in her fridge right now. I'm green(ish) about her uberly buoyant booty and her long and lustrous eyelashes (that she could almost braid). And the reality is: she has more spunk than three of those Energizer bunnies.

I don't think envy is a bad or ugly thing, though.  It's a perspective getter. And I came away thinking, It's your turn, Girl. Go for it! Make your mark!

And then another color emerged...

BLUE!

                               

                                                    C-A-T-S, CATS CATS CATS!

                                                  A non-California version of "sea of blue"

Okay. I kind of misrepresented. Kentucky isn't all green. There's also blue. UK blue! Where it's almost a felony to wear red (Louisville's color) whilst one is within a 50-mile radius of the University of Kentucky .

Lucky me. I touched down in Lexington less than 48 hours after the basketball team won their 8th NCAA National Championship! Every citizen and college student in the city was "bleeding blue," and a lot of proud, safe, happy and boisterous celebrating ensued.

A strange thing happened, though, on my flight back to Cali: I turned blue as well.  Not an I-need-to-triple-the-dose-of-Prozac kind of blue. Just blue.

I'm blue that "time is up" on doing all the quintessential Mom stuff, like changing dirty diapers and wiping cute littly snotty noses. I'm sad that the statute of limitations has run on my dispensing unsolicited, yet openly "devoured," advice as to how to handle the trauma and drama of "mean girls," the very same girls that were BFF's last week.  I miss the days of sometimes hostile negotiations that went on as to the length of skirts and the height of heels. I'm even melancholy that I don't get to play referee between two hormonal, irrational, screeching, kicking, fighting sisters anymore. 

Those days are gone. I've shot my wad. Fini.  Finito. Finished. Done.

And I'm blue about it.

But not to worry. There's always that happy color... 

                                                              YELLOW!



Yellow =  Sunshine, Warmth, Optimism, Happiness.

In the end, yellow will always trump the greens and blues.

And for all of us -- whether we're 23 or 54 or 82 -- the future is so bright, we just gotta wear shades!



Spring Fling 2012

The birds are chirping (yay!), random ants are appearing on my bathroom counter (boo!), my eyes are puffy and itchy (argh!), the camellias, tulips and azaleas are flaunting their colors, and one of God's best-ever creations, the sun, is getting all bright and warm.

Spring is here!

Oh, and visions of Chocolate Bunnies and Marshmallow Peeps are dancing in my head.

But the extra cool thing about this particular Spring is that I get to spend it with my youngest, my college-age, just-this-side-of-21 daughter, Julia! Kinda sad that I haven't spent an Easter with either of my girlies for several years. But such is the life of an Empty-Nester...and when one's daughters choose to go to college on the other side of the country. Not complainin'. Just sayin'.

So tomorrow morning the Super Shuttle comes to my home at 3:45 a.m. (A!!!M!!!!), to take me to Sac Metro Airport, where I will board a plane that will ultimately fly me to Lexington, Kentucky. Yep, that Lexington, thee University of Kentucky, home of thee Wildcats, who won thee NCAA National Championship in basketball last night, once again! (That deserves a blog post of its very own, which I shall write one day soon.)

And so it is that I'll be touching down in the Blue Grass state about this time tomorrow evening. And I can't wait. We have a few things planned -- horse races at Keeneland on Saturday, Easter morning church -- and a lot UNplanned. I'm happy doing nothing, I told her.

I'm thrilled to be able to "shadow" her everyday life. I'm thankful that she's "letting me in" her world, if only for five short days. And I predict that, more than twice, I'll sooooo wish I could turn back the clock and walk in her shoes. (Did I really just say that? Am I a bad Mom?) Whatever...

(Since I know she will probably read this, I won't tell you the best part of all:  I get to meet the boyfriend!!!From iPhone pics she's sent, and from what I've heard, he sounds wonderful! Please say a prayer that I don't scare him away.)

So I'll report back here soon with pictures and stories of what will be, I'm sure, a glorious and most memorable Spring Fling 2012.

Tangerine Dreams

So I had to return something to J Crew yesterday. Just real quick, in and out, I said to myself.

Well, since I'm here, I further "dialoged" with myself, I really should go check out the sales racks -- which of course are strategically (and wisely, on JC's part)  placed in the way-back of the store.

I eventually got to the stuff on sale... after having gotten sidetracked by one spring-y, pretty, trendy, tangerine-colored thingy after another.

Unless you reside in a cave, I'm sure you've seen all the catalogs, magazines and ads "yelling" how popular the "oranges" are this year. The It Color for 2012, they say. Tangerine, coral, papaya, mango, peony, salmon, poppy, apricot, Clemson orange (Go, Tigers!) -- and varying shades of all the aforementioned hues. Some brighter than others...

{Most of these shades, I've learned, will work.}

So I was lovin' life and happy with all my options as I headed into the dressing room...until I held a very bright tangerine blouse up to my face and took a gander in the mirror. What was I thinking? My.face.looked.horrid. Google "sallow skin," and that was me!  I was disappointed in myself (and embarrassed, quite frankly) that I honestly thought I could still pull off wearing those intense, bright, saturated colors.

In a matter of seconds, reality struck. Lesson learned: You're too old to wear the brights, Girl. And my Tangerine Dreams became a nightmare.

So I returned my previous J Crew item and made two new small purchases. Sadly, however, nothing in the orange-hued family.

Time was running out. I had to get home. But I persevered. I was determined to NOT leave the mall without something in the It Color to put on my body. Lipstick! That's it! I'll run into Nordstrom's really quick and get thee most perfect pop of coral-y/tangerine-y lip color, like, ever!

So I went to the Lancome counter, hoping to get the more mature consultant of the two. (The comfort-in- numbers/misery-loves-company thing.) But noooooo. I got the young, long-legged,  heavily-accented  Jennifer Lopez-lipped, Russian/Croatian/Czechoslavakian (one of those countries) beauty!  Whatever.

