Tiny Trick Or Treaters

"Halloween was confusing.

All my life my parents said, 'Never take candy from strangers.'

and then they dressed me up and said, 'Go beg for it.'" 

-- Rita Rudner

Lego mini Stormtrooper and C-3PO trick or treating 10-31-14

"So when I open the door on Halloween, 

I am confronted by three or four imaginary heroes, 

such as G.I. Joe, Conan the Barbarian and Oliver North,

who would look very terrifying except that they are three feet tall

and facing in random directions.

They stand there silently for several seconds

before an adult voice hisses from the darkness behind them:

'Say Trick or treat!'"

-- Dave Barry

Lego mini Stormtrooper and C-3PO trick or treating 10-31-14

"Trick or Treat isn't just some phrase 

you chant mindlessly like The Lord's Prayer.

It's an oral contract."

-- Bart Simpson

Happy Halloween!

Halloween Decorations

"Nature is a Haunted House -- but Art --

a House that tries to be haunted."

-- Emily Dickinson

Bird house with Lego Wicked Witch of the East legs 10-30-14

"Proof of our society's decline 

is that Halloween has become 

a broad daylight event for many."

-- Robert Kirby

I don't decorate for holidays.

Well, barely. I'm not a total Grinch.

At Christmas, I let the guys decorate a tree and hang up the stockings, but I don't help.

For Halloween, we carve pumpkins, but that's it.

Otherwise, nada. Nothing. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

I just don't enjoy decorating my home. I hate the fuss. I hate the clutter. I hate having all that extra shit competing for space. It makes me feel closed in and claustrophobic and anxious in my own house.

Holiday decorating seriously fengs with my shui.

I do enjoy other people's holiday decorations, however. Especially the Halloween kind.

The more elaborate, imaginative, scarier, gorier, spookier, creepier, funnier, cleverer and sillier, the better-er.

Around here, gravestones, skeletons, cobwebs and giant inflatable M&M vampires are becoming as ubiquitous as Christmas lights and Nativity sets.

It always gets me how a house known for its tastefully elegant Christmas displays will, come October, have a full-on grave yard scene on the front lawn, with severed heads and tombstones and empty coffins and bony corpse hands clawing up through the mulch, complete with screams and other haunted house sound effects.

Anyhoo.

Halloween is tomorrow.

I will be in costume.

My home, however, will not.

Finding Money

"Money's a horrid thing to follow,

but a charming thing to meet."

-- Henry James

One dollar and sixteen cents  10-29-14

"Wealth should not be seized,

but the god-given is much better."

-- Hesiod

"Finders keepers. Losers weepers."

-- Proverb

I bought a jacket at the thrift store yesterday and found some money in one of the pockets.

It was only $1.16 -- small change, I know, but still.

There was a credit card receipt from a photo lab in the other pocket, with a woman's name on it -- the jacket's previous owner, I assume.

I felt a momentary flash of guilt, or honesty, or something unfamiliarly humanitarian and wondered if I should try to contact the woman to return her lost money.

Fuck that.

Finders keepers, bitch.

It's mine now.

Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!

Carving Pumpkins

"Only the knife knows what goes on 

in the heart of a pumpkin."

-- Simone Schwarz-Bart

Carved pumpkin 10-28-14

I missed out on family pumpkin carving Saturday because I was getting a tattoo.

What kind of mother does that make me?

Anyway, the kids saved one of the pumpkins for me, so I carved mine last night.

This year I went a little non-traditional with my Jack-O-Lantern and instead of just cutting out triangular openings, I scraped off the skin and then carved away the flesh using my clay sculpting tools.

That sounds so violent.

I didn't map out the face first or anything. I just kind free-balled and made it up as I went along.

It was my first time trying this technique. I don't think I did too bad for a rookie. 

Anyway, this is it.

Hanging Out All Day At The Tattoo Shop

"My body is my journey and my tattoos are my story."

-- Johnny Depp

Tattoo machine and ink 10-27-14

My tattoo appointment started at 1 p.m. yesterday.

I didn't get home until after 3.

3 a.m., that is.

That's 14 hours. Some of that time was spent getting the design and stencil prepared, and I took a short break for dinner. But otherwise, I was in the chair, under the gun.

I totally dig hanging out at the tattoo shop -- I dig the vibe, the artists, the conversation, the music, the atmosphere -- all of it.

I even dig the pain. For me, the pain of a tattoo is pain that makes sense. I understand this pain. It's pain with purpose and a cause that I can grasp logically.

To a point, tattoo pain is strangely pleasant for me.

To a point.

But after the 12 hour mark or thereabouts, it didn't feel so quite good anymore.

