I’m a complainer.  I like to vent…get things off my chest…kvetch. 

Despite my frequent rantings, however, I am ever mindful of just how lucky I am even when things don’t go my way.  I maintain that deep down inside I’m actually an optimist.

Every year on Thanksgiving I try to get my family to go around the dining room table and share what they’re thankful for.  And every year I get the same response…some version of “I’m thankful that your mother didn’t drop the turkey.”

Well, I may not be able to get Mom and Dad to express their inner feelings, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take the opportunity to do it myself right here and now:

1. I’m thankful for my cousin Mark who returned home safely from Iraq about two months ago.  I’m ashamed to admit that I take our armed services for granted – but I do know that we’d be living in a much different world without them.
2.  I’m thankful that my sister – and even my parents – call me frequently.  I’m awful about picking up the phone and reaching out to them.  Thank goodness they never give up on me.
3. I’m thankful that my friends think it’s funny — not pathetic — that I wear my heart on my sleeve.   They read my blog, and encourage me in my life … and in my writing.  God forbid, if my life ever gets all sorted out, I won’t have anything to write about!
4. And I’m thankful that I have an opportunity to share the craziness that’s in my head with everyone in the big wide world.  I do so love an audience!  Thanks for listening.

When I was a little girl the story of my life was told on a charm bracelet.  I had a charm for being in Brownies and one for Girl Scouts.  A charm for all the states I’d visited with my grandparents.  A charm for the swim team and one for the drama club. 

Boys told the stories of their lives through their scars.  8 stitches from being bit by a snapping turtle.  A torn up ankle from riding on the handlebars of a bike.  

What’s the story of your life? How will it be told?

I’m troubled by the fact that we spend so much time worrying about how to get the most out of life that we don’t put much into it.

Instead of squeezing out every last thrill, how about sitting down and quietly connecting with someone important to you?   What about taking the time to counsel a friend, or make a new one.

How will you be remembered?  What will your legacy be? 

It won’t be the summer home on the cape or college tuition for the grand kids.  No amount of money or presents can ever be more meaningful to those you love than the time you spend with them here and now. 

Is the only time you spend with your kids a peck on the forehead as you tuck them into bed?  Instead, before they go to sleep, how about reading a story together, talking about the best and worst things that happened to each of you that day, and sharing your hopes for tomorrow?  If that’s the case, then years from now your children will tell their stories not from a charm bracelet, but in dreams and storybooks they’ll share with their own kids some day.

When the economic downturn first hit, I put myself on a budget.  I’ve been scrimping and saving, cutting corners and going without for a year now.  But I’ve recently discovered that there are a few indulgences still worth splurging on.

Pedicures:  I almost fell backwards and cracked my head open on the bathroom floor while trying to get a foot up on the sink so I could paint my toenails.  At 44, bending over is NOT an option.  I now consider my $40 pedicure a medical necessity.  Heck, it’s cheaper than a hospital visit.

Good Pillows:  I had been sleeping on the same $7 Wal-Mart pillows for I don’t know how long.  First, one was good and plump.  Then, as time went on, I had to stack two or three of them to get the same support.  I indulged in $50 down pillows last week and I slept like a baby for the first time in months.  In fact, I was late for work!  I know, $50 bucks for a pillow seemed outrageous to me at first too – but I did get them on a ‘buy one get one free’ sale!

A Professional cut and color:  Every 4 – 6 weeks.  They say your hair is your crowning glory and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna walk around with a tarnished crown!  It’s an investment really.  The better I look, the more confident I feel.  And when I feel confident there’s nothing I can’t accomplish.

I’ve now come to think of my budgeting not so much as ‘giving up’ but as making possible the things that I want most.

Don’t call me honey.   I ain’t your baby.  A dear is an animal that lives in the woods.

What is it with men?  Lately, whether it’s a client on the other end of the phone, or the drycleaner around the corner, every man I come into contact with feels it’s acceptable to call me anything EXCEPT my given name.  Hell, at this rate I’d be happy to get a “ma’am.”