I explained that I wanted their most on-trend orange color they had. My first choice to try, of course, was their brightest coral. (Okay. I'm a slow learner.) She indulged me as she deftly applied it with her handy-dandy Q-tip. After looking at myself in the mirror, and then looking at her, I felt awful, because I knew she was aghast at my appearance, and she didn't quite know how to address the situation.

"It's too bright, huh?"

Perfect entree for her: "Uhhhh, yes, ma'am. Yes. Way. Way. Let's try a more natural color, something more subtle. I think that will look much better with your skin."

After a bit of back-and-forth, together we arrived at a much more muted color, but still in the tangerine fam, which I so desperately wanted. It's called Rouge In Love #322. And I think I like it. A lot. For now.

And I will save the bright corals/tangerines/poppys for pedicures and throw pillows.

The Early Morning Mirror

How is your Early Morning Mirror? I know you didn't ask, but let me tell you about mine.

It's horrid. Unkind. Cruel. Some days are worse than others, but none of them are kind or inviting anymore. It is with shock and awe that I face my Early Morning Mirror.

I've tried putting frozen spoons on my eyes. I've done the tea bag thing. I've tested the refrigerated cucumber slices. Nothing has helped. Of late, I've resorted to applying fresh-out-of-the-freezer icecubes on them in an attempt to shock/jolt the creases, bags and crevices back to relative smoothness. To no avail.

I've tried new pillows, fluffy pillows, firm pillows, double pillows, non-allergenic pillows and satin pillowcases. No help. Even then, that vicious army of ugly angry fatty globules marches into and onto my face nightly, invading, attacking and taking up residence in the upper 50% of my face.

So what am I supposed to do - sleep standing up, or sitting upright? Is it possible to sleep with eyes wide open?  Will keeping watch over the invasion of the UAFG's prevent them from appearing?

After age 40, Beauty Sleep becomes an oxymoron. There is no such thing.

I know...I know. No one really cares, or notices, how my Early Morning Mirror looks. But I do. I care. Just like you care about yours.

This is my beautiful, contented, peaceful Early Morning Mirror... before I look into it. 


So, okay. So then it's time to get ready for the day. And that's when the work really begins. The toner, the moisturizer, the concealer, the foundation, the brightener, the eyelash curler, yada, yada, yada. (Please tell me you, too, know the drill.)

Hillary Clinton was right (for once I agree with her): It Takes A Village for me to physically and mentally take on the day. And why is it that now it takes about four (4!) times as long to look maybe, maybe, half (1/2!) as presentable? The math just doesn't calculate. And it is not fair.

Okay. Okay. I know I'm being all superficial and shallow here.

So just to prove to you, my readers, out there (I think my readership is up to like 7 now!!) that I have a little substance, that I'm not always a shallow swimmer, I'll share with you some of my favorite quotes on the subject of beauty.

"Beauty is not in the face. Beauty is a light in the heart."

"Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone."

"Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old."

"Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not!"

"I'm tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin deep. That's deep enough. What do you want - an adorable pancreas?"

Have a BEAUTIFUL weekend, everyone!

When Skinny Grandma Turned 55

(Before I tell you what I really want to tell you here, let me say that as far back as I can remember, my Sister, Claudia, and I always referred to our grandmothers as Skinny Grandma (my Dad's mom) and Fat Grandma (my Mom's mom). And the weird thing is, Skinny Grandma wasn't skinny -- or fat; and Fat Grandma wasn't fat -- or skinny. Note to self: Ask Mom where those nicknames originated.)

Anyway, I remember like it was -- I don't know -- four years ago, when Skinny Grandma turned 55. And I vividly recall that I felt mournful, sad and confused. I mean, why in the world were we celebrating and singing and eating cake?  55 years old!  Are you kidding me? At that old age, surely we should be planning her funeral. I was convinced that she and Grandpa (we did not call him Skinny Grandpa) were not long for this Earthly world, that they'd be going to heaven soon...within months, certainly within the year!

I can picture so clearly the five of us grandkids in the back yard of their pinkish adobe house (wasn't it?) in San Bernardino, California, cavorting and frolicking and singing around sweet Skinny Grandma as she made her wish and blew out the candles on her birthday cake. And since she was, after all, knocking on death's door, I remember feeling so relieved that she had to blow out only five candles.

Reality, thankfully, proved my thoughts and fears wrong. She indeed wasn't decrepit, or past her prime, or close to meeting her expiration date. She remained active, healthy and vibrant for many, many years thereafter.

But here's the irony of life, or more accurately, the circle of life.  Now it's my turn. In six months and two days, I turn 55.

OMGsh! 

But it's all good... 

I no longer look at 55 with horror and fear, through 7-year-old eyes, like I did with Skinny Grandma. And in 10 years, when I'm 65, I bet you anything I'll look back longingly at my "young" 55-year-old self, wondering where the time went. You know what I mean?

It's all relative.

It is what it is.

Savor the moments.

And remember...THESE are the good old days.

Hands Down

Please! Hide 'em.

That's how I feel about my hands.

They're all speckled and freckled. You know that over-ripe banana you have downstairs in your fruit bowl right now, the one with all the brown spots on it?  Yep, that's how my hands look.

And they're pudgey. Or at least my fingers are. What's with that?

My husband recently looked at an old photo of me holding our newborn daughter, immediately after giving birth (when, ostensibly, I was at my puffiest/pudgiest self), and exclaimed, "Look how long your fingers were!!" (If I ever learn how to scan a photo, I'll post that pic and a present-day pic of my hands to prove it to you.)

Oh well. Such is the reality of these aging body parts. Will I spend time/energy/money to get them lasered at my dermatologist's office? Absolutely not. I'll just continue to be vigilant in keeping my hands down and hidden whenever possible.