I got a rather large rib piece, and by about 1 a.m. my skin pretty much felt like raw hamburger. I would have sworn my tattooer, Robin, was inking directly onto my ovaries. She promised that she wasn't. But still.

Also, I don't have much extra flesh on my ribs, and a tattoo needle right on the hip bone and the rib bones is less than pleasant.

But I did it. I made it through.

I always feel proud when Robin tells me I "sat like a beast" and am "a badass motherfucker." I love it when she tells me she has clients -- big, burly tough guys -- who can't take even a fraction of the pain that I can.

It's not a skill that's good for much except getting great tattoos.

But at least it's good for one thing.

Bubble Wrap

"Or maybe it's just that beautiful things 

are so easily broken by the world."

-- Cassandra Clare, City of Fallen Angels

Bubble-wrapped China cup 10-26-14

"If only these treasures were not so fragile 

as they are precious and beautiful."

-- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 

The Sorrows of Young Werther

"Life is a lot more fragile than we think."

-- Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

Letting Creativity Flow

"May what I do flow from me like a river,

no forcing and no holding back,

the way it is with children."

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

Elf Lego mini figure and polymer clay hand 10-25-14

"Captivity ends when creativity begins."

-- Constance Chuks Friday

There are days when I find myself thinking hard about what my "good thing" is going to be, and worrying that I won't be able to think of anything good at all.

If I've learned nothing else in my creative pursuits, I've learned that the less I think and the less I try to force something to happen, the better off I am.

In sports psychology they refer to over-thinking as "paralysis by analysis." 

I know that if I try too hard to control an artistic outcome, it'll be doomed to failure, or at best, mediocrity.

Spontaneity and openness and receptivity are the keys that unlock creative "flow." If I just let what comes come, and then go with it, the results are almost always better than anything I could have plotted or planned.

Today's picture, for example.

Yesterday. Four thirty p.m. 

I have no idea what my "good thing" is going to be for the day.

I keep a little lump of polymer clay on the ledge of my kitchen bay window, so while I was thinking, I picked it up and began kneading and pinching and shaping it into a little tree.

Jessica Lange in King Kong (1976)

Leo's girlfriend, Mackenna, said "That looks like a hand."

She was right.

And so I tried working the tree into a hand. It didn't work, so I smushed it all back into a lump and started over, intentionally making a hand and fingers and knuckles and nails.

It was a perfectly fine little hand. But it needed something.

I also keep several Lego mini figures in the kitchen window at any given time -- currently Marge Simpson, Abe Lincoln and a very happy little gap-toothed green elf.

I pulled off the elf's arms and legs, then wrapped his dismembered remains in the clay hand. He looked a little like Jessica Lange gripped in King Kong's fist, but with a more elfin sexuality.

I stuck a chopstick through the clay wrist to give it turgor, making it into a little stick puppet. Then we took it out onto the patio and Mackenna held the elf-in-hand over a little puddle of green "pee" while I shot pictures.

During our photo shoot, Mackenna said something like, "I love how this just totally went from a lump of clay to this." 

And I said something like, "It's always good when art just happens."

Voila. I had my "good thing."

I'm making no pretense that our spontaneous collaboration is high art, or even good art, but I do think it is a good illustration for the point I'm trying to make.

Sometimes it's good to just go with the flow.

Doing Someone A Favor

"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another."

-- Charles Dickens

Sidewalk chalk self portrait 10-24-14

"Wherever you turn, you can find someone who needs you.

Even if it is a little thing, do something for which there is

no pay but the privilege of doing it.

Remember, you don't live in a world all of your own."

-- Albert Schweitzer

In the summer, my son Sam cuts our grass, and our neighbor Vera's.

When Sam's not available, my husband cuts it.

Occasionally, Leo chips in.

But Sam's away at college right now, and Leo's days are full of high school and football and homework. My husband has been under an extra-busy workload lately, and by the time he gets home in the evenings it's been too dark to mow because the sun keeps setting earlier and earlier.

That's where I come in.

Well, it's where I came in yesterday, anyway.

The grass was long. The day was beautiful. There was a need to meet, so I put on my old jeans, laced up my work boots and fired up the mower.

I cut our grass, and Vera's too. The front wheel drive "EZ Walk" mechanism on our big, heavy Craftsman push mower is fucked up, so it took me a good three and a half hours to get the work done, but I got it done.

The sun felt good on my face and arms.

The physical exertion felt good in my lungs and legs.

The mingled aromas of fresh-cut grass and autumn leaves and mower exhaust smelled good in the air.

The sense of accomplishment at a job well done felt satisfying as I looked over the straight, ordered, repetitive wheel-marks patterning the yards.

Mostly, it felt good to do a favor for someone I love a lot.

