Big Night Out

My birthday’s coming up and my girlfriends want to take me out for a big night on the town. 

A night on the town! Who are they kidding?  I’m turning 44. For me a night on the town ends at 10pm.  It’s not that I need to be home in time to see the evening news — I can’t keep my eyes open that long — I just don’t see the need to be awake when tomorrow rears it’s ugly head!

I’d like to blame it on my rapidly increasing age, but sadly that’s not the case.  I’ve never been one to “party like its 1999.”  (Not even when it was 1999!) 

Just give me a few martinis at the Roo Bar, or a glass of wine and appetizers at Embers in Marshfield and I’m happy to call it a night.

Friends used to call me an “old soul,” now they just call me “old.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a stick in the mud; I love to go out.  But these days I just prefer to start my adventures a little earlier in the day.

Instead of going out to dinner, what’s wrong with a nice brunch?  I’ve never been to the Daniel Webster Inn.  After that, maybe a walk along the Cape Cod Canal. 

I still like to get my heart pumping every once in a while, and there’s nothing better for that than a bike ride along the Cape Cod Rail Trail.  (Okay, well maybe I can think of ONE thing that’s better for getting your heart pumping, but never on a full stomach!  My gastrointestinal tract isn’t what it used to be!)

As I get older, I tend to appreciate other things that have been around for a long time:  The Cape Cod Cinema in Dennis, The Museum of Fine Arts, and Boston’s Swan Boats. 

In fact, come to think of it, an afternoon in Boston would be a perfect way to celebrate my birthday.  Tea at the Ritz (not that they call it the Ritz anymore) … a walk around Newbury Street … window shopping in stores that are too rich for my blood.  I enjoy a stroll through the Bay Back.  Peeking in the brownstones …looking for the purple panes of glass.  (Is it true what they say?  That the purple glass in Beacon Hill’s luxury homes are original glass?)

“Older is better” I tell myself.  I prefer old vine Zinfandels to cabernets.  I listen to the “oldies” station on the radio (just like my dad).  And a man going grey at the temples with old money makes my heart beat a little faster.

Before you think I have one foot in the grave (like that rich man with the old money – and hopefully a teeny little heart condition), let me just tell you that sometimes I still like to walk on the wild side….try a little something new.  I had dinner at a Moroccan restaurant called Tangierino in Charlestown last month.  And I’m eager to try the Ethiopian food at Asmara in Cambridge.  So what if dinner starts at 5:30 – it’s easier to get a table that way!

I don’t like the din of restaurants when they get too crowded anyway.  I can barely hear the person sitting across the table from me.  And after all isn’t that what it’s all about?  Isn’t getting together – whether to celebrate my birthday or just another weekend – about connecting with other people?  It’s not about being seen at the trendiest restaurant.  It’s not about the wine – or even the food.  It’s just about having a good time.

I guess my big night out will likely consist of dinner in!

Exercise can be Hazardous to your Health

My 44^th birthday is just around the corner.  The doctor tells me that as we get older, exercise becomes even more important.  Weight bearing exercise can increase bone density.  Getting your heart pumping is supposed to be as good for your mind as it is for your body. 

 

I tried to take my doctor’s advice, but I’ve discovered that exercise can actually be hazardous to your health.

 

The first nice day this spring, I put on a pair of rumpled sweatpants and a t-shirt.  I laced up my sneakers and went for a walk.  I envisioned a healthy brisk 3-mile walk around the Pembroke neighborhood where I live.  I didn’t expect that I would be attacked by wild animals.  But about a mile and a half from my apartment complex, among an expanse of colonial houses with big yards and SUV’s in the driveway, I had a run in with a wolf…a fox…a dingo…I don’t know what it was, but it scared the heck out of me and sent me actually RUNNING back home. 

 

Fearing any more wild animal attacks, I headed inside to the gym, but that was equally unsuccessful.  First of all, there were the mirrors.  (I don’t know which was worse the fox or the mirrors!)  There are two things that you should never watch yourself do, and one of them is exercise!    In addition to that, I’m not a big fan of sweating – it just doesn’t seem, I don’t know – lady like.  I know it’s healthy.  It eliminates toxins from your body and all that, but yuck.  I’ve seen other girls on the treadmill, they glow, some even perspire — but I sweat!  My hair gets all matted, mascara gets in my eyes.  It’s not a pretty sight! 

 

Swimming seemed like a good alternative.  (After all there’s no sweating.) I packed my bag, drove to the Y.  I signed in, went to the locker room, but on my bathing suit, looked in the mirror and headed right back home.  (Damn those mirrors!)

