True or False with the Birthday Girl

Today is the big day - I knew I'd get a royal baby for my birthday, but damn - I wanted a GIRL.  Even knowing I wouldn't live to see her take the throne, I would have been content with knowing a female was finally in the line of succession.  (This is the kind of stuff English major's obsess over.)

I am now 55,  which seems very strange because mentally I feel about 42 or 43.... but enough about that, let's get to the list.  Since "with age comes wisdom," I am going to take another opportunity to clarify some of the OTHER conventional wisdom that is out there, and some of it about weddings because I so loathe what they have become and wish to straighten out as many people as I might.  

1. You are as young as you feel. 
False.  I think I'm 42, and I FEEL like I'm 93 and have spent the past 4 years in a cement mixer filled with broken glass and blunt instruments.

2. Outdoor summer weddings are wonderful. 
False.  I have a distinguished history of giving solid wedding advice and I bat a thousand when I say that outdoor summer weddings are anathema. Witness the vast number of white plastic chairs blistering in the summer heat at the shore hotels near my home.  Who in their right mind would make their guests go out and fry their asses in a humid, miserable sweat while the self-involved couple declares eternal love in badly written vows that drone on forever? Dear Bride and Groom:  I hope your presents suck.

3. Never go to bed angry.
False.  If you know and trust yourself, do whatever you like. Me? I know and trust myself, and I know that if we hadn't gone to bed good and angry a few times there would have been body bags at the curb the next morning.  Sometimes you need to retreat to neutral corners to calm down, cool off, and think about the problem. Harsh words said in anger are highly unlikely to be forgotten.

4.  Keep it simple. 
True. Simple is cleaner, clearer, less expensive and all around better.  St. Elizabeth Ann Seton once said, "Dress simply. It makes a pretty woman prettier and an ugly woman less noticeable."  Guest lists should ALWAYS be simplified. One bride complained (on the internet in front of God and everybody) that a full one-third of her wedding guests didn't send gifts. Earth to clueless bride: this indicates you invited a boatload of people who are 1) not friends, and 2) would have gladly stayed home.

5. You get what you pay for. 
Pretty much true. If I had a time machine I'd go back and buy really good shoes instead of the $9.95 Kmart sandals with high heels. It is probably the reason why I have a shoe wardrobe about about 5 pairs of shoes, all flats. I ruined my feet.
Same for clothes, furniture, the whole drill.  Quality and durability are never found bargain basement prices.

6. Measure twice, cut once. 
True. In construction and in quilting, truer words were never spoken. Ask anyone who has ever made a quilt to tell you about how they learned that lesson. Have some alcohol on hand because it gets pretty grim.

7. Slow and steady wins the race.
Pretty much always true.  I actually have a setting on my Bernina that caps me at 1/2 speed. I use it from time to time and it has always proven to be a wise move. It keeps me from screaming along when sewing long seams that need a consistent seam allowance of 1/4 inch.  That was not a typo - 1/4 inch.

8.  No pain, no gain. 
Pants on fire false. God made salty, buttered popcorn so we could gain and gain painlessly.

9. You look better with a tan.
True. Most people do.  However, there will come a point in time when your skin will sag and wrinkle and dehydrate and you will look a full 30 years older than you are. Case in point - I moved out here when I was 26 and took one look at the tan-every-summer matriarchs and bought a damn hat.  Never regretted it.  Spray-on tans if you must,  but the real thing will kill you with cancer and/or ugly.

10. A true friend will be with you for the good and bad times and love you through both. 
True beyond belief.  I think about that every year on my birthday and again on New Year's Eve.  I am ridiculously blessed with a great group of friends, and a smaller, inner circle made up of those who I know would run to help me in a crisis, keep any secret, call me on my BS, and constantly surprise me with their generosity.

So while the list of things I want for my birthday is long and boring (kitchen floor, storm doors on the front and back door, carpet torn out of the bedroom, paint for about 4 rooms) I really already have the gifts of a kick ass family,  priceless friends and a husband I adore. Bonus - my Mom once told me, "He looks at you like he made you from clay." Every time I tell him I love him, he shakes his head and says, "I love you more."
How can you ask for more than that?  Happy birthday to me.