Sweetie.  Honey.  Baby.  Some call them “endearments.”  I think of them as “diminutives.”  Something said to make me feel smaller, less important, childlike.

I had a boyfriend in the food service industry who once called me only food-related names:  honey, sugar, sweet pea, jelly bean, muffin…you get the idea.

You don’t see men saddled with such “endearments” do you?  Every term women use to describe men seems to build them up, not make them less:  They’re a HUNK…they’re as handsome as a Greek GOD…nobody’s gonna call the guy at the gym who bench presses 260 jelly bean!

Why would any woman want to be referred to as “baby?”  I’m not a baby.  I can dress and feed and take care of myself thank you very much!  I don’t need constant attention or coddling.  You don’t need to handle me with care.

What’s wrong with a strong woman?  A woman who can take care of herself?

If anyone’s a “baby” it’s that guy at the gym when he’s caught the common cold.  Have you ever played nursemaid to a man with the sniffles?  Now that’s a herculean task!

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 was never one to have especially cool or witty costumes as a kid.  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 and 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 though, I’d dress in a long red sequin gown, like Michelle Pfeiffer in the movie “The Fabulous Baker Boys” and call myself a lounge singer.  Or maybe I’d go as a teacher.  A hip New Yorker.  Or a grandma.  Things I always wanted to be in my real life, but never got the chance. 

Each of us puts on a costume every day.  From the fashions we choose to the make up we apply in the morning.  Everyone is walking around every day with a mask of sorts.  Whether it’s putting on a brave face in front of our children, or holding back tears when our boss criticizes a project we’ve worked hard on. 

Monday, after I pack the Halloween costumes away, after too much candy has been eaten, and I’m back at the same of old office with the same old cappuccino in hand I’ll be wondering what’s behind my co-workers every day masks.

Mad Men is the latest television craze.  I confess, I’m addicted.  It’s easy to get sucked into a world where everyone looks like Barbie and Ken and smoking doesn’t cause cancer. 

The stylish AMC series has won acclaim for its authentic depiction of life in the early 1960’s.  A time when men ruled the world and women waited for them at home wrapped in cellophane with a martini in hand.

Were the good ole days really that bad?  Was there something wrong with Don and Betty Draper’s existence?  I don’t think so.

I like the idea of a man hurrying off to catch the train in a suit and hat.  I don’t even mind the idea of a woman vacuuming in a day dress and pearls – not even if I’m the one doing the vacuuming. 

Sure women’s worlds were much smaller then. 

Today we “get” to go to the office – just like men do.  We have jobs with just as much responsibility.  But I’d argue that we’re still far from equal. 

We’re not equal because when we come home from that office – regardless of whether or not it has a glass ceiling – we’re still the ones vacuuming… and cooking dinner, and taking care of the kids while hubby is reading his newspaper – or today, more likely checking the news online.

I’m for true equality.  A world where work outside and inside the home is equally shared. 

But, in the absence of true equality, I’ll happily take a few steps backwards.  At least I’ll have a nice strand of pearls!

Happy New Year! 

 No, I’m not hopped up on espresso this morning and racing so quickly that I think we’ve actually reached 20-10…or two thousand ten…or whatever we’re gonna call it.  I just always think of fall as the beginning of a new year, don’t you?

No matter how many decades it’s been since the final school bell rang for me, I always think of fall as a time of new beginnings, rather than the beginning of the end of the year. 

The beginning of the school year always brought something new:  a new wardrobe, new teachers, new friends, and new challenges.

I find the crisp, clean autumn air invigorating. It’s a welcome change after the stifling humidity of August when everything and everybody seemed to be in slow motion. When fall comes around I want to…I don’t know … DO something.   Clean the garage. Rake some leaves.  Go apple picking.  Cook a pot roast. 