 

I tried the stationery bicycle.  I mean, you are sitting down after all, how hard can it be?  But after 45 minutes of pedaling and not getting anywhere I just got exasperated! 

 

In a last ditch effort to “just do it,” I took up golf.  I bought a set of clubs at Target, signed up for lessons with a pro at the country club.  I even practiced Saturdays at the driving range.  My drives went 100 feet – not yards – feet!  Straight as an arrow, but not too far.  Despite men in funny pants complaining about it all the time, golf is a forgiving sport.  With the skills I had, I could still play a course or two – but you don’t burn many calories trying to hit a little ball through a lit-up windmill.

 

Now, although I’ve generally avoided physical activity my entire life, I’ve somehow ended up with bursitis in my shoulder.  I’m going to physical therapy twice a week and am doing strength exercises in my bedroom while watching TV.  I was making progress too, but last week, as I was doing my third set of these flying butterfly exercises I got a pinched nerve in my neck.  I’m worse off than before. 

 

See, what did I tell you?  Exercise is hazardous to your health…staying on the couch – now that’s safe!

How Technology Changed My Life

Spring has sprung, or at least threatens to soon.  I know I should get out of the house.  But I can’t.  I’m tethered to my electronics.  I’m a prisoner of my DVR and Facebook.

 

Every night when I get home after work, I make myself dinner, lumber up the stairs, and turn on the TV.  I hit the My DVR button and up pops just another “to do” list. (Sigh!)  How will I ever get through three episodes of Nip / Tuck, two of The Closer, and what looks like an endless number of Two and a Half Men episodes? 

 

Wasn’t this supposed to make my life easier?  Wasn’t the DVR supposed to free me? Aren’t I paying $15 a month for the privilege of being able to go out and enjoy the big wide world and not worry that I’m missing another juicy exploit performed by the fabled Christian Troy? 

 

Sometimes I spend entire weekends watching the “boob tube” just so I can catch up on all those shows I missed during the week.  Shows that have gone unwatched because I was at work, or more often, because I fell asleep before they even started. 

 

I don’t know how people can complain that there’s nothing on TV these days.  Even with a relatively basic cable package, I sometimes have to go downstairs to watch a show on the “small” TV because the DVR can only record two shows at a time and there’s yet a third that I just can’t miss! 

 

I must admit that having the DVR has made my TV watching much more efficient now that I can just fast forward through all the commercials.  What takes other folks two hours to muddle through; I can watch in an hour and a half – sometimes less!  Good thing, considering there are currently 42 recorded shows all vying for my attention as soon as I finish this article.

 

When I’m not catching up on my TV shows, I’m downstairs with my laptop logged onto Facebook.  (I don’t know how others can watch TV and be on the computer at the same time.  That’s just one skill I’ve never been able to master.)

 

Facebook has become another obsession of mine.  I’m new to this online world so maybe the luster will wear off, but I doubt it.  Do you know how addicting Scramble and Pathwords are?  Who cares about catching up with folks from high school or my hometown?  I’m hooked on the games available through Facebook. 

 

I love that I can see how each of  my friends are ranked on my favorite games, yet hate that I can’t seem to beat Jodi – ever!  I love that, in the relative quiet of my apartment, I can assuage some of my loneliness by catching up on what my friends are doing, but am loathe to write my own updates.  And I enjoy that nobody expects much in the way of long-winded two way emails even when you “wall-to-wall.”  (Is wall-to-wall a verb?  Like I said a lot of this is still new to me.)

 

There are facets of Facebook that I’ve still yet to explore.  What does it mean to “poke” somebody – doesn’t sound very friendly now does it? I’ve read in my notifications that I’ve been “tagged,” but haven’t felt a thing.  (Is it better to be poked or tagged?)  I’ve received and sent sushi, but I don’t have the faintest idea of what that means – and less than an hour later I was still hungry.  Apparently I’m part of a Boston Red Sox wave, although I can’t tell you the last time I went to an actual game and I don’t consider myself even a casual fan.

 

I’m also a little unfamiliar with Facebook etiquette.  If I get a “friend request” from someone I’d rather stay at arms length from is it okay to hit the “ignore” button?  Will they be notified that I ignored them in such an active manner?  What’s appropriate to write on someone else’s wall and what’s better left for the privacy of “wall-to-wall?” 

 

Apparently, there are still hours of unlocking the secrets of Facebook in my future.  I just don’t know when I’ll find the time with all the TV that’s still left to watch!