My husband spends a ton of time and energy making my life easier. I'm not a demanding wife, he's just a really great guy, as unselfish and generous as they come. He does nice things for me all the time.

So I was glad to be able to lighten his load a little. Pretty much all he had to do when he came home was eat a big warm bowl of homemade beef and noodles, watch Thursday Night Football in his recliner, and enjoy a glass of Scotch.

Pie

"We must have a pie.

Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie."

-- David Mamet, Boston Marriage

Blueberry pie 10-23-14

"Never promise to make a pie and

fail to deliver on that promise."

-- Kate Lebo, A Commonplace Book of Pie

According to family lore, my favorite baby food as an infant was something called "blueberry buckle."

Apparently I lapped the stuff up.

After the trauma of watching the family dog devour my birthday cake at the tender age of 4, I started requesting pie for my mid-summer birthday.

True to form, I always chose blueberry.

My grandma was a cracker-jack pie baker. Her pies didn't always look perfect, but they were always delicious. She judged other women's pies by the "shortness" of their crusts. She'd nudge at it with the edge of her fork, and if it flaked off just right, she'd pronounce, "That's short!"

(Short, in pie-speak, means flaky and tender. Hence the use of "shortening" in the crust.)

Apple pie was Grandma's specialty. But when I asked for blueberry, I got it.

I distinctly remember my older sister bitching a blue streak about the fact that I'd ordered up blueberry pie instead of cake for one of my birthdays. She didn't want to eat it because she was afraid it might stain her teeth. (The same sister bitched about and then puked up grandma's Rum Cake on the carpet at the end of our twin beds one Christmas Eve.)

We all assured her that her teeth would be fine. So she reluctantly ate some. Then she asked my dad if her teeth were blue, and he said "Oh my God! They're black!"

She lost her shit for days.

It was awesome.

I don't bake a lot of pies. Cake always seems easier, less complicated, less messy. You can make a pretty passable cake from a box mix and everybody likes it.

But pie? Pie is a religion.

I happen to only believe in fruit pies. I will not explain myself. It's just my firm belief  that a pie crust filled with pudding or gelatin or ice cream or pumpkin or congealed corn syrup or meringue or cooked cheese is just plain yucky. Also, pie must be baked. Cold "refrigerator" pies are caca poo poo. Just my opinion.

Give me fruit pie all day long -- cherry or blueberry, apple or peach, rhubarb or raspberry.

Also, frozen, store bought pie is the devil's work and Marie Callender is one of his minions. And canned pie filling is an abomination of desolation. Frozen, store bought crust is just plain sinful, and not in a good way. And any pie filled with fruit and custard mixed together is from the very center of the pit of Hell. Someone once served me "mock" apple pie with a filling made from green tomatoes, crushed Ritz crackers and cinnamon. It tasted like Satan's asshole.

If you lack the time or talent to bake your own homemade pie, at least purchase one that comes from an actual bakery and not a box.

I've known plenty of women who boast about how great their pies are. They often look plenty attractive on the outside, but are flavorless on the inside.

I'll take tasty and ugly over pretty and bland every time.

Anyway, this is all by way of saying that Leo asked me to bake him a pie yesterday. So naturally, I went back to my roots and made blueberry.

I make no pretense of being a master pie baker. But I did kind of surprise myself with this one. It turned out alright. It was still a little warm when I cut into it.

It smelled pretty damn good.

It looked pretty damn good.

It tasted pretty damn good.

And watching my kid devour three whole slices made me feel pretty damn good too.

A Good Warm Hat

"My ears were nice and warm, though.

That hat I bought had earlaps in it, and I put them on --

I didn't give a damn how I looked."

-- J.D. Salinger, The Catcher In The Rye

Self portrait 10-22-14

"If you don't have a hat on, you lose heat through your head,

just as you would lose heat through your legs if you were wearing shorts."

-- Richard Ingebretsen, MD, PhD, 

"Do We Really Lose Most of Our Heat Through Our Heads," WebMD

"Girl With the Pearl Earring," Vermeer

If you have super short hair like me, then you know how unsettling it feels when winter starts creeping up your neck.

I was out doing some running around yesterday, and I hadn't worn a hat. It was super windy, and super cold, and, well, winter was starting to creep up my neck.

It was unsettling.

I stopped at the sporting goods store to buy a kettlebell, and I saw this super warm, super cozy hat.

I bought it and put it on.

It felt super good.

(P.S. Is it just me, or does this self portrait have a li'l "Girl With the Pearl Earring" vibe? Except not at all.)

Good Windshield Wipers

"Everything has beauty,

but not everyone sees it."