Moving on to a more non-superficial, gracious commentary on hands: I've always kind of had a thing for hands. I think they're truly one of God's supreme masterpieces. Quite beautiful, actually. And think about their function, purpose and beauty. Helping hands. Holding hands. Praying hands.

Here are three of my favorite images of hands.

                                              Awwww. Remember that?

A beautiful drawing by Albrecht Durer.

                                 Michaelangelo's David's hands.  Exquisite.

So, yeah. My hands may be all mottled, weathered and pudged-out, but they're still in good working order. And I'll take them over anyone else's any day. Hands down.

Girls Getaway

I'm currently suffering from post-getaway depression. I'm not asking for pity or anything like that. And I'm not saying my real, day-to-day life here in Gold River isn't just ducky (the vast majority of the time). I'm just sharing with you that... I'm kinda blue. And like any vacation, big or small, the return to reality can be rough.

Last Thursday afternoon, myself and three friends (sans my sister/dearest friend, who couldn't make it at the last minute...argh), escaped Sacramento and environs and embarked upon a three-night sojourn to Carmel, where T has theeee most adorable, historic, quintessential Carmel-By-The-Sea cottage.  A to-die-for,  perfectly petite, oh-so-charming, vintage, Continental Cream and perfect-shade-of-green-colored grown-up dollhouse, whose outside is "strangled" (in a good way) with assorted vines, Bougainvillea, hydrangeas and roses. I mean, we're talking I-want-to-sit-in-this-Sisal-rug-chandeliered-poufy-pillowed-patina'd-haven-forever kinda place.

            .

(Note: Sunglasses have been worn and the names have been changed to initials here to protect the not-so-innocent.)

So D, J and I were so happy and thankful to be invited back by T to this little piece of heaven, aptly called Lollygag. 'Cuz that's what we did. We Lollygagged. (Now a verb.)

And we ate way more food than was necessary, drank an over-abundance of wine, and consumed more martinis than was prudent. (By the way, absolutely NO driving was involved. Try this ONLY at home.)

And it was wonderful....

While we wished the empty calories and yummy carbohydrates did not count, we had absolutely no regrets. Zero! Zilch! Nada!

And we shopped (some more than others), and walked,  and laughed, until tears ran down our face...and legs.  And it was relaxing.

We browsed downtown,  slept (some louder than others),  listened to music, and ate even more. And it was delightful.

As is our tradition, we gave each other "happys" (aka gifts). D gave us each a thought-provoking, inspired, fun book of self-discovery, where we are tasked with filling out a W I D E variety of lists -- anything from "List What's Under Your Kitchen Sink" to "List the Lines You're Sick of Waiting In" to "List the Ways You've Been Affected by a Higher Power." Neat, huh?

And we talked and talked and talked.  And it was therapeutic. And essential...

We vented about the ever-present elephant in the room: Aging. And we decided there isn't a thing we can do about it, and that, actually, growing older is a pretty darn good alternative.

We discussed our kids (of course!), and how absolutely fabulous each other's kids are. We talked about our pride of / fears for / concerns about each son and daughter, and the many exciting possibilities that lie ahead for them all!

We chatted about our husbands. And let me tell you, that was fun and entertaining and hilarious... and from whence a good portion of the laughter for the weekend came. Gotta love 'em.

The words "corncob," "Burrata cheese," "granite slab," and "stomach 's'" will never again have quite the same meaning for us. All IJ's (inside jokes)! And trust me, you don't wanna know. And we spent a good 30 minutes discussing the correct pronunciation of "peonies." Lollygagging at its finest...

Heavy-duty, serious matters were explored. Inane, lighthearted topics were discussed. And somehow, even the relatively meaningless, light stuff became full of gravity and weight and importance. Because, I suppose, friends were gathered, ideas and perspectives were shared, and appreciation of our differences were acknowledged and celebrated.

And it was all fabulous. Every second.

Sunday afternoon rolled around way too quickly, where it was time to pack up, clean up, and head home. Springing forward for Daylight Savings seemed so unfair, as we mourned the loss of spending one more hour of Lollygagging.

But it was indeed a grand and glorious weekend, where time and laughter was cherished,  more memories were made, and opinions and confidences were shared.

And, as Dionne Warwick would say, that's what friends are for.

The Clutterful, Middle-Aged Mind

My car, kitchen, family room, bathroom and bedroom are all clean, spiffy and clutter-free, with no discernible physical disorder. My 54-year-old mind, however, is full of worry, junk, overload and stress.

This is exactly how I feel:

Please tell me you can relate.....  ?

I believe, I believe!

.... in endorphins. I do. They're the best.

Do you know what endorphins are? Look it up in your Webster. It's something (peptides?) that your brain produces. "Resembling opiates" is what my Webster said. And I believe it. I'm addicted.

So this post is kind of my Love Letter to Endorphins.

I love to exercise. Well, I take that back. I love the after-effects of exercising. I live for tough, sweaty workouts. Well, I guess I take that back, too. I love the afterglow and high that I feel after a tough, sweaty workout.

I've been working out, in one form or another, all of my adult life. I got hooked in my 20's when I was living in Corona del Mar, where I'd run along the Pacific blue and attend high-impact aerobics classes. Daily. And when I would teach the Saturday 10:00 a.m. aerobics class, I WAS Jennifer Beal in Flashdance. (For you 40-somethings and younger (brats), you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?)

And then came my 30's and 40's. Marriage-hood and Mom-dom happened. And the addiction continued. The #1 prerequisite to a home purchase was always how close said home was to a gym and running. 