Ninety for 90

My Aunt Addie is turning 90 in April. To celebrate this milestone, her kids arranged for each of the 90 days preceding her birthday to be marked with a unique gesture of love from one of her kin. I am one of the privileged members of my extended family to be invited to do so - and I say privileged because 1) I adore her and 2) there are waaayyy more than 90 people in my family to choose from. We are a proper and prolific Irish clan.

Aunt Addie has always been on short my list of people who I want to be when I grow up. My earliest memories of her involve big family gatherings in Madison, Nebraska, and how she and my Aunt Helen were in the center of it all, coordinating the feeding, caring and oversight and sleeping arrangements of a ton of hungry cousins.

In addition to raising large families, they were both nurses. I remember how competently and efficiently they managed the day when their mother (my Grandma McGill) had a stroke. I was in my early teens and pretty honked about not being able to play the cool organ Aunt Addie had in her house because they were trying to keep things quiet for Grandma. (Sorry, Grandma.) Once, my younger brother Steve was with her in a restaurant and they ordered coffee. When the waitress poured and Aunt Addie took a sip, the war-horse nurse in her came out when she said, "Oh, I could VOID coffee warmer than this." I think Steve spit his out when she said that, but it was such typical stuff from her. Aunt Addie kicks ass. A few years ago she went to see my Dad in the hospital. He was whining about wanting to go home. Once approved, she put him in her car and took him back to his assisted living facility, got out her walker and made the long trip to his room with him, got him settled and adjusted his catheter, grabbed her walker and made the long trek back to her car. (She later told one of my siblings that she wished his room was closer to the entrance.)

Aunt Addie was widowed early, but she pushed right on and maintained. She was the first one in the car for a trip to the casino, and still is - she loves to gamble. She makes it to family events, keeps track of who was who and does it all with astonishing humor and good grace. One of the best parts of going home to see my family is a trip to Madison to see her. I could sit at her kitchen table and listen to her for hours. She radiates wisdom, humor and good times.

My most precious memory of her is when Mom was in the hospital /hospice with pancreatic cancer. They cousins brought her out to Lexington so she could see her sister one more time and I was sitting in Mom's room when Addie arrived. Mom was pretty narc'd up at that point, but when Addie came in she raised her arms and thickly murmured, "Oh AAahhhdiiiee." Addie sat on the bed and held her little sister and talked to her, touched her face and the love was so unabashed and naked I had to look away. I've never witnessed such strength in my life. I weep now as I am writing this, remembering her grace, how she didn't lose it, she didn't cry, she just poured out such love and kindness and goodness. I'm sure she cried a river of tears later, but those last moments they had together were spectacularly beautiful. We should all be so lucky.

Back to the matter at hand - what am I going to do for my "Ninety for 90"? I thought about doing several different things, but many have already been done. She's had cakes, pies, flowers, phone calls. Chicago White Sox memorabilia, gift cards, lunches and dinner out - all kinds of great stuff. Since the economy is sour, one person minted her a trillion-dollar bill . She took it to the Senior Citizens lunch and presented it to pay for her meal. (They didn't have enough change.) Oh, and did I mention she is hand writing proper thank you notes to each of us for her gifts? She is grace personified. Wish her a happy birthday!

 

Do-Over

We leave Sunday for a trip to Florida to stay with our friend John. This is a "do-over" trip.   Last year Joe and I made our first ever trip to Florida (we live on the ocean here.....why bother, right?) and about 3 days in to our inaugural experience we got a phone call letting us know my Dad had passed away. John felt terrible and as a special act-of-love-I'm-so-sorry gift he promised us a "do over"  trip this year.

I'm not sure how I feel about going. The specter of last year's trip is kind of lurking out there... but the actual anniversary (thankfully) is a few weeks off.  Don't get me wrong -  I'm thrilled to get out of Dodge, pleased for Joe (who REEEALLLYY needs a break) and I'm even OK with ironing a pile of linen shirts to pack.  I've always found ironing to be very relaxing and therapeutic. What's the problem, then?   I just feel kind of sideways inside.

Physically, I'm ready to go. I splurged on a haircut and matching (we don't call it "coloring") and even managed to get my esthetician  to melt a metric ton of wax and do my eyebrows.  I look positively GIRLY.  Luckily, John is an expert at relaxing and entertaining.  I'll have a really good bloody Mary in my hand within moments of our arrival.  That should help with the mental part, right?