-- Confucius

Glasses with windshield wipers 10-21-14

"Dirk turned on the car wipers, which grumbled 

because they didn't have quite enough rain to wipe away,

so he turned them off again. 

Rain quickly speckled the windscreen. 

He turned on the wipers again, but they still 

refused to feel that the exercise was worthwhile, 

and scraped and squeaked in protest."

-- Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

It's that time of year, when it rains a little almost every day, and a lot on others.

Yesterday I had to drive in it, and I was really glad to have a good set of windshield wipers.

Before long I'll be driving through snow and sleet and salt and slush and freezing rain and "wintry mix" and all of the other shit that makes seeing through my windshield really troublesome.

It may sound completely and utterly cockamamie, but I think it's good to be able to see through my windshield when I'm driving and Mother Nature is mercilessly flinging crap at me.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Time for the "One Good Thing Automotive Maintenance Minute."

Did you know you should replace your car's wiper blades every six months, or as soon as they interfere with your visibility? If they squeak, chatter, skip, smear or streak, that means they're shit and it's probably a good idea to get new ones.

Small Things Done With Love

"Not all of us can do great things.

But we can do small things with great love."

-- Mother Teresa

Wire hangers 10-20-14

"If I give all I possess to the poor 

and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, 

but do not have love, I gain nothing."

-- 1 Corinthians 13:3

When it's all said and done, my life probably won't leave much of a mark on the world.

In the grand scheme of humanity, I am a pretty damned small, insignificant potato.

When I see the Mother-Teresa-sized greatness of what some people do to inspire hope or elicit change or otherwise help the neediest needy among us, I feel very small indeed.

I'm not a humanitarian or a visionary or a hero.

The stuff I do isn't world-scale stuff.

This weekend, for example. Nothing I did was a very big deal. At all.

Here's a rundown:

I yelled and cheered like a damn fool when Leo busted through the line and sacked the shit out of the the opposing quarterback Friday night.

Big deal.

I ironed all my guys' dress shirts.

Big deal.

I made pancakes and sausage for Sunday breakfast.

Big deal.

I cooked my husband a big homemade steak-pineapple-basil pizza with no sauce, just how he likes it. It was all his. He didn't have to share it with anyone. He got the whole thing to himself.

Big deal.

I bought my neighbor, Rick, a six-pack of beer. We had a gas leak because the idiots who hooked up the new stove had their heads up their asses. Rick works for the gas company and came to the rescue and fixed the problem at no charge.

Big deal.

I wrote a couple of blog posts that only a very few people (and by few, I mean few) will ever read or care about.

Big deal.

I talked to my son Sam on the phone. He's at college and is stressed as fuck under the extreme weight of the intense course load he's carrying. He unloaded, I listened. I tossed in a little inappropriate humor and juicy gossip, and by the end of our conversation Sam was laughing -- like really hard snort-laughs. And he asked me to send him some homemade oatmeal cookies. I'll do that today.

Big deal.

I told you it was all small stuff.

But I can honestly say that I did all of those small things because I felt great love, or gratitude, or some other really good feeling, for each and every one of the people I did them for.

When it's all said and done and my life is up in smoke, I don't give a fiddler's fuck if anyone remembers a single thing I said or did.

What I do hope they remember, though, is how I made them feel.

And I hope I made them feel a little loved.

That'd be a really big deal.

Flu Shots

"The best thing about getting a flu shot

is that you never again need to wash your hands.

That's how I see it."

-- Chuck Palahniuk

Flu shots 10-19-14

"Someone told me that they didn't want to take a flu shot
because they didn't want to put a foreign substance into their body.
What do they think they do at dinner every night?"

-- Michael Specter

"If you want a shot, you're gonna have to dance for it."

--  Dr. Leo Spaceman, 30 Rock, "Flu Shot"

Good?

Bad?

Say what you want about flu shots.

I'm a believer.

I got mine.

Because people are gross.

A Good Dad

"My father gave me the greatest gift 

anyone could give another person -- 

he believed in me."

-- Jim Valvano

Lego William Shakespeare mini figure and "Li'l Will" Shakespeare action figure 10-18-14

"I believe that what we become depends 

on what our fathers teach us at odd moments,

when they aren't trying to teach us."

-- Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum

"Be more than a father, be a dad.

Be more than a figure, be an example."

-- Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: 

Reflections on Life and the Human Experience

Picture it:

It's the night of parent teacher conferences.

My husband and I are walking down the hall to our son's first grade classroom.

All available surfaces -- the windows, the doors, the ceiling, the kids' lockers -- are decorated with artwork and projects displaying what the children have been up to.