To seek sanity and mental health, and to pursue the dream of cottage cheese-free, thin thighs, I would run (well "jog" is the more apropos word, right, Julie?) and/or work out five to seven days a week.
It got to the point where, when Cassidy and Julia were little and things got stressful (ahem) around the house, my husband would beg me to go for a run or a workout. Smart guy. He knew my endorphin high would rid myself (and him, hopefully) of my Mom-Angst, Husband-Anger, Court Reporter-Overload, or whatever the "stress du jour" was. And nowadays I go to rid myself (and him, hopefully) of Hormones-Gone-Wild and Empty-Nester-Anxiety/Depression. And, of course, to try to eradicate (okay, minimize, let's be realistic) the ravages of what time and gravity is doing to this body of mine.

~~ Cue the sounds of screeching brakes and crashing ~~

On March 30, 2006, I had arthroscopic knee surgery. My orthopedic surgeon, Dr. C, said I'd be back running in three months. Until he got in there and observed all the damage that had been done. He retracted what he said and strongly suggested I not run anymore.  As in, never again. Another major Uh-Oh moment in this Growing Older journey. Big! Fat! Bummer!

But back to the endorphins. 
~~ Cue the beautiful piano music ~~

While I continue to mourn the loss of my running days, I am still able to get that exhilirating endorphin high by working out on the Elliptical or (my beloved) StairClimber. My heart rate escalates. I sweat. I am invincible. I move/step/glide at Level 11-16, while visions of fat-on-my-thighs-going-up-to-Cottage-Cheese-Heaven dance in my head.  I can conquer my day -- or do a stellar job trying!

And it is blissful.

For this ever-changing body, in this constantly-evolving world, the endorphin high is the one and only thing that has remained a constant in my life. Do I sound like a Drama Queen?  Sorry. But it's true.

If you are not yet addicted to endorphins, I recommend you get hooked ASAP. It's good for your body, your health, and your psyche. No matter your age -- whether you're a brat (aka younger than me) or way older than me, it is not too late.

Carpe YOUR diem, and get high...on endorphins.  And you, too, will become a believer.

Mirrors, Salt, Skinny Jeans and Other Enemies

It's a no-brainer. Of course the mirror is Enemy #1.  Some mirrors are more forgiving than others, but they all basically suck. I mean, why subject myself to that? The answer, of course, is that one has to utilize one's mirror (to apply spackle, grout and concealer) before going out into the world each day. They are really, really cruel, though....and getting meaner every year.

Salt isn't very kind anymore either. Circa 1975, eating an entire bag of Frito's in one sitting? Not a problem. Zero puffiness. When I was in my 30's, the more soy sauce when eating sushi, the better.  Eyes looked fine. 2012? No- or low-sodium soy sauce for me please.  Chuck and I ate Vietnamese food the other night (my first time, and it was delicious!).  I woke up the next morning, though, looking...Vietnamese.

By the way, is there salt in chardonnay? Actually, don't answer that. I'll never cut that out of my life. (And besides, it would be painful for me to categorize my beloved chardonnay as an enemy.)

And who "invented" Skinny Jeans? No need to answer that, 'cause I know:  Some long-legged,  lithe,  lean,
I-haven't-had-a-gram-of-carbs-since-2006, young(er) thing, whose only knowledge of cottage cheese is that it's called Knudsen and that it can be purchased at Safeway.

So I went to J. Crew last Fall (I was having a "skinny day" that day, as I remember),  paid the requisite $109 for a pair of their trendy, 'Fall-Into-Fall' Skinny Jeans. So as to avoid Enemy #1, the dreaded mirror, I brought them home to try them on in the comfort, darkness and solitude of my own home. Such. A. Joke...
My legs looked like overstuffed calzones, and they shortened the appearance of my already-height-challenged, 5'4"-on-a-good-day physique. I looked like I was standing in a hole. My thighs were gasping for air as I quickly unpeeled them.

I now have a $109 credit to J. Crew. I plan to buy a pretty, blousey, of-the-moment  "mumu" soon.

So what/who are the other enemies? Well, for starters, that brat (see above) who invented the Skinny Jeans. And all the gals out there who have the ability to eat rich, salty, spicy food,  who enjoy an adequate amount of wine and stay out past 11:00 on Saturday night, and still awaken the next morning looking all perky and rested, with bag-free eyes.  It just doesn't seem fair.

As Oscar Wilde said ~ "Always forgive your enemies - nothing annoys them so much." So I guess I'll forgive them, because I'd love to know that I'm annoying them.

Empty-Nesters Weekend Getaway!

A couple weeks ago our good friends Doug and Diane asked us to go with them to their time-share in Pacific Grove and to the Pebble Beach Pro-Am golf tournament (and yes, we saw Tiger, Phil, Tony Romo, Aaron Rodgers and Josh Duhamel, et al.; and yes, I get soooo excited about stuff like that.)

But my larger point here is that we had a wonderful time ~ eating, shopping, gallery-browsing, walking, and just plain ol' hangin' out, doing a lot of nothing. And it was delightful...

I wanted to share a few pics of our getaway. And here's to a wonderful weekend to you!

Friday night...with husband and friends...Pacific Ocean as the backdrop. If you think that's coffee in that cup I'm holding, you're crazy!

Love the restaurant window. Love that creeping-fig vine that covers every inch of the building.

Press "Replay"

Having been married for almost 27 years, Chuck and I do our share of disagreeing/debating/arguing  --probably more often than is healthy, or that I care to admit. And invariably it's a discussion of the same old issues, over and over and over again. Ad nauseum.

When he starts his oft-repeated retorts, I'm quick to say, "Geez, just press the Replay button!!!"  At which point he gets irritated at my saying that, which then leads to an even more heated exchange, at which time we regress rather rapidly into our junior-high selves. (Hey, at least I admit it.)

So that's one kind of Replay button in my life.

But there's another kind of  Replay button that I love to push!