The days may be shorter, but there’s nothing better to keep you from putting on your pajamas and hiding under the covers when it turns dark at 5:30 than a new project — something to give you a reason to get through November and the New England winters that never seem to end.  So shrug off that seasonal affective disorder, pull on that ratty cardigan, and turn over a new leaf!

Get back in that old familiar rhythm.  Learn something new this fall.  Take a class … join a book group…start a wine lover’s club…take up quilting, or knitting.  Come on, you’re burning daylight!

Should men and women live together? 

You wouldn’t put a rabbit in the same pen as a wolf would you, so please tell me who ever thought that men and women should cohabitate?

Women are generally domestic creatures.  We feather our nests with decorations from Pottery Barn and Crate and Barrel.  We light scented candles even when no one special is coming over. 

Men are more wild creatures; some would say uncouth.  They never see the crumbs they leave on the kitchen counter after they make a sandwich.  They leave their socks on the floor.  And we won’t even talk about the toilet seat.  Maybe they’d be better off living in the outdoors.

Men shed!  The evidence is right there in the bathroom sink and in the far corners of your bathroom floor.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I enjoy having a man in my life.  I just don’t know if I want to live with one.

Men are loud!  They can’t seem to watch television without their surround sound…and sub wuffers… and god knows what else. 

Women tend to appreciate quiet.  Except at the dinner table.  That’s the one time when a little conversation would be appreciated.

Now I have heard rumors of cats and dogs living together.  Apparently it does happen.  All of God’s creatures can live in peace and harmony.  But those who have brought their pets together to live in unity say it takes a very, very long time. 

I don’t know if I have the time or patience to train a man.

I was on a flight from Boston to LA the other day.  Everyone was getting situated when the pilot’s voice came over the speaker.  “Thank you for flying American Airlines. We are number three for take off.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel very confident,” my flying companion said. 

“Why?” I asked. 

“It’s a GIRL pilot,” she replied. 

A GIRL pilot?!  First of all I’m quite sure she was over 17 years of age, so let’s assume she was a WOMAN…and secondly, what does her gender have to do with it? 

“Well, I’d just feel better if the pilot were a man” my seat mate said. 

You could have knocked me over with her dainty handbag!  Here we were two FEMALE professionals headed to the west coast on business and my co-worker was uncomfortable that the pilot was a SHE!

In an age when women outnumber men in American colleges is there any question that there’s equality among the sexes?  That we’re equally as capable?  Apparently, the answer is still YES.

I’m appealing to all the mothers out there.  It’s your job to school your daughters – and sons.  Don’t be like me. 

Ever since the early ‘90s I’ve out-earned the men in my life.  I’ve taken equality for granted for so long that I don’t even think to tell my niece that she’s every bit as bright, strong, and valuable as her brother.  That she can be anything she wants to be when she grows up – even a pilot!

Anyone know a good cobbler?  Seamstress?  TV Repairman?

Of course not!  Not anymore.  Because we live in a disposable economy.

We don’t fix things anymore.   We simply throw them out and buy new ones.

It makes me stop and think about how little we value our belongings.  How little patience we have when things don’t work as they ought.  And it’s not because the things that are breaking are cheap.

The color settings on my $600 television went all ka-plooey after a fierce thunder and lightening storm.  I called Best Buy.  They told me that since I hadn’t purchased the warranty I was out of luck.  They said for $200 they could send someone to the house to look at it, but there was no guaranteeing they could fix it.  I’m now very used to watching a television where the clouds in the sky are red, and if any action happens at night it’s a total mystery to me because I can’t see a damn thing.

In today’s disposable economy we don’t darn our socks, mend our clothes – or our relationships – we just replace them.   Get new ones.

Call me old fashioned but I refuse to just throw things out.  Get rid of them because they’re not perfect.

I’m totally content to watch my much-too-red television – even if the colors aren’t true to life.  And I have plenty of friends – some who have known me for decades — who will watch it with me.  They’re not disposable at all.