It's Martin Luther King Jr. Day, or was earlier in the week, and the lockers leading up to our son's classroom all have little signs that say "I have a dream ..." at the top, with each child's big dream penciled in the space below.

"I have a dream ... to be an actress."

"I have a dream ... to be an astronaut."

"I have a dream ... to be a doctor."

"I have a dream ... to be a veterinarian."

"I have a dream ... to be a football player."

"I have a dream ... to be famous."

We read each one, looking for our son's, trying to imagine how Leo would answer the question, wondering just what his big dream might be. You never knew with this boy. He could be a loose canon.

My husband's sharp intake of breath let me know he'd found it. It was the only one of its kind.

"I have a dream ... to be a dad."

My husband was speechless.

To me, it made total sense.

The kids all wanted to be just like their heroes. They all wanted to be just like the coolest person they could imagine. They all wanted to be just like someone who they thought was greater than great.

Leo too.

Today is not Father's Day.

Today is not my husband's birthday.

Today is simply a regular old Saturday.

So why am I telling you this?

No special reason. I just felt compelled to let him know how lucky I feel.

My boys couldn't have a better man to pattern their lives after. He is a strong, tender, attentive, dedicated, patient, passionate, intelligent, invested, engaged, fun, interesting and way-beyond-capable father. He is the ballast in our family's ship, and without him, we'd have all floated adrift long, long ago.

Leo could have chosen anything for his first grade "dream."

He didn't just make a good choice.

He made the very best choice.

Me too.

My New Stove

"Now ... cooking's a lot of fun ...

come in and I'll show you why."

-- Frigidaire electric range advertisement, 

Ladies Home Journal, 1940

Folded paper stove 10-17-14

"Don't worry dear, bring them ALL home.

Dinner for 8 is a cinch with our new Magic Chef."

-- 1950s Magic Chef gas range advertisement

I enjoy cooking, and therefore, I cook a lot.

As a result of so much use, my trusty old stove was showing some signs of wear and tear.

I wasn't concerned with the cosmetics. But the oven door wasn't closing properly anymore. And when the oven door doesn't close right, heat gets out and your baking gets fucked.

That's no good.

Also, sometimes the oven just shut itself off while I was still cooking in it.

When that happens, heat goes away and your baking gets fucked.

Again, no good.

Good cooking requires good-working equipment, and so my kick-ass husband went out and wrangled me a big shiny new professional grade gas "range."

It got installed yesterday.

It's the shit.

I plan on cooking up lots of good things.

Belonging Together

"It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be,

with no effort or trying and slowly we found each other's hands in the dark."

-- Charlotte Eriksson

Mushrooms  10-16-14

"... you're not lonely and isolated from anyone.

You belong."

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Mushrooms  10-16-14

Mushrooms 10-16-14

 "Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map.

It was wherever the people 

who loved you were,

whenever you were together.

Not a place, but a moment, 

and then another,

building on each other like bricks

to create a solid shelter

that you take with you

for your entire life,

wherever you may go."

-- Sarah Dessen, 

What Happened to Goodbye

Family Meals

"The shared meal is no small thing.

It is a foundation of family life ..."

-- Michael Pollan, 

Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation

Asian Lady Beetles devouring an apple 10-15-14

"If we want our kids to lead healthier lives,

we should eat with them more often."

-- Miriam Weinstein, 

The Surprising Power of Family Meals

When my kids were really small someone dragged me to a "rah-rah ain't it great to be a mom" party-ish kind of thing at the posh house of a very well-to-do wife of a local physician.

To protect her identity, I'll call her "Posh."

Posh was the featured speaker. It was her house, her party, and so I guess she also booked the talent.

Her "message," as she called it, was about family meals and how important they are to family happiness and closeness.

The friend who dragged me there leaned in and whispered, "Where? On Mars?"

She got it. Because she was still in the trenches, with me.

Posh hadn't smelled the trenches in years. None of her three Abercrombie-model-attractive sons even lived at home anymore.

Her mealtime stories were gilded and golden. 

As Posh "shared" her rose-colored, Currier & Ives family meal memories there in the Architectural Digest perfection of her palatial home, the women fell under her spell and gazed up at her winsomely, eyes glassy, faces worshipful.

Some made little sounds of agreement.

Some took notes, writing down her every word.

I just wanted to throat punch her.

Family meals at my house were not wonderful. I had a toddler and an infant. Family meals at my house were exasperating and messy and tragic. My dinner table was a war zone.

And it didn't stop at toddlerhood.