I'm sure it will all come together and be a great week.  Right? Right.

Guaranteed-to-Scare-You Halloween

Want to know the scariest thing about this Halloween? Aging.  I was rummaging through my digital files looking for a good Halloween image to use in a project when I came across this x-ray of my back.  Yup, it's for reals. I had a spinal fusion for scoliosis at 16 and they threw in a Harrington rod for good (straightening) measure. It was state of the art in 1974 but today could easily be featured as a prop in a horror movie.

It's been a rough year.  I've been undergoing spinal injections to remedy pinched nerves and collapsed discs (see the red, non-smiley face) to determine if/when/which/where to approach with a surgical intervention.  This was complicated by a bad fall & a wrist sprain that keeps giving me grief.  (I had 3 separate people tell me, "You should have broken it, it would heal faster.") Roll that all up into a ball and nest it with feuding PMS & menopause and you have some idea of why my romantic 23rd wedding anniversary dinner left me a little weepy.  As we drove home we talked about all the people who filled our house the night before the wedding and how many of them were now missing, waiting for us on the "other side."  As we pulled in to the driveway and got out of the car, I felt that familiar catch of pain in my lower back. Joe immediately caught my arm and walked me up the front steps.  When we got inside I burst into tears and said, "I feel like I'm aging before my own eyes!"  to which Joe replied, "Yeah, with a bullet!"  Thankfully, it broke the tension and I had a good, long laugh. No one can call it like Joe - he's the "glass half full" anchor in my life.

So the treatments continue and we've made  progress to the point where I can actually sit comfortably. I am ready to get back to my sewing soon, even if it's just hand sewing and  making hexagons. I always feel better when I'm at the Bernina, or cutting up new fabric, or whipping a binding on to a quilt.   It feeds my soul, I like the creative process, and it makes me feel like I have accomplished something wonderful. Best of all -  I get to make another baby quilt! My wonderful niece and god-daughter, Katie, is due in the spring.  I like sewing for a new little life.  It puts the whole aging thing into perspective and motivates me to push through the bumps and dips because the  view from the heights is all that much better. Maybe that is the secret to growing old gracefully - as hard as it is to keep patching up the old body, it's worth it a thousand times over when you experience the world with so much wisdom and experience - and love - in your lenses.

Autumn, 2001

Watching the coverage of the 10th anniversary of 9/11 has derailed me.  I felt something coming on all week but today the whole thing crystallized for me. Everything in our lives changed that day, but what went on to happen in the next two months almost crushed me.

The September 11th attacks were surreal. I kept thinking we'd find it was just a few rogue idiots - wishful thinking, it turned out.  When in the following days it became clear the scope and source of the attacks amounted to an act of war  I was bewildered. This was something that happened to other generations (WW II, etc.). I did not think I would live to see something of that scope happen in my lifetime. Throw in the weeks of coverage and struggling to get a grip on it all, I needed to go away and regroup.

Luckily, I was booked to fly out of Boston to Jackson Hole just a few weeks later to spend a week with my sister and her twins in Yellowstone.  It was an annual trip and I always loved going out there, but when I woke up the morning of my departure I had such a knot in my stomach I was almost physically sick.  Flying out of the Boston airport was suddenly very scary.  I had no idea how the security and processing methods had changed, or even if it was safe.  Copycat hijackings were on my mind as Joe dropped me off at Logan Airport. We have not before or since had such a tender farewell.

Just after I returned from Yellowstone we got word (on October 23, 2001) that my 69-year-old mother had pancreatic cancer.  I remember the date because it was my wedding anniversary and Joe had given me a necklace with a gold heart and a little ruby (my birthstone) in the crest.  I made him take it back because when I looked at it all I could see was a broken, bleeding heart.  My mother, diagnosed with cancer?  She was the healthiest person I knew. Three weeks later she was dead.