Reflections on my past are most often heartwarming and joy-filled,  sometimes disappointing and disheartening, and always entertaining. And I bet you think I'm going to get all sappy on you now.

I mean, I could replay for you my close-to-ideal, "Leave It To Beaver" upbringing in Porterville, California -- a childhood where roaming the green, oak-studded, beautiful hills of Success Valley was the norm, where summer evenings were spent sitting on the porch with my family, looking up at the stars (and that was exactly what I wanted to do!). But I won't.

And I could wax poetic about my high school years -- where catching Porterville High School bus #21 at 7:30 each school day was the only mode of transportation; where Friday nights consisted of cheering at the PHS football game ("Orange! Green! Go Big Team!"), then going to the dance in the school gym, followed by cruising Main Street (literally) and stopping for a cherry Coke at Coleman's. And yes, that is all we did. And yes, we loved it! I shall spare you all the glorious details of Porterville circa 1975, but oh how I can't wait to some day get together again (in person!) with my Facebook-rediscovered friends from those bygone years -- Krista, Therese, Michelle, Julianne, Lezlie, Joan, Cindi -- and many more!

And heaven forbid I would brag to you about my fabulous, carefree (yet hard-working) single years, "frolicking" (kinda) on the beach in Newport (with zero COTTAGE CHEESE and no CREPE PAPER, I might add); living in Corona del Mar with a view out my rooftop balcony that rivaled that of the South of France. But I won't do that either.

And far be it for me to use this forum to blather on incessantly about my wonderful, happy and successful (so far) daughters (who too often ask us, why-oh-why did you ever leave Corona del Mar to raise us in...Sacramento?)

When I do play those magnificent parts back, though, I'm quick to press the Pause button. Because "marinating" in the great times gone by are definitely good for the soul.

I cringe, though, when I recount all the idiotic, ugly, stupid and irresponsible things that I have done, and said, and experienced. Did I really say that? Yep. I did that? Mortifying. I acted how? Oh, dear.

And it is then that I press the Fast Forward button, try to erase all that from my memory, and take inventory of the lessons learned. 'Cuz I'm movin' on...

Another Aging Beauty

Look at all those lines and dents and chips and cracks. And think of the stories "she" could tell.

Encouraging evidence, once again, that it is possible to age with grace and beauty.

Face It! (The beard)

So if I were a pre-pubescent male, I would be ecstatic. I have been sporting a beard and mustache for about three years now.

It started out as the quintessential peach fuzz. And then way too many of those fuzzies morphed into long...and coarse...and ugly...and straw-like entities, especially on the chin. Oh, and let's not forget the dark nostril hair.

I know: TMI  (Too Much Information).  But I feel it's my duty to forewarn all you 30 and 40-year-olds (heretofore and hereinafter called "brats"). You need to know this stuff.

So, back to the maintenance. That's where my Lady Bic Shaver (and patience and anti-depressants) come in handy. Yep, gotta shave 2-3 times a month. Sad, true fact.

Upon revealing my new-found ritual to friends, many of them have expressed concern, telling me the hair would grow back darker and even thicker. So far, it hasn't, thankfully. But it certainly hasn't permanently remedied the situation.

So here's the question: Do you shave, pluck, wax or laser??? My inquiring mind needs to know...

Here's to Friday...

The Park

It's a beautiful February Friday here in Gold River. A blue-sky, sunshiney, 63-degree kinda day.

As I went by the park this morning and saw all the cute kids with their moms/caregivers, I thought back to the glory days (although I didn't appreciate fully the glory at the time) of taking my daughters to that very same park. Ahhhhh, such memories...

~ ~ Cue the harp music ~ ~

My girlies would (im)patiently wait their turn in line to go down the slide. I'd push our mellow (well, then she was mellow) Cassidy on the swings, while Julia, the wild child, would enthusiastically throw sand (too often in some other child's face). They would both shriek in delight as they jumped onto the merry-go-round. They would laugh together as they played on the teeter-totter (after arguing over who got which end of said teeter-totter). And we would all three leave the park being contented, relaxed and ever-so-happy.

Life couldn't get much better than hanging with my daughters, in the sunshine, at the park! The simple joy and sweet pleasures of everyday life....

The more mature, Empty-Nester "park," however, is vastly different than the park of yesteryear. Not better (necessarily) or not worse (certainly), just...different.

My internal "park" these days consists of hormones running amok, emotions gone wild, living life on a teeter-totter, and dealing with extreme mood swings (my poor husband) while mourning the loss of a once-semi-buoyant derriere that is slip-sliding down my legs.

My parallel "park" nowadays is dinner out with fellow EN's (Empty-Nesters), a weekend in Napa or Pebble Beach with friends, and girls-only getaways to Carmel or Tahoe. The park now is more geographically expansive; I'm hangin' with a waaay older demographic; and instead of drinking JuicyJuice from a sippy-cup while building sandcastles, I'm enjoying wine (disguised in a coffee cup) while strolling the beach.

And at this time of life, that's exactly the way it should be.

1 1 0 !!

Chuck and I were invited to a fun little soiree last night. Our friends, Mike and Beth, were celebrating his 60th, her 50th, Valentine's Day and Friendship. Such a great way to usher in the new week!

Toasts were made,  hugs were given, drinks were enjoyed (duh), small talk and heavy-duty conversation took place, yummy food was consumed, introductions were made. And joy and laughter prevailed!

Okay. So to set the mood for you, the party was inside a wonderfully charming store called Bungalow in Fair Oaks. If ever you are around these parts, you must go take a peek! (And then check out the equally great store two doors down called Bleu.) (And, as I am wont to do, I will post pics here later of their many beautiful chandeliers.)

But I digress...

So Beth, the honored birthday girl, welcomed her guests, and then movingly expressed the virtues of time, of age, of growing older... and wiser... and happier. She spoke of the wings (that are magnificently displayed in Bungalow's window) that were her jumping-off point, her inspiration for making the best of her 50th year, the beginning of her second half.  (See my previous post.)