 

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match

…Find me a find, catch me a catch.  Night after night in the dark I’m alone, so find me a catch of my own…”

 

I give up!  I’m tired of looking for my future husband.  And quite frankly, I don’t think I’m qualified for the job. 

 

I’m a nice Catholic girl, but I’m seriously considering ripping a page from the Jewish handbook.

 

In strictly Orthodox Jewish circles, dating is limited to the search for a marriage partner. Both sides make inquiries about the prospective partner:  his/her character, intelligence, level of education, finances, family and health status, appearance and level of religious observance. In these communities matchmaking is considered a “mitzvah,” or a good deed.

 

Surely, there is someone out there who would like to do me a good deed.

 

But without a yenta of one’s own, how should you go about finding the perfect match? 

 

I don’t think going out to dinner, and movies, and getting together for coffee is going to help me find a husband.  All I’ve learned is that he likes his steak rare, he’s a good tipper, he’ll suffer through a chick-flick to make me happy, and that he takes way too much cream in his coffee!  (Dunkin’ Donuts, never Starbucks!)

 

I need to know if he leaves his socks on the floor. If his bank account has an adequate number of zeros.  If he’s gonna take care of me when my health starts to fail.

 

I’ve never learned the answer to even one of these questions while on a date!

 

On top of all that, the things that are important to me change as I get older.  In my late ‘20s and early ‘30s, I wanted someone attractive, someone who would get along with my friends, someone who was up and coming in their career.

 

Today, I want someone to grow old with, someone who shares my interests.  Someone who’ll do a crossword puzzle with me in bed, take me to the theatre, and enjoys traveling.  I want someone who likes the same TV shows I do. (There’s nothing worse than a man who watches wrestling!)

 

But how do you find the perfect match when you’re still evolving yourself?  Sometimes what’s important to me on Monday has no significance at all by the time the weekend rolls around.  How am I supposed to know if the person I find so wonderful today, will still trip my trigger 20…30…40 years from now?

 

Is there even such thing as a perfect match?

 

Maybe like Fiddler’s Tzeitel, I should beware.  As she says, “playing with matches a girl can get burned.”

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I love Christmas.  Maybe that’s the problem … I love it too much. 

 

I have such fond memories of my childhood Christmases that every year I try to recapture that same magic.  The anticipation — and the little disappointments — start immediately after the Thanksgiving dinner dishes are cleared; that’s when I put up the Christmas decorations.

 

I have two Christmas trees in my little apartment.  One in the living room with retro mercury glass bulbs in the prettiest jewel tones.  Another, smaller tree, sits perched in my bedroom with white lights and a country theme. 

 

 I’m hoping to add a third tree this year.  An aluminum tree with a color wheel — just like the one my grandparents used to have. My parents, being more traditionalists, had a green tree (albeit fake) when we were growing up.  Adorning the top of their tree was not a star or an angel, but a crown.  It was decorated with what was supposed to look like stained glass designs of the three wise men and their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. A light bulb was the crowning jewel.  When the tree topper was plugged in, it spun slowly around with a dull, sleepy, whir and created dancing shadows of color on the ceiling.  My sister and I used to lie under the tree and stare up at those designs for hours.  That’s probably why I enjoy going to sleep with my little country Christmas tree in the bedroom to this day.  And why, regardless of my parents’ fear that it will catch on fire and burn my apartment down, I will always go to sleep each holiday to the twinkling lights of my bedroom Christmas tree.

 

Last year at this time, while enjoying some holiday cheer with my co-workers, I spied a cutie at the other end of the bar.  My friend went right up to him and introduced us.  He and I chatted for a while.  We shared the same childhood glee and excitement about the upcoming holiday. I was sure we were destined for each other.  This guy had not two trees…not three or four trees…but seven Christmas trees in his house!  I was convinced that Santa had brought me an early Christmas present until my latest future husband-to-be began to tell me in great detail about how each of the seven trees was decorated — including the one that sat in his bedroom with a pink boa for garland and little shoe ornaments. He was certainly someone’s Mr. Right – just not mine.

 

But Santa has a way of always coming through.  It was Santa who brought me a Lite Brite and a Big Wheel when I was five.  It was Santa who brought me that white princess desk that I used all through grade school and middle school.  And Santa who brought me my favorite doll – the one who wore a purple skirt and beret and sang “It’s a Small World,” in English, French, Spanish, Dutch and Japanese.   