There have been nights when I've invested time and love and ingredients on a beautiful, healthy, balanced, delicious meal and:

• Child refuses to eat it because he is a vegetarian now.
• Child complains that there is not enough meat on the table.
• Child refuses to eat because he is off carbs this month.
• Child is back on carbs, and why aren't there potatoes?
• Child comes home sucking up the dregs of a cherry limeade saying he's not hungry, he already ate at Sonic.
• Child refuses to eat because he wants to get a pizza later.
• Child doesn't like the food and instead of saying so, picks at it and picks at it and picks at it until I finally snap and bark at him to go get himself a fucking bowl of Cheerios then!
• I get adventurous and try something new, and everybody looks at it like I've ladled my own vomit onto their plates, because it's "different."
• I'm a shit show because my depression and anxiety are off the charts and nobody knows what to do or say, so we just stare awkwardly into our plates and don't say anything.

But I've stuck with it. I've stayed in the trenches and kept cooking and serving family meals. And eventually, somewhere along the line, the tide turned.

Meals became less of a battleground.

I've adapted and learned how and what to cook so that everyone can find something on the table that they like.

My boys' palates have matured and expanded so that they both enjoy a wider range of foods.

My boys have also matured, and they're much more appreciative of my culinary efforts. They're also smart and funny and family meals can get pretty lively and interesting.

I'm on medication.

If I had a bunch of moms over to my house to "share" a "message" about family meals, I wouldn't blow sunshine up their asses. I'd tell them this:

Sometimes eating together will suck balls so hard you'll hate it. Sometimes it will just be food on plates, and eating. Sometimes it will be hilarious. Sometimes it will be interesting. Sometimes it will be delicious. Sometimes it will be "different." Sometimes it will be takeout. Sometimes you'll work really hard to cook something special and nobody will notice. And sometimes you'll pull a meal of leftovers straight out of your ass and they'll make you feel like you just won the James Beard award.

Meals with your family will never be perfect, and if Currier & Ives is what you're looking for, be ready for a lifetime of disappointment.

Don't try to manufacture or engineer something according to someone else's posh vision of what your family's meal should be like. Just cook the meal as best you can. Feed the people who show up around your table with care and attention.

If you're lucky, the good will outweigh the bad, the hilarious will outweigh the awkward.

Once in a while, wonderful might even happen.

Whatever you do, just let it happen.

In the end, what you eat doesn't matter nearly as much as who you eat it with.

Just make sure that love is the flavor that lingers when the meal is done, because love always tastes good.

Defying Labels

"My dear boy, please don't put a label on me --

don't make a category before you get to know me!"

-- John Irving, In One Person

Cardboard bin of pumpkins 10-14-14

"What others call you, you become. 

It's a terrible magic that everyone can do -- so do it. 

Call yourself what you wish to become."

-- Catherynne M. Valente,

The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland 
and Cut the Moon in Two

"It ain't what they call you,

it's what you answer to."

-- W.C. Fields

Leftovers

"The most remarkable thing about my mother is that

for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers.

The original meal has never been found."

-- Calvin Trillin

Leftover beef stew 10-13-14

"Laura liked it hot, and she liked it cold,

and it was always good as long as it lasted.

But it never really lasted nine days.

They ate it up before that."

-- Laura Ingalls Wilder,
Little House on the Prairie

"I'm the leftover turkey for 

the world's mayonnaisey."

-- Train, "All American Girl"

Thick, savory beef stew.

Hot, bubbly macaroni and cheese.

I made lots of both over the weekend, intentionally cooking up enough to provide plenty of delicious leftovers.

Then, while football and baseball were on, I didn't have to get up and cook. Sunday dinner was already made and I was free to sink into the sofa and watch football and baseball.

Now that's what I call comfort food.

I'm Not Old. I'm Efficient.

"Organize, don't agonize."

-- Nancy Pelosi

Smarties, Gummi bears, Nerds and Gobstoppers in a pill organizer 10-12-14

"A schedule defends from chaos and whim."

-- Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

I remember teasing my dad when he started sorting his weekly medications into the little flip-top squares of a plastic pill organizer.

Only old codgers do that, right?

I mean, once you start using the pill organizer, it's a slippery fucking slope.

Before long you'll be wearing those weird beige shoes with the Velcro straps. And a plastic rain bonnet.

You'll stuff tissues up your sweater sleeves.

You'll start going to bed at 7:30.

You'll get nostalgic about how big candy bars used to be, and saying shit like "It's not worth a plugged nickel."

Your house will start smelling like "old."

Your addled brain will start forgetting shit.

You'll take lots of pills.

And you'll forget which pills to take. And when.

Hence, the organizer.

Well I take lots of pills. And those little fuckers are hard to keep straight. And it takes forever opening and closing all of the safety caps on all of those prescription bottles every damn day.

So yep, I keep my pills in an organizer.

I don't do it because I'm getting old. I do it because it's efficient.