She has experienced some "stuff" and endured some "junk."  So have I. And so have you. Not a one of us got to this point unscathed. (I mean, come on, we didn't earn these lines and wrinkles for nothin'.)

She then thanked her husband, her rock. She paid tribute to her supportive family. She gave kudos to her girlfriends, her what I like to call "personal cheerleading squad." And -- to me, the post poignant of all --  she paid homage to her choosing to take flight from those wings, to pave her own way to happiness and contentment. There was no denying that at that moment in time, Beth was front and center at her happy place. And it was a glorious thing to see...

I was reminded of this quote that I've always liked:  "All we are guaranteed is the pursuit of happiness. You have to catch up with it yourself."

60 (Mike)  +  50 (Beth)   =  110 years of Fabulosity and Awesomeness. Truly.

What's your number? 76 (divorced/widowed)? 20 or 23 (Hi, my daughters!)?

So thank you, Mike and Beth, for a great evening.

And here's to a Happy Valentine's Day...and hoping you make the most of your number.

The Second Half

Okay. So Clint Eastwood weighed in on the "second half" during the Super Bowl last week. Great commentary, I thought. Inspiring. Encouraging. Good stuff. (And I personally did NOT think there was any subliminal, political message hidden in there.)

But that got me to thinking about our second half. Which we're in, I hope you realize. :) We 40 and 50-year-olders (and beyond) are pretty much beyond the halftime show, heading smack dab into the third and fourth quarters. But that's a good thing...if we want it to be.

My daughters, ages 20 and 23, are in the first half.  They're all fit and flawless and frolicking about as they find their way in life.  Such fun! Such possibilities! Such potential!

Me? Been there, done that. Time has been called on my first half. I've TiVo'd and played back my first half innumerable times. And sure, there are lots of parts that I'd love to replay. But that's not the way the game (aka life) works. We play each game, each quarter, each half only once.

All the good, the bad and the ugly has stuck with me, literally and figuratively, as I head into the third quarter. The good? (Glad you asked.) Ahhh, what a wonderful upbringing I had growing up in Porterville, California; raised by hard-working, loving, supportive parents. The bad? I've had my (un)fair share of bumps, bruises, lows, valleys and losses. The ugly? Duh. Take a gander at the cottage cheese stuck to my thighs and the big, fat, overweight crow's feet under my eyes.

But I am not throwing a pity party here. I suppose I've earned the right to have crepe paper eyes; and I'd like to think that fighting the cottage cheese keeps me in good cardiovascular health. :)

I mean, let's look at some people who are playing quite well in their second half. Madonna (of whom we may or may not be a huge fan) looked pretty darn good out there during the Super Bowl halftime show. My friend Darci, a new empty-nester, has taken up extreme biking, hiking and fly-fishing lessons "'cuz she can" now that her kids are gone. A friend of mine from the club, who is well into her fourth quarter, travels to distant parts of the world two (2!) times a year--  to scuba dive! My mother, who is in excruciating pain every second of every day (osteoporosis...argh), bought an iPad this summer. She is quite proficient, I'm proud to say. And she had never touched a computer before. Hats off to everyone who dares to go outside of their box, no matter their age or what their "new normal" is.

So you get what I'm sayin', don't you? We are in charge of the second half. It is up to us make the right plays and stay in the game and be competitive -- physically, spiritually, emotionally, relationally (is that a word?). It is true that, whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game that counts.

Here's to our second half!

Uh-Oh Moments

Oprah has her Ah-Ha moments. I have my Uh-Oh moments. Here are just a few that come to mind this rainy Tuesday morning:                                    
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*  Having to slooooowly and gingerly get out of bed each morning -- just to make sure all the appendages are working properly.

*  Comparing teeth color when looking at pictures of me with my peers. Yep, mine always win the Most Yellow Award.

*  Tuning out when I hear the younger moms (brats) at the club talking about their hectic day ahead: taking their kids to school, then to basketball practice at 3:15, then to the PTA meeting at 6:30. (Oh how far, far away those days seem.)

*  Driving down Sunrise Boulevard one sunny day a few years ago, looking in the mirror, seeing a long blond hair on my chin, realizing it was not a stray hair from my head, that it was growing out of my chin!! I kid you not! (This ranks as my #1 Uh-Oh moment!)

*  When the young checker at Trader Joe's looked at my driver's license and said, "Whoa, this picture was taken a long time ago, huh, ma'am?" (Could.have.throttled.him.)

*  Looking down at my thighs and no longer seeing smooth, tanned, taut skin... and seeing instead that dreaded cottage cheese. (I can, and will, speak volumes about this. Stay tuned!)

*  When I went to visit my daughter last year and seeing Cosmopolitan magazine on her bedside table. Not just any Cosmpolitan -- this one featured "Best Positions EVER!" (Oh my...)

*  Facing the fact that I need  Fiber-Con in my life.

*  Realizing I just forgot the other Uh-Oh moments I was going to share with you today.
                                                      
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I would love to hear your Uh-Oh moments! Do tell...

"Pinkberry Chandy"

The day before my daughters headed back to their respective lives in early January, we went to our beloved Pinkberry for three large yogurts.

It pays to look up! Discovery of yet another great chandelier.

I'm hot, hot, hot !

NOT!

I once thought that I would never experience hot flashes. I work out daily and eat healthily every day, I told myself. Hot flashes are for oooold ladies only. It just won't happen to me, I thought. But it did, and it is...

I remember Dr. Hiuga, my GYN, telling me a few years ago that the average female starts the hot flash thing at about 53 or 54. Well, I'm average then. And he was right-on. They're happening more often than I care to admit. Okay. I'll tell you: Like two or three times a day.  Such.a.bummer.