Ten years later I feel it all very keenly.  Calling 9/11 it a "life changing" event is an understatement of epic proportions.  Watching the coverage this morning, I kept thinking, "10 years ago right now, everything was fine.....10 years ago right now, everything was fine." Then 8:45AM came, the time the first plane hit, and I felt like I had stepped over a line.  Everything  was no longer fine.  Ten years later our country struggles with the far-reaching impacts of that day, including our current economic storm.  I struggle to find  the "new normal" but nothing seems stable. We live on the shifting sands of economic threats, challenges of aging and everyday unknowns.  Maybe it's because I'm 10 years older and see things differently from the perspective of my fifties. Maybe it's because I lost my much-loved dad just 5 months ago and now I feel both their absences so intensely.



Maybe there is no "new normal" because there is no "normal".  This could all just be a rite of passage into becoming a wise elder, but I don't feel grown up enough to be a wise elder. I remember with great nostalgia being able to effortlessly jump on a plane and fly home by myself to visit my mom and dad.  Dad was usually watching golf, football or baseball. I'd be stretched out on the couch watching the game, reading or (usually) snoozing. I did not have to make a decision or be responsible for anything.  Mom would bustle around and inevitably say, "Did you fly halfway across the country just to sleep?" and I would always smile and say, "Yes, Mom, I did."

I liked that era of my life, of America's life.  I will never stop missing that "normal", nor stop wishing to find a new one for myself and for all of us.

Heavyweight Featherweight

Isn't she beautiful?
This is my foster-sewing machine, lent to me by a dear friend who understands my Bernina-separation-anxiety (and is probably tired of hearing me endlessly whine.....)

Anyway, she is comfortably nestled in my sewing room and I have already used to her make a few blocks for a shop sample quilt we are doing for the New England Quilt Museum gift shop.  She sews like a dream - those of you lucky enough to have a featherweight can attest to the beautiful, straight stitch.  It even smells good. It  smells like my mother's old Singer did way back when.  I was mid-project when the Bernina gave out and now that I can continue I have no idea how or where my head was when I started the project.  I was going to make a snazzy carrying case for my iPad and I had it all mapped out in my head how the different layers and separators would go together.  Now - nadda.  I vaguely remember... but not well enough to jump back in and finish.  (I have learned the hard way that you do NOT sew when you are 1) tired, 2) frustrated or 3) unclear on the details.)

I have an extra reason to be thankful for such a portable marvel of a machine. I spent an hour and 45 minutes crammed head-first into  a steel coffin (AKA MRI machine)  on Sunday and found out today that they DID NOT SCAN MY KNEE.  Lower spine, yes - knee, NO.  Since my original trip to the doctor was about not having any feeling or sensation or support in my knee (causing 2 horrific falls) I was speechless to find that it was the one thing they did not scan.  Today I have a 4PM appointment with my primary care physician (who has foisted me off on PA's for the last several years, just sayin') and we are going to have a 5-alarm come-to-Jesus.  I am angry and horrified that I underwent that terrifying (I'm claustrophobic) MRI against my wishes and have nothing to show for it that didn't already show up on an MRI we did just six months ago.

Bottom line -  when I get hauled off to jail for gutting him like a fish I will at least have this little  featherweight  in its elegant black carrying case with me so I can make some stylish prison garb to wear to my anger management therapy sessions.  Seriously.

The View from a Pew

I need someone to please tell me who is in charge.  We are running out of grownups in my family and I am sitting closer and closer to the front pew in church.

When making a graham cracker crust last week  I instinctively reached for the phone to call my mom and ask her about baking temps.  She has been gone for 9 years but she is still my go-to person.  I had no idea how much information was stored in her head until we lost her.   She was the central pivot in our family, keeping everyone rotating in orbits, tracking the whereabouts, births, deaths, marriages, arrivals and departures of the vast tribe that is our extended family.  When that ship sailed, so did a mountain of information.

We lost another grownup this weekend - My Uncle Ed.  The McGill side of my

[caption id="attachment_1616" align="alignright" width="193" caption="St. Leonards - the McGill "Mother Church" "][/caption]

family has/had a nice tradition at funerals.  We line up in semi-birth order, the cousins are together, the grandchildren of the deceased are together, the siblings, etc.  We then march into church with the immediate family sitting up front, then the grandkids, cousins, etc.  all in order.  I have noticed that as the years pass, I have moved closer and closer to the front pew. The people in church are mostly younger than I am - and sitting behind me.