 

I still believe in Santa Claus.  Always have.  I believe in the spirit of Christmas that he represents.  Even when my sister and I were well into our teens we’d wake up early Christmas morning and go through our stockings together.  At that age they were filled with costume jewelry, shampoo, deodorant and socks rather than toys, Lifesaver Storybooks and Mad Libs, but we’d jump on our parents’ bed at dawn nonetheless and  show them our loot. (And God bless them, they’d act like it was all new to them!)  To this day I’d still rather get a stocking left on my bedpost after midnight than even the biggest present under the tree.

 

I don’t care what people say, Christmas is about presents.  Giving them and getting them. It’s a tradition as old as the holiday itself.  And I’m not just talking about gifts for the kiddies.

 

I truly enjoy Christmas shopping.  I like writing out my lists, pre-shopping for gift ideas, running around town to this store and that to get the best price.  Loading up my Subaru with bags from Derby Street Shops, the Independence Mall, and Colony Place.  Making trip after trip up and down the stairs to my apartment (there’s no elevator!) arms heavy with bagfuls of what I hope are the perfect gifts.

 

I’m deliberate in the gifts I choose, wanting to bring a smile  – or maybe even tears — to the recipient. 

 

One year I bought my niece an American Girl doll she had been pining for.  In that cruel way that adults have we hid the present.  It wasn’t under the tree with all the others.  And after everyone had opened their gifts, kissed each other on the cheek, swept the broken boxes and ripped wrapping paper into trash bags, only then did we bring out the special doll.  My niece tore through the wrapping, and when faced with the blond-haired, blue eyed doll starting visibly shaking, her eyes welled up with tears:  “I’ve wanted this dolly my whole life!” the 6 year old exclaimed.  That’s the reaction I shoot for every time I give a gift. That’s the excitement I hope will overcome me each time I reach under the tree and see my name on a gift tag.  So you can understand my disappointment when what’s revealed is a gift card – regardless of the store it came from (or the amount).

 

I know my expectations are high.  I know that Christmas is just one day amongst three hundred and sixty four other days of the year.  But if I can’t hope for magic on this one special day, then when can I?

Back to the Future

If you could go back to high school, knowing everything you know today, would you?

 

If I could do it over, I’d strut — rather than skulk — down those long, locker-lined hallways on my way to class.   I’d let my smart, sarcastic, quirky personality shine, rather than hide my light under a bushel.  I’d spend more time trying to find my own voice, rather than mimic that of Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas or Sylvia Plath.  I’d read more.  Spend more time pondering “why” and “how,” rather than memorizing the correct answers.  I’d try a little harder – challenge myself a little more.  I wouldn’t be afraid to go an entire month – heck an entire semester – without a boyfriend.

 

If I could go back to high school, knowing everything I know today, I wouldn’t use that make up bronzer in the clay pot, lie out in the sun while slathered in baby oil, or wear that purple bat-winged sweatshirt on senior picture day.  (I look like Barney the dinosaur!)  While I still believe in expressing myself through fashion, I’ve learned what not to wear.

 

If I could turn back the clock, I’d spend more time in the front seat of my boyfriend’s Camaro, rather than the back.

 

If I could do it over – take a mulligan, so to speak – I’d be more thoughtful in my choice of boyfriends.  Sure I’d still pick the guy with the midnight blue Camaro (who wouldn’t) but I wouldn’t settle the way I did with those who came after.  I wouldn’t skip Science class to make out under the stairs with Eddy or in the woods with Tom.  I wouldn’t go to my senior prom with Bruce, who left me half-way through the night.   I wouldn’t pine after boys who didn’t notice me.  Instead I’d date that nice guy — what’s his name — who was a little pimply-faced but smart, and funny, and liked everything about me.

 

If I’m so much smarter now…so convinced that high school today would be a breeze, rather than the angst-ridden ordeal it was a quarter of a century years ago, then why am I so ambivalent about attending my upcoming 25^th high school reunion?

 

Why do people go to reunions anyway? What’s the point?  Is it to show off?  If so, I can go head to head with the best of them. At work, I recently got promoted to Vice President.  I’ve got an interesting gig on the side writing for this newspaper and doing weekly radio features.  I own a fashionable, loft-style condo in an historic building.  I’m not fat or ugly.  I’m divorced – but who isn’t.  I’d say I’m relatively successful.  Relatively happy. 

 

But I don’t want to play that game.  I don’t care what those people think of me.  That’s one of the things I’ve actually learned in the past 25 years. It’s more important that I’m content with who I am…that I’m proud of my own accomplishments.  I don’t need validation from the captain of the football team, or the cheerleading squad, or my teachers.  I get that from within.