I've tried blaming it on the fact it's wintertime, and the heater just came on. Wait. There's no heater outside in the Rite-Aid parking lot. Darn. That doesn't work. I've tried blaming it on a flu bug that is going around. Wait. I have zero nausea, and I could eat a horse right now. It's not the flu.

Two weeks ago, as I was taking a deposition, I felt soooo very hot. I asked the attorneys, "Is it hot in here?" They took one look at me, and at that moment, I knew that they knew. "Oh, yeah, it is! Right, Mark? Let's take a break and get some fresh air." Thanks guys.

And my husband -- who has not a clue of what is going on with me -- finally gets it! Sorta. While asleep in the middle of the night recently, he nudged me gently. "Gip? Gip?" (That's what he calls me. Don't ask.) "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I drowsily replied. "Why?"

"Because you are on fire! I think you have a fever".

As I kicked the blankets off of me, I told him I was fine, that it was a hot flash, that it would pass, to go back to sleep. "Wow!" was all he could say.

In our wakeful moments together the next morning, I went into more detail about my newly-acquired "fire from within." I still don't think he gets it. And I told him he now has his own personal, free Bunsen burner to keep him warm on a cold winter night. I think he gets that.

So, I've made an appointment to see Dr. Hiuga next month. Am I a candidate for low-dosage Estrogen? Will it help? Does this mean I am officially menopausal...or peri-menopausal...or very-peri-menopausal? Is it normal and okay for me to be quasi-depressed just talking about this? Stay tuned.

In What State Of Mind Are You ?

I've Lost It!

I've lost my looks -- if I ever had any. I've lost control -- of my kids, of what gravity is doing to my anatomical house, of my bladder (when I sneeze or laugh too much). I've lost loved ones way, way, way too early. I've lost control of getting my husband anywhere on time (Well, I never did have control over that, I've finally realized.) All of these things I would love to discuss with you further some day. But today I want to talk about...about...shoot, what was it?...oh, yeah...about the loss of my mind!

I often worry if I should worry about my memory, or the lack thereof. My mind is not as equipped as it once was at managing life. And I mean just the day-to-day stuff. I now become overwhelmed at the slightest change of plans, where once I was the queen of multi-tasking. Long to-do lists are one of my new BFF's, where once upon a time a mental list would more than suffice.

I'm tired of going to the grocery store, standing at the dairy counter, dazed and confused, thinking, now what is it I wanted to get here? Or, calling my Mom to tell her "just one thing", and upon her answering the phone, immediately forgetting why I called. Or, the very worst: telling a story to a friend, being sidetracked for the merest of moments, and taking five minutes for both of us to remember, rehabilitate and pick up where I left off.  So darn frustrating.

How was it that I ever made it through what once was a typical day of: working out, fixing two brown-bag lunches, getting my kids to and from school and practice, going to work, taking a deposition, getting out a 63-page expedited transcript, walking our Mia dog, preparing (or microwaving/re-heating, in my case) dinner for four -- all the while planning a get-together at our house for three couples this coming Saturday night?!!!!

Huh? Answer me. I'm serious! How.did.I.ever.do.it???

I think this is probably God's clever way of saying sloooooow down, reflect, reminisce, relax, enjoy and...shoot!!! I forgot the other word (verb) I was going to use.

What Am I Doing Here?

I have to tell you that I am a true newbie at this whole blog thing. HUGE thanks and kudos to my youngest daughter, Julia, who has poked, prodded, motivated and encouraged me to do this. She kind of got me hooked on the blog world last summer when she introduced me to some of her favorites. (Hello, Peanut Butter Runner, Urban Grace Interiors and Silver Lining Avenue.)

And then I started thinking about how much fun and therapeutic and, well, downright essential it is to "compare notes" on this whole getting-older thing.

It was so helpful for me to be forewarned about the changes that were coming --  like night sweats, spotted hands, spider veins, scummy teeth and increased flatulence -- by my "older" friends (and that includes you, Sis!). And I probably would have freaked out (even more than I actually did) had I not been told of the myriad emotions and seemingly unprovoked sobbing that comes with the early stages of Empty-Nest-hood. So now I kind of want to "give back" by prepping my younger friends (you brats!) as to what lies ahead.

And so it is that I am here. I want to be a part of the dialog that defines, augments and embellishes our lives as we head into our second half-century (!!!).  And maybe, just maybe, if we keep laughing and talking and commiserating, we'll more quickly realize that we are not alone, and that we're all in this together. Misery does love company, don't ya know?  :)


So I truly hope this becomes an enjoyable, fun, happy, informative and quasi-educational blog, and not a "blah-g" (bland, vanilla and boring).

Let's let the cyber hand-holding begin!

And Mom, I promise I will try to follow your admonishment NOT to talk politics here. (Trust me, there will be days where my tongue will hurt!)

Flippin' Floaters

Okay. So about two weeks ago, as I was minding my own business, preparing my dog's (Mia!!!) dinner, there suddenly appeared....."black things" in my right eye. I thought, no big, it's just a glob of mascara. And then the "black things" started moving all around. So I thought, no big, it's a black cobweb (why I thought there would be cobwebs, black ones yet,  in my kitchen, I'll never know). That wasn't the culprit. Oh, I know what it is: "black things" were stuck under my contact lens. So I took out the old contact lens and put in a new one. But...they  were  still   there!!

So I did what I'm guilty of doing way too often; I Googled "black things moving in your eyes." And that's when I learned they're called floaters, and that it "comes with age," to "older patients." SH*T. Another body part bites the dust.