When I am  in  Iowa or  Wisconsin with one of my sisters, we chatter endlessly on those long drives across the plains to Nebraska.   When we get stumped on some bit of family history or knowledge we hit the invisible OnStar button on the dashboard and say, "OnStar, could you ask Mom (enter question here.)"   Mom was our OnStar.  Our "MomStar" if you will.   A vast repository of  wide-ranging resources, trivia, experience and wisdom.

As I lose more and more of those grown-ups from my childhood  it makes me feel a little wobbly about who is in charge - who are the grownups now?  Me - an OnStar?   It is not an option.  We are destined to  step up, take the place of our elders  and pass along  those same things.  We are  the role models, supporters, informers, and safe-harbors of their life's  journey.

We are the grownups now.  We have the view from the front pew.

Workshop Phobic

Well, tomorrow is the big day.

I'm leaving for a weekend workshop in New Hampshire where I am going to attempt something I have never done before.  I have never participated in any kind of "artsy" workshop.  I took a one day class in calligraphy about 15 years ago, and that was it.  Whassup with that, you ask?  Plenty.

I had the misfortune of being one year younger than my sister who actually did have some artistic talent.  I marched through junior high and high school art classes one year behind the "talented sister."   Every year  I was greeted with the same thing:  "Oh, are you Pat's sister?  Are you as talented as she is?"  And every year the teacher(s) found out the answer was "NO,"  not even close.  It's hard to shake that off.  (If you are reading this, Pat - I don't hold you responsible, but would it kill you to dust off that Bernina and get back to creating?)

At the tender age of 16 I spent a year in a walking body cast.  Consequently I am terribly self conscious and building self-esteem was not a big part of my parent's agenda.  I got through life by staying under the radar and keeping the peace.  Can you tell I am a middle child?  Once, in a grade school 4H project, I had to cover a box with contact paper.  I would have had an easier time constructing a cold fusion machine.  My mother, completely exasperated, gave up on me and let me finish the damn thing myself.  It looked horrible.  To compound my shame, I got a white ribbon on it and it was displayed at the county fair for all  to see.  There is no shame like the shame of a 4H white ribbon.  It kneecapped me.

So what is the workshop?  We are going to paint on paper, cover, then embellish, a box.  I kid you not.  I can't believe I am doing this.  So what has changed?  Not much,  other than there is a little voice inside me now that says, "why the hell not?"  I have mercifully matured to the age where I don't really care what other people think.  I  really don't need the  affirmation of strangers.  I may make a total mess of this project but it is something I want to try.  I'm happy to have reached this point in my life.  If I'd had this awareness in my 20's I'd be running Apple by now.

Of course it helps that I'm taking this with a friend who, like myself, shoots from the hip and appreciates strong adult beverages.  We're staying at her sister's house so it should be a remarkably comfortable and relaxing get-away.  What's not to love?  I will even promise to post a picture of the result, even if it does belong in my "white ribbon" gallery.  Life is short.  Let's all get out of our comfort zone and see what happens.

Creativity Block

I'm dry as a bone - word dry, inspiration dry, imagination dry.  I'm blocked on every level and it doesn't look like that will change anytime soon.  This is doubly unfortunate because the holidays are upon us and the decking of the halls (which I normally LOVE) has just left me......meh.

I have been trying to come up with something for our quilted holiday village at work. I decided to go rogue and do a quilted igloo (what the heck -  it's a house, too,  right?) but it just isn't happening.  I wanted it to look primitive and sincere but I think I'm getting more of a "what were you thinking" kind of vibe.  I might caulk the joints with some pearl cotton embroidery floss, that might pull it all together, but until I do I'm not even going to attempt to finish the entrance/door block.  It could all be  for naught.

I'm bummed that I'm not in the usual pre-holiday groove.  Granted, there are some serious family issues going on right now and I feel like I  have been hit by a grain truck, but I really wish I could find the trigger to get my hands going on something.   I always feel better when I'm sewing or embroidering.  Maybe I'll pop in the movie ELF - that always makes me smile, and maybe  it will jump-start my engines.  What do you do to get yourself out of  a rut?  I'd love to hear from you.

iNeed iPad Distraction

My cup runneth so far over I can't see daylight.  If you are a praying reader, please remember 3 dear souls (and their families) who are negotiating life passages as we   e-speak.  That's all I'm gonna say for now.