 

If it’s not about one-upmanship, then maybe the purpose of a reunion is simply the chance to reunite with old friends.  But I was one in a graduating class of 525 students.  How many of them did I even know at the time?  How many would I recognize all these years later?  How many would remember me?  Between dating an older boy with divorced parents (one of which lived in a neighboring town), and working weekends as a live-in nanny, I feel like I spent a lot of my high school career on the periphery.

 

I had a tight circle of about five or six best girlfriends.  I ran into one of them several years ago.  She was a harried mother of three with a lazy husband, two cats and a dog who was too big for his crate.  That’s not how I want to remember her.  I want to remember her as the girl I spent hours talking to on the phone every day. The girl who’s dad was in the Knights of Columbus with my dad.  The girl I got my license with.  The girl who went to the Arcade with me to play Pac Man and Frogger.  We went in hopes of meeting older guys who had their own cars.  We’d lie and give them made up names like Mercedes and Candy, then go to McDonalds for fries and Coke afterwards. 

 

I like that my high school memories are tucked away safe in a box with my yearbook, prom photos, and a few love notes from that boy with the Camaro.  I think I’ll keep it that way.

Who’s Behind the Mask?

Halloween is one of my all-time favorite holidays.  After all, when else is it perfectly acceptable to walk around in 6-inch stiletto heels, black fishnet stockings, and bright red lipstick?

 

I asked around the office for some of the best – and worst – costumes that my co-workers had seen.  What I heard got me to thinking.  What does the costume we choose say about ourselves?  Are we really hiding anything behind those masks…or, are we actually revealing our true nature?

 

What about those Playboy bunnies, French maids, and “ladies of the evening?”  Are the girls who don those costumes as cheap and sleazy as I think           ?  Or, are they girls who are actually afraid of their own sexuality the other 364 days a year?

 

I was never one to have especially cool or witty costumes as a kid.  My mom didn’t sew, and her creativity didn’t extend beyond mixing various Campbell’s soups with chicken for dinner.  No, I was a kid who usually wore those store-bought costumes.

 

Except one year.  I went as a housewife.  I put on my mom’s long baby blue quilted bathrobe, adorned her shag wig – complete with rollers and shower cap, applied some coral lipstick, and stuck a cigarette in my mouth.  Ta da!  Housewife!  Now what does that say about my perceptions of a woman’s role in society in the mid 1970’s? 

 

If I were to choose a costume today, I’d go as a lounge singer in a long red sequin dress, like Michelle Pfeiffer in the movie “The Fabulous Baker Boys.”  Or a teacher.  A hip New Yorker.  Or a grandma.  All things I always wanted to be, but never will. 

 

I can barely remember the last time I dressed up for Halloween.  I think it was about four years ago when I was a mentor in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program.  I was so excited to take my little sister out trick or treating.  I told her to bring the biggest pillow case she could find to carry home all her loot.  I was less enthusiastic, however, about the prospect of dressing up myself and walking around in some half-hearted costume in broad daylight.  (Where I used to live in New Hampshire treat or treating always took place on a Sunday afternoon.)  On the big day I picked up my little sister at her family’s apartment

which was literally on the other side of the tracks.  She came lumbering down the rickety stairs dressed as a cat.  Cats are graceful, quiet, mysterious creatures.  Everything my little sister wasn’t.  What made her choose such a costume?  Is that the way she saw herself?  Or was it how she so desperately wanted to be seen?

 

We spend a lot of time worrying about how others perceive us.  The make up we put on every morning.  The fashions we pay a fortune for.  The hot rollers, hair straighteners, hair dye and gel are all just part of a costume that we wear every day.  After all, how many times have you heard the saying “Clothes make the man.” 

 

What is it about a policeman’s or fire fighter’s uniform that commands such respect?  If I put on a blond wig will I be any sexier?  Will glasses actually make me smarter, or just look that way?    

 

I’ve come to realize that disguises can take many forms.  When my ex-husband and I announced we were getting divorced practically no one could believe it.  We’d always gone on the best vacations, they said…went out on the boat together every weekend…had a great house…seemed to want the same things.  Only the two of us knew how unhappy we each were.

 

It’s easy to hide loneliness behind humor.  The one who truly hates cocktail parties is not the wallflower in the corner, but the one who is surrounded by others laughing hysterically at her stories.  She’s so busy telling those time-worn tales that she doesn’t have to interact with anyone on a more personal level.  She’s just performing on a stage.  It’s theatre in the round.