Now I would be remiss here if I didn't give kudos to my friend Jeff, an optometrist, who I anxiously sought out the next morning at the gym. He smiled knowingly as I went into painstaking (and I'm sure boring) detail as to the events of my previous evening. After telling me alllll about the "refractive index" and the "vitreous humour," blah-blah-blah, he assured me that it's normal, that it comes with time, and that it happens to all of us as the years go by. Not one word about AGE or GETTING OLDER. Now how is that for good bedside manner? Thank you, Jeff!

(FYI:  He did ask if I had flashing lights accompanying the "black things." I learned that that can be cause for concern, as it could be the beginning of a detached retina, which requires immediate medical attention. Serious stuff.)

Anyway...So the floaters are still flippin' around in my field of my vision, but not as badly. And I won't freak out if, and probably when, (per Jeff) I get them in my left eye, as I know now that it just comes with time.

Two morals to this story: Don't freak out if you, too, get floaters!! It's normal, and you're not alone. And if you're ever in the Sacramento area and you need an optometrist, Jeff is your guy.

Hair We Go!

I was never the girl with the beautifully lustrous and shiny head of hair. It wasn't awful, though. And I'd like to think I made the best of it. I remember fondly the days when I could quickly put it back in a cute, full, bouncy pony. Two loops of the elastic band, and I was good to go.

Now...it's different. I have more hair-don'ts than hair-do's now. And these days it takes at least four (4!!) loops of the elastic band. After a lot of work and deliberation trying to achieve the casual look, I'm left with a wimpy and "frithy" pull-back. Quite pathetic, actually. It's a slow, ugly, insidious thing, this hair-thinning process.

Sadly, I have to clean out my brush a lot more often now. There are more hair strands (aka globs) than ever before left behind on the shower door.

The word "thin" is a great thing in virtually every aspect of my present-day life, except when it comes to the volume of this hair of mine. Arghhhh.

I guess the moral of the story is that Mother Nature giveth, and Mother Nature taketh away. But I sometimes just don't understand the various body parts She's chosen.

(Has anyone out there tried Rogaine For Women? Does it work? Does anyone else 'steal' their husband's Nioxin Scalp Treatment For Thinning Hair, and it doesn't do a thing?)

"Spoon Chandy"

Is this not one of the coolest chandeliers you've ever seen? I saw this in a shop in Nashville (Franklin, technically) and fell in love with it.

Nor Cal comfort

LoveLoveLove a creamy, soothing, delicious, warm nonfat latte on a cold winter day in Northern California! (Oh, and of course a bite or two of dark chocolate.)

Face It! (The eyes)

Nora "feels bad about her neck." Well, I feel just awful about my eyes.

When I was a young thing, my eyelashes were so long and lush and dark that I had to use mascara sparingly so as to avoid tarantula-eyes. My lashes now are sparse; they've shrunk in length; and they've faded from black to (a sick) mouse brown. I've tried virtually every lash-enhancing mascara on the market (from drug store to department store brands), and what it does is just create fat little globules at the end of the lashes, making them look stumpier than ever.

I not only have crow's feet; the crow has landed! And it's one large, heavy-duty, ever-so-stubborn crow. What were once smooth, taut eyelids have morphed into a loose, baggy, crepe paper like consistency. Since the skin surrounding my eyes has changed so dramatically, I'm sure my eyes, if measured, would be about two-thirds the size they once were.

Oh, how I wish that crow would go away!

I'm in constant pursuit of concealer, moisturizer, foundation, eye-brightener, spackle, grout, putty, caulking or whatever I can find to attempt disguise and/or coverage of the wrinkles, fine lines, bags and discolorations. Some days they work better than others. That's where the sleep and water intake, I've discovered, play a part.

My eyes aren't as forgiving as they once were. If I'm the least bit sleep-deprived, it shows in my eyes. If I've had a glass of wine too many, my eyes will tell the world the next day. Used to be I could get by on five hours of sleep after eating Japanese food, heavy on the soy sauce, and no one ever suspected a thing. Those days are way gone.

And let's talk about the internal stuff that's going on. My optometrist, Dr. Brown, has now given me close-up and far-away contacts, one for each eye (or whatever the correct lingo is). So YAY, I don't have to wear the Costco readers anymore. But...I still struggle with small print in dark places. In other words, while reading the menu in a restaurant, I still squint and look like a trombone player as I attempt to extend my arms long enough to achieve successful reading! Such is the way of my current life.

I love what Katie Couric said though: "God has a way of making your eyes go, just as your body is starting to go."

Thank you, God. I guess.

Yep, I'm one of those

So...how did I get here? What happened?

I never in a million years thought my thighs would get this mushy.  I never, ever dreamt that I'd feel most confident about my face when hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and/or standing in a very dimly lit room. And if you had told me back when I was 40 (seems like yesterday) that I someday would seriously consider being less than truthful about my age one day, I'd have called you crazy.

But that was then, and this is now. Sunglasses, dimly-lit spaces and changing-the-subject-when-age-is-mentioned are now my friends. :)

Time and Gravity

I am a terrible cook. I'm awful at anything having to do with math. There's no such thing as a 'green thumb' in my world. And I'm a total failure at assembling the most basic of tables from Target. But...I am an expert at one thing: My body.

I've resided in this body for 50+ years. I've been with it through thick and thin - literally. It's taken me to some wonderful places, and it's helped me see beautiful and amazing things. I have the utmost of respect and gratitude for it. And I know it better than anyone else on Earth. We've had a great journey so far, this body and I, and I'm thankful that we're still going.  Kinda sorta...

All this proper care and feeding maybe, just maybe, has s-l-o-w-e-d the aging process down a teensy bit. But I'd ask that you indulge and allow me, for therapy's sake, to scrutinize and inventory, top to bottom, inside and outside, the changes. I'm not going to throw a pity party, and I promise I'll try not to complain (too much), but I do have this burning desire to wallow in my observations and insecurities one more time as I elaborate on all that time and gravity has done!


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