I need a project that will occupy and  ease my mind for a while.  Nothing is quite as capable of  soothing my spirit (and confusing my brain) as making a project that involves a zipper.  I was recently (and most magnificently) gifted with an iPad and a wireless keyboard.  I decided to take some trip-treat fabric from a friend's recent journey to Paris and fashion myself a stylish little tote bag for my newest, bestest iBuddy.  I'm not sure which handles to use (the pink ones are much pinker than they appear here) or how it will all sort out, but I'm home for a day and I have nothing to do until 8PM when Joe gets home and I whip up a simple carbonara for supper.  Wish me luck.  Pray for my peeps.  Thank you.

Ladies in Limbo

I have known for some time now that I am no longer the "target audience" for advertisers, movie makers, shoe,  purse, dress or other  fashionista types.   I have literally been there and bought that.  I am no longer that stupid. I don't live for trends, what is  "in season,"   what is not,  or what other people (or magazines)  think or dictate.   I have become what I used to hold in contempt - I am the woman in Glamour magazine with the black bar across my eyes - the GLAMOUR DON'T,   if you will.

I'm okay with that.  But there is a problem.  I am not dead yet.

This became more apparent than ever two nights ago as I found myself shopping for shoes.  Frankly, I'd rather have my colon irrigated than  go shoe shopping.  (At least I could drop a few pounds in the process and have something to show for the effort.)  Normally I just go online to Zappos and order my shoes, sending back whatever does not fit.  This time I needed something quick and was keen to find something to fit comfortably over a slightly dented left  foot. (Proof positive that vacuuming is hazardous to your health - especially if you drop the heavy new attachment on your foot.)

I went in to one of those DSW shoe superstores (first mistake) that claim to be thee source for great shoes.  I felt like I walked into a time warp - was it the late 70's?  Was disco back?  Are hooker shoes all that women wear to work now?  The first 4 or 5 rows were dismissed without a second look - I already ruined my feet in my 20's with those stupid high, spiked heels.   Granted, I weighed about 120 pounds. I also chain smoked, drank coke for breakfast, and lived on Doritos and peanut butter  toast.   (My early 20's were the  peak  of bad-decisions-all-around when it came to my health and my feet. )  I wanted something - dare I say it - comfortable?  I wanted real shoes, nice style,  well constructed and smart-looking.  The array of shoes said either "hooker" or "nursing home"  - there were no shoes in between the two extremes.  No shoes for the ladies in limbo.

Why is it that clothing and shoes for women in their VERY early 50's are either one extreme or the other?  What happened to classics?  What happened to tailored shirts, jackets with shape, beautiful woven fabrics?  I have shopped up and down the pay scale and cannot believe what passes for quality. If I am at Nordstroms  I should be able to expect some nice quality for the price, right?  Seam finishes?  Forget it.  Shape?  No way.   No tucks or darts.  Or style.  I am not ready for the Alfred Dunner separates for a long time, thank you, and I do wish there was an easier way out than going back to sewing for myself again because that means less time for quilting and sewing the things I enjoy.

I am about 90% ready to go there, though.  I  am ready to go back to my tracing wheels and dressmakers carbon and hem gauges and pins.  I still have a few patterns, too.  I think my Bernina might blow up if I start sewing anything but quilts on it but that is a chance I might have to take.  I have no idea what I'll do about shoes, though.  There is a limit to what I'm willing to make for myself, and I know they would probably turn out worse than some of the old fuddy duddy shoes available now. There was a little girl in the museum yesterday with the cutest shoes that lit up and sparkled when she walked.  I want a pair of THOSE.

Swiss Cheese Memory

As much as I wish this was about my fond recollection of swiss cheese, it is not.  Something very strange is happening and I do not like it one bit.