 

Each of us puts on a mask every day.  Whether it’s putting on a brave face in front of our children.  Holding back tears when our boss criticizes a project we’ve worked hard on.  Or even something as innocuous as dressing for dinner out.

 

This Halloween while I’m out and about among the princesses and rock stars, doctors and naughty nurses, devils and pregnant nuns I’ll be wondering what’s really behind those masks.

Doing it Alone

Sure, I like doing it in the bedroom.  But I enjoy it just as much in front of the television, in the kitchen, or even out in the open at a local bar or restaurant. 

 

Of course I’m talking about eating alone…what did you think I meant?

 

I’ve never been shy or embarrassed by eating alone.  In fact, sometimes I even prefer it.

 

I guess it started when I was in college.  In between classes I would go to this Arabic coffee shop on Bowdoin Street in Boston, order Turkish coffee, maybe some hummus or lentils and rice, and watch the patrons play chess and eavesdrop on their conversations — which was easy enough to do considering how the tables were squeezed so close together.

 

Harvard Square was another place I’d go alone when I had time to kill during college – shopping at Urban Outfitters, Newbury Comics and of course the bookstores.  Then, off to Grendel’s Den, Casablanca, or even Au Bon Pain for a drink and maybe a bite to eat. 

 

I guess it’s not so unusual to see people alone these days at a Starbucks or a local pub, but I used to frequent Harvard Square in the mid- and late 1980’s — before everyone had a laptop and a cell phone to keep them company.

 

Enjoying a coffee or a beer solo is a great way to unwind and contemplate the day.  People do it all the time, but I’m learning it’s a rare bird who enjoys an entire meal alone.  I’m not talking about noshing at the bar while chatting up the bartender (or with your head hidden in a book).  I’m talking full out, no denying it, table for one at a joint with white table linens and everything.

 

For many of us, eating is such a social experience that I don’t think we consider the possible joys of doing it alone…at least not fine dining.  I find that when I eat alone I pay more attention to how my food tastes.  When the “distraction” of conversation is removed from the equation, everything becomes about the experience of enjoying the meal.

 

I mean how many times do you notice if there’s music playing in the background at the restaurant?  Have you ever even tasted that first sip of cold water with a lemon slice floating prettily in your glass bouncing against those perfectly square ice cubes?  What about the weight of the silverware?  A steak tastes so much better when eaten with a knife and fork that have some real heft to them. 

 

Nothing beats clean, simple flavors when you’re really paying attention to what you’re eating.  The peppery taste of arugala in a salad with heirloom tomatoes and high-quality extra virgin olive oil and just a little sea salt.  The hint of butter on your seared sea scallops.  How the taste of your merlot, cabernet or malbec seems to change over time – the first fruity sip on your tongue and in your mouth…how it becomes more complex as it hits the back of your throat…it even changes slightly depending upon what you eat with it. Delightful, subtle flavors that I often miss when the reason for dinner out is catching up with my best gal pals.

 

I have to admit, however, that despite my claims of being a foodie, I still spend too many nights in front of the TV eating dinner alone.  And more often than not it’s something out of the freezer – or worse yet cold cereal, a bowl of brown rice, or grilled ham and cheese with tomato – always mysteriously gone even before the first commercial break!

 

On the flip side, there’s nothing better than eating ice cream straight out of the container while alone in bed (even when I’m not in the midst of yet another romantic break up).  Boyfriends have complained for years, but I’ll eat Cheez-its in bed too; I just do it on their side of the bed.  I’m such a connoisseur of the post-coital snack, that one guy even put my famous roast beef sandwich with goat cheese and roasted red peppers on his café’s menu!  (I didn’t hear any complaints from him about crumbs!)

 

I just don’t know why so many people are hesitant to “indulge” alone.  When I eat alone, I can get anchovies on my pizza.  I can order a “loaded baked potato” and still ask for extra sour cream.  And I don’t have to share my dessert.  That alone should be reason enough to give it a try!

 

I’ll see you at a table-for-one around Pembroke!

A Good Read

My niece, who lives in North Carolina, turned nine just a few months ago. I sent her a hardbound copy of the book Charlotte’s Web for her birthday.

 

I also gave her something even more special – the love of reading. 

 

You see, along with that book came a promise.  A promise that we would get together by phone every Sunday night at 5 o’clock and discuss a book that we would read together. 