I mean, when my dad started doing it he was getting up there.

He had to have been at least ...

Fuck.

He was my age.

Life

"If you don't think every day is a good day,

just try missing one."

-- Cavett Robert

Life cereal 10-11-14

"I tell you life is sweet

In spite of the misery

There's so much more

Be grateful ...

I tell you life is short

Be thankful because before you know

It will be over.

-- Natalie Merchant, "Life is Sweet"

Last night our high school held a "pink out" at the football stadium and joined teams around the country in promoting "A Crucial Catch," the NFL and American Cancer Society's joint campaign to emphasize annual breast cancer screenings.

The players wore pink.

The students wore pink.

The fans wore pink.

The band wore pink.

The cheerleaders wore pink.

Even our tiger mascot wore pink.

The ubiquitous pink breast cancer awareness ribbons are everywhere these days, showing up on everything from football helmets to tattoos to cereal boxes. It seems like everyone is jumping on the breast cancer bandwagon.

I don't know about you, but when something saturates the consciousness like that, I tend to stop paying attention.

But not anymore.

Because now there is someone in my life who I love very much, who lost someone she loved very much, to breast cancer.

And because of her, last night's stadium full of pink ribbons and t-shirts and wrist bands weren't just a bunch of bandwagon hoopla. 

They were a celebration of life. The sweetness and brevity and fragility of life.

Life is good. And for some, life is far too short.

If something as simple as wearing a pink t-shirt encourages someone to get a mammogram that catches early-stage breast cancer that can be slowed down, or better yet, stopped, well, then according to my math, wearing a pink t-shirt is a life-saving act.

There are currently about 3 million women in the U.S. who have, or have had breast cancer. That's 3 million mothers and sisters and daughters and aunts and grandmothers and friends and wives and girlfriends and lovers.

If we can do something to stop that number from growing, wouldn't that be a good thing?

Pink out.

(To learn more about "A Crucial Catch," click here.)

MLJ 12-24-12

My Home Gym

"So stop making excuses about
not being able to get the body you want
because you are not able to get to the gym."

-- Alex Stewart, 

"Building The Perfect Body At Home," Bodybuilding.com 

The Blue Bomber working out at home 10-10-14

"I like training alone. 

This allows me to do so without 

having to share equipment and putting up with 

anyone at the gym that thinks they know it all, but they don't."

-- "Working Out At Home," Bodybuilding.com

With the weather turning colder and harsher, bicycling outdoors is getting less inviting. Soon the cold will drive me indoors until Spring.

So it's a good thing I have my own gym right here in my own home.

It's set up in the basement, and is a combination of my own equipment and stuff that we originally got for my son Leo when he was first getting serious about football and lifting -- before he got way too tall for the ceiling and way too strong for the limited weights we have. 

But it's perfectly suitable for li'l old me. 

My home gym includes:

• A treadmill.
• An exercise bike.
• A cross-country ski machine.
• An indoor trainer for my road bike.
• Yoga mats.
• A fitness ball.
• A step thing.
• One of those convertible total body gym sets with the stacked weights and cables.
• Dumbbells.
• A chin-up bar that hooks over the door frame (which my weird mother-in-law bought me for Christmas one year. I still haven't figured that one out.)
• A bench with a couple of bars and a bunch of weight plates and also the leg thingy.
• A punching bag (and my very own boxing gloves.)
• A pair of those little push-up handles.
• A speaker that hooks up to my iPod.
• A huge TV for exercise DVDs.
• Towels.

I don't like working out in front of strangers. I don't like exercise classes. I don't like group activities. I don't like using equipment covered in other people's sweat and schvitz. I don't like having to get in the car and drive somewhere to exercise. I don't like paying money for memberships. And I don't like it when the gym is closed when I want to work out, like on Christmas.

Sure, gyms have their place.

Mine just happens to be at my place.

A Fantastically Foxy Visitor

"The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it."

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Red fox 10-9-14

"She's a lean vixen: I can see

the ribs, the sly

trickster's eyes, filled with longing

and desperation, the skinny

feet, adept at lies."

-- Margaret Atwood, 

"Red Fox," Morning In The Burned House

Red fox 10-9-14

"I think I have this thing where everybody has to to think I'm the greatest.

And if they aren't completely knocked out and dazzled and slightly intimidated by me,

I don't feel good about myself."

-- Roald Dahl, Fantastic Mr. Fox

Red fox 10-9-14

"Foxy, Foxy

You know you are a cute little heart breaker."

-- Jimi Hendrix, "Foxy Lady"

Sometimes it's good to be in the right place at the right time.