Yesterday, after an almost summer-long hiatus from my sewing room, I sat down to my freshly cleaned and repaired Bernina to see how quickly I could get back in the swing of things and finish up some quilts. I decided to make up a few potholders to warm up my skills and found out..... I was all over the map.  I kept pushing the wrong place on the Bernina to get my back stitch,  I had to thread the bobbin twice to get it running smoothly, and all in all was just amazed at the lack of continuity in my head.  I've had this machine for about 6 or 7 years and I know it cold.  Or so I thought. After  finishing up 3 homely potholders (no worries, they get used and stained regardless) I decided to finish up some pin cushions from an old silk log cabin quilt that had seen better days.  I had cut the usable squares earlier and started trimming them with black ribbon to stabilize the edges.  Jeebus, what a mess.  That ribbon was slippery and I had to wrap my head around which presser foot to use, feed dogs, etc. and at the end of the episode I cut the thing up  only to  start over after trimming my nasty edges.  All the Fray Check in the world couldn't save it,  poor thing.

I might blame this on the infernal summer heat baking my brains to a level of irreparable damage.  Or, I could just chalk it up to being rusty.  But I never choose the glass that is half full - it is always half empty. (And in grave danger of being empty at any second.) I am so afraid that this is me,  aging.  I'm 52 and much too young for this crap.....but when does "aging"  actually start? I know it will happen eventually - but am I at the threshold of that "eventually"?  I used to pride myself on the number of balls I could keep in the air and nail them all accurately and quickly.  I could dispatch any number of things in a day.  Now it seems like I look upon the increasing number of  tasks  as an additional challenge to my sanity.

Remember the Ed Sullivan show?  There used to be a  guy on there who spun plates on top of 6  foot poles.   He would start one spinning, then pick up a pole and start the 2nd plate spinning.  Then he would run back to the first, give it a spin, spin the 2nd again, and put up a 3rd plate.  Pretty soon he'd have 8 or 9 plates spinning around and he would run back and forth,  frantically giving each of them another spin just as they would wobble precariously.  (Behind this, the orchestra would be playing the Sabre Dance to add to the drama.)  It was wonderful to watch back then, but not so wonderful now. I feel like I'm the one trying to keep all those plates  spinning, and I'm afraid I'm breaking a few of them.

52 for 52 - - Part II

Continuing my self-selected birthday assignment, I'll reveal the next 10 things in my 52 for 52 series about how life gets better with age.

1. I have a  much better bucket list.  Not because I've done many of the things I wanted, but I have taken things off the list because - meh - they weren't so special.  I have replaced them with things like, "Make a trans-Atlantic boat crossing" and "Stand on the Great Wall of China someday."  Really good stuff, you know?


2. I have little to no anxiety about entertaining.  It has come with years of practice, enjoying and watching others do it, and largely ignoring Martha Stewart's practice of setting the table with a variety of impossibly assembled  antiques and hundreds of dollars in floral arrangements.  I love my Lenox china (after 22 years, no small feat) and I have enough greenery and variety from my own garden that I can put together a pretty respectable (if not knockout) table, including individual salts,  lovely vintage linens, and buttery napkins that cover the entire lap. I can also whip up an Opera Cake without breaking a sweat, so  suck on that, Martha. (I'm sure she could too, but I do it without having staff.)


3. I'm much better at telling people what I think.  Not in the nasty way - but in a firm,  diplomatic  manner that indicates I can also do it in the nasty way if things get much worse.


4. I'm not chained to department store cosmetic counters anymore. I always thought the 'best' stuff was the high-priced stuff.   Paula Begoun has great reviews of all kinds of product lines, and the stuff she sells herself is pretty darn good.  I do miss those Clinique Bonus thingies every once in a while, but what I save on buying department store stuff  can be spent on other treats.  I'm not saying it's all bad, I'm just saying there is other stuff out there that is just as good and half the price.  I'm liberated from labels.


5. Two words - fewer periods. The end is in sight.


6. Self-awareness increases exponentially.


7. My spiritual life is better - not because I'm closer to the end of my life than the start of my life, but because years of living life deepens and enriches the soul.


8. I'm moving closer to being a "glass is half full"  type person.


9. I used to roll my eyes and pray that I would never become one of those women who wear hats and gloves and dig around in their gardens and tend their flower beds. Now I have become one and it rocks.


10. I still write - and  receive - bread and butter notes.  The best ones are from friends who have had us for dinner (and been here for dinner) a zillion times.   Every note ends with warm, loving and sincere thanks for the evening and gratitude for the love and friendship we share.  Email, tweets and texts just don't come close to the elegant act of love that is sitting down with a pen and some really nice stationery and putting it all down in writing to read, re-read, and savor.