 

At first I wasn’t sure if she would enjoy this long-distance, telephonic book group.  After all she’s quite literally from another generation.  Asking me when I’m going to get a webcam…calling to tell me about how many points she’s wracked up on the Webkins website…pleading with me for more accessories for her I-Dog…and asking if I know this new song that she downloaded to her MP3-player.

 

Still, I was looking forward to our first meeting.  As a kid, I always had my nose in a book (still do), but I don’t remember ever reading Charlotte’s Web, so I thought it would be a journey of discovery for both of us.  Boy, was I right!

 

I was horrified to learn on page one that Mr. Arable had plans to slaughter old Wilbur the pig because he was the runt of the litter. Not knowing anything about kids, I was sure that our first book discussion was doomed to failure and that I had scarred my niece for life.  When I called her that Sunday I asked if she was afraid of the story.  “Oh no Auntie Debbie” she assured me “where do you think bacon comes from?”  So much for her naiveté and youthful sensibilities! 

 

After Charlotte’s Web we read Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney, a book she selected.  It had us both cracking up out loud, and sharing our own grade school nightmares.  Next on the agenda is a Nancy Drew mystery.

 

I’ve learned a lot about my niece from these book group meetings.  Sure we discuss the story, but just like at my own adult monthly book club, we also end up talking about our own lives — our troubles and triumphs.  How lucky I am to have this experience with my niece, and how satisfying it is for me that reading – something I’ve always enjoyed so much – has brought us together in this special way.

 

As Walt Disney once said, “There is more treasure in books than in all the pirate’s loot on Treasure Island.”

 

Lazy summer afternoons by the pool always lend themselves to a good read.  Here are some of my personal favorites for the “over-9-set” that have found their way to my bookshelf.  I hope you find someone to share these with.

 

 

Favorites from My Bookshelf

 

The Pull of the Moon, by Elizabeth Berg – A good fiction writer can weave a story that feels so true it moves the reader…sometime to laugher…sometime to tears.  I had tears in my eyes reading much of this book about Nan’s journey away from home and back again.

 

A Walk on the Beach, by Joan Anderson – Tales of wisdom from an unconventional woman.  Anderson has turned her year of introspection into a cottage industry.  I’m not going to rush out and sign up for any of her seminars, but I am eager to take a trip to Chatham to see the seals, even if it doesn’t change my life the way it did hers. 

 

Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert – the newest release on this list.  I had feared it was going to be too “crunchy granola” for my taste, but that wasn’t the case at all.  Gilbert chronicles her travels through Italy, India and Bali.  If you’re a travel aficionado, a foodie, or just in want of some adventure, let Gilbert sweep you away.

 

Chocolat, by Joanne Harris – I read this book upon my return home from France in hopes that it would make the magic last a little longer.  It did!  You may have already seen the movie, but don’t miss the book.  The story of Vianne Rocher is a 21^st century fairy tale for today’s woman sans the Prince Charming.

 

The Bitch in the House – 26 women tell the truth about sex, solitude, work, motherhood and marriage.  Yes, I guess you could say that they’re essays, but they are infinitely readable.  If you like Oprah Winfrey or Betty Friedan…believe in girl power…or were just born female, you’ll find something to like in this book.

 

When Did I Stop Being 20 and Other Injustices, by Judith Viorst – I’ve recently rediscovered this book which was given to me originally by a friend when I was in college.  Any woman in her 40’s will think this is a hoot!  It’s a quick read.  Warning:  As much as I love this one, don’t bother with the rest in the series like “How Did I get to be 40 and other atrocities,” they’re a disappointment.

 

100 Selected Poems, by e e cummings – The man who quotes Cummings to me is the man who will win my soul.  If you like Bob Dylan, there’s something about Cummings I think you’ll like too.

 

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger  – Sure you read Catcher in the Rye in high school, but what else of Salinger’s have you read?   I go back to this little collection over and over again.  I never get tired of them, yet I still can’t pick a favorite.  From “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” to “For Esme – with Love and Squalor” they’re all heartbreakingly fantastic.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I went through a bad break up recently.  It was devastating.  We’d been together for over 6 years.   And during that time she was always there for me…for every wedding… every holiday…every special event.  She always made time for me when I was having a crisis.  She listened to my complaints about my family, my co-workers, my boyfriend, my hair….

 

I did mention that my break up was with my hairdresser, didn’t I?

 

Don’t laugh.  Oftentimes a girl’s relationship with her stylist outlasts her romantic relationships.  I’ll even go so far as to suggest that the relationship a woman has with her hairdresser is more central to her self-esteem than any relationship she’ll ever have with a man  (well, with the possible exception of her father!).