Yesterday the guy mowing my neighbor's lawn was standing at the edge of the grass taking a picture of something in my yard with his camera phone. Naturally, I looked around the corner of the house to see what the something was.

It was this spectacular red fox lolling around in the grass beside my garden.

Of course I grabbed my camera. But by the time I looked back out the window, the fox was gone and the guy was walking back toward the mower, slipping his phone into a hip pocket.

Being the stealthy vixen that I am, I sneaked out the front door. I figured there was only one direction the fox could have gone, and I figured right. I got out there just in time to see it trotting along the the fence between the houses.

The fox stayed close to the houses. And I stayed close to the fox.

I was in my socks, so I was a quiet stalker.

Eventually the fox stopped moving and settled down under some bushes.

So I got belly-down in the grass and played fox-arazzi.

The fox didn't seem frightened all all. It tolerated my picture-taking with unexpected patience. It got a little twitchy if I moved too quickly or army-crawled too close. But otherwise, it just seemed rather bored and un-bothered by the stupid human in the grass.

It stretched its lithe fox body.

It yawned its sharp pointy fox mouth.

It nibble-groomed its perfectly fluffy fox tail.

It laid down and watched me blithely, casually, with its mesmerizing amber fox eyes while I looked back through the big round google-eye of my camera lens.

And then it got up and trotted silently away on its little fox feet clad in black knee-high fox stockings.

It was a brief encounter, but a kind of magical one, watching this glorious specimen of fox perfection do its routine Tuesday morning fox business.

I'm usually not a big fan of unexpected visitors.

Unless the visitor is a total fox.

Fresh Legs

"We had 18 hours to pump life 

back into those tired legs ..."

-- Chris Carmichael, 

"Make Tomorrow a Better Day," Bicycling.com

Drumsticks 10-8-14

"Overall, Lance's response was good:

his legs felt fresher and less sore the following day."

-- Chris Carmichael, 

"Hey Lance! Nice Socks." Bicycling.com

"And by saying good legs I mean untouchable, inexhaustible ...

It must be every cyclist's dream to have those magical good legs on such a day."

-- Gianni, "Having Good Legs," Velominati.com

I've been riding my bike a lot lately, and my legs are feeling tired and sore. 

So yesterday I did my legs a favor and treated them to a rest day.

I had a massage.

I took it easy.

I stayed off my bike.

I ate right.

For supper I cooked up some tasty drumsticks.

If it's really true that you are what you eat, then today my chicken legs should feel pretty damn fresh and delicious.

A Face Massage

"Facial massage decreases anxiety and can improve a negative mood."

-- Patti Kelly, 

"Benefits of a Facial Massage," Livestrong.com

"Facial massage is like coffee for the skin.
Everything comes to life."

-- Gucci Westman, 

"Swap Needles for Kneading," The Wall Street Journal

I have touch issues.

Particularly on my face.

The intensity with which I hate having my face touched borders on phobia.

Correction.

It doesn't border.

That would suggest that my face-touch aversion teeters on the brink of fear.

There is no teetering. 

Facial touch is smack in the middle of my darkest fear landscape.

The experts say fear of touch, or haphephobia, usually results from a fear of abuse or sexual assault.

I'm pretty sure I know the reasons behind my fear, but that's a whole other subject.

Suffice it to say, I hate it when anyone touches my face.

My anxiety spikes and I feel panicky, tense, breathless, out of control.

I've reacted with vehement negativity to even the touch of my husband and my children.

You know those sweet moments in movies when lovers caress one another's faces.

Um. Hell no.

Touch my face and I will recoil. Either that or I'll smack you.

When I was in theater school one of my acting teachers jauntily instructed us to partner up, sit cross-legged on the floor knees-to-knees, and take turns "exploring" one another's faces with our hands for a full five minutes at a time. 

My blood ran cold.

My breathing grew faster, shallower.

This was not happening.

No fucking way was this happening.

I wanted to bolt. Run. Leap from the fourth story window. Do anything to get out of that room with its walls closing in.

But I didn't.

I stayed.

I sat there.

I took it.

I white-knuckled it for five minutes while I let this kid named T.J. feel up my face with his fingers.

Somehow, I got through it.

I didn't like it, but I did it.

Other than T.J., the only other person I'll let touch my face for any length of time is my massage therapist, Maria. 

And Maria can massage my face for as long as she wants to. 

She rubs all around my eyes, and along my jawline, and across my sinuses. 

She even massages my ear lobes.

And I don't hate it.

I actually like it.

For me, touch is scary.

But with Maria, touch is safe. It's not terrifying. I don't hyperventilate. 

I've grown to look forward to the face part of my massage.

It's relaxing. It's calming. It's enjoyable. It's pleasurable.

I think it might even be good.