 

My hairdresser, Monica, was kind and considerate.  She didn’t mention my awful cowlick; she just made it seemingly disappear. She made me feel special — like I was her only client. She was quick with a hug when I first entered the salon, and always offered me water with lemon or a glass of wine.  She remembered that I parted my hair on the right, and that sometimes the red hair dye made my head burn, so she added a little sweetener to the mix to take out the sting (her own little secret).  She was understanding when I called from the car to let her know that I was running late for our appointment.  She was generous – sometimes not even charging me for a deep conditioning or a “gloss” treatment. She understood that sometimes even the best relationships can get a little stale, so just to spice things up she’d add a little glitter to my hair or give me a cut that was especially funky, or add some blond “rock star highlights.”   I always left the salon feeling like the prettiest flower in the field.  If my ex-husband had half these qualities I’d still be married to him today!

 

So why did we break up?  It was all my fault.  And the worse part is I did it over the phone!  I still feel guilty.

 

She didn’t do anything wrong.  We simply grew apart. 

 

I moved 90 miles south from Manchester, New Hampshire to Pembroke, Massachusetts.  For months I tried to make it work, but I just couldn’t get over the physical distance between us.  She even gave me her primo spot – a late Saturday morning appointment – but after getting stuck in traffic over and over again on Route 93 North, I just couldn’t take it.

 

I did stray.  Once.  When I first moved to Massachusetts.  At the time I thought it wouldn’t be that hard to find a new stylist.  Boy was I wrong!  I asked the girls at work who they went to…who had made them happy in the past.  I wanted to go to a nice place, a swanky place, a place that served wine and offered spa services to boot – I wasn’t going to cheat on my girl with just anyone.  Anyway, I got what I thought was a solid recommendation and made my appointment. 

 

I was apprehensive when I first arrived, but my “new” stylist was fresh-faced and friendly.  She listened to what I had to say, told me to relax, and started clipping away.  What?!  What were those scissors?  Monica used a razor! 

 

When she was finished, she spun me around and I saw my reflection in the mirror.  It seemed right.  But when I asked her to trim my bangs just a little she refused.  She said she didn’t like to cut bangs because people always complained that they were too short afterwards.  I asked if she’d color my hair next time — I wanted it just like the fashion photo of the porcelain skinned redhead above her station.  She told me she didn’t like to dye people’s hair red because they were never happy afterwards; red is such a difficult color to get just right.  She was a “Master Stylist,” supposedly the best and most expensive professional at this salon.  If she wouldn’t cut my bangs and dye my hair the red I’ve come to love then what was I going to do? 

 

Frustrated I called Monica.  I told her of my indiscretion.  She didn’t chastise me.  We just booked another appointment.  And when I arrived five weeks later, it was like nothing had ever happened.

 

That was about 7 months ago.  But this time I broke it off for good.

 

I’ve found another girl, Marissa.  Her salon is in Scituate.  It’s right on the wharf.  It’s swanky all right …and she did offer me a glass of wine.  But it’s still not the same.  I find that I can’t really be myself around her.  She was all flirty at our first appointment.  I knew she was just buttering me up…telling me that I gave off this very cool urban vibe.  (Monica never had to resort to such blatant flattery to get me to like her.  What we had was real.) 

 

Marissa suggested this ‘80s style asymmetrical haircut.  The idea was kind of appealing, but I had gone through such pain over the last two years with Monica to grow my hair out that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to just lop half of it off in one fell swoop.  But I was so eager to please my “new” stylist that I relented. 

 

She did do a good job.  And I did get a lot of fanfare from the other stylists and clients when she removed the plastic cape and presented me to everyone for their approval.  Unfortunately, now that I’m home and on my own, when I blow dry my hair myself it just doesn’t have that same Flock of Seagulls look.

 

I go in for my first color with Marissa next week.  It’s a big commitment and I’m still a little nervous.  It’s sort of like sleeping with a new guy for the first time – and only on the second date.  We’ll see what happens.

 

In the back of my mind, however, I know that if anything truly awful happens I can always go back to Monica.  She’ll always be there for me.  She’s just that type of person.

 

I guess from time to time we all find ourselves in situations where we need to move on…make a change.  Whether it’s a move from New Hampshire to Massachusetts for a new job, or a change in hair stylists.  I guess the key in both situations is to just take a deep breath and move forward…thankful always for the good things behind you, but with excitement and anticipation for what lies ahead.