Living large with teeny tiny closets.

"Your home will explode."


That was the title of the email I received from the heating/air conditioning company we've contracted to prevent such disaster. Not "your home may explode" or "how to keep your home from exploding." "Your home WILL explode." It certainly got my attention so I clicked the link to read further. The takeaway? If you smell gas, run! Like really fast. Maybe blow out your cranberry kitchen candle first. The one you lit because the scent of Taco Tuesday lingers well into Thursday.


In my former, less glamorous life, I was an advertising copywriter. It was when Melrose Place was all the rage and you were nothing without a miniskirt business suit. I admit, I had a predictable writing style. Call me the queen of catchy, cute headlines. Rhymes and alliterations were my weapons of choice. Here's how I would have written that email –


Don't be seen in smithereens!
What will your neighbors think 
when your house is a hole?


Raising the roof isn't always a party.
No dj. No dance floor. No survivors!


Beware! 
The housing BOOM that will net you a nightmare.


With my house in my head, this week I decided to list the things I love about where we live. I'm staying positive, so no mention of our desperate need for additional closet space or the fact that I nearly freeze to death every day because "old house" and "drafty" are forever linked for all eternity even with new windows that cost a tremendous fortune. Only good stuff, because truly I am blessed.


1.) Location. I could say it three times with three exclamation points, but that would be Trite! Trite! Trite! We live in a fantastic and safe community with incredible schools and awesome neighbors. We can walk everywhere – the train station, the post office, library, convenience store, multiple coffee spots/cafes, the movie theater, a farmer's market, Edy's hip hop dance studio (true dat!), a few spas, lots of happenin' restaurants, an old-timey men's shoe store that Jon adores, a few old-timey men's barbers, a bike shop where we've acquired a plethora of pink cycles in all sizes (including my 40th birthday present, Pepto), even a car wash, though why would you walk to a car wash? It's an easy stroll to the printer who prints my books, the graphic artists who originally designed them and the UPS store when I have a shipment. In the not-so-distant past, we could even walk to Chili's for family-friendly fare and bucket-sized margaritas, but it exploded. (Well, it burned down.)


2.) Age. I love our old house with its solid craftsmanship and character. I love the knowledge that other families existed in this very same space. And now that I'm obsessed with Downton Abbey, I imagine really well-dressed people from the early 20th Century hanging out in my living room and talking about the Great War. It makes me happy. (Not the war part.) I feel more secure surrounded by thick plaster walls and big old trees that have shaded generations.


3.) Sweetness factor. Good thing I have girls. I think the decor of my house could be labeled charming and comfortable, and maybe cottagey. I love color. My dining room is painted "koi," as in the fish, as in orange. I like to pile pillows and blankets on the beds, especially this time of year. Oprah says, (yes, I'm quoting her again. It's like a tic.) "Your home should rise up to greet you!" I feel that way. I'm stuck here all day most days, so I'm ever so grateful to have a beautiful place to chill. I mean, to unload the dishwasher, vacuum giant dust/dog hair balls, wipe sticky hands and stinky butts, and reload the dishwasher.


On a side note, my sister Gail walked through our house before we bought it. She was very sick... and very bald, but it was a warm spring and she wore it well. She loved old houses, too, and made me promise to host Christmas so she could sit in a chair next to the fireplace. She didn't live to see fall, but I kept my promise at Christmas and hosted (crammed in) the entire family, with an empty chair left by the fire.


Your turn! 
List three things you love about where you live.


A couple shots of my house for fun!

 Cottagey, right?

 "Whoever said orange was the new pink was seriously disturbed."

 Lu's room

 Lu's window seat

 Edy's room

Bea's room

"Sit down and stay a while. Oh, you're leaving? Bye!"

Terrific Ten

My beautiful and very sweet daughter is 10 today.


After four days (that's right, four!) of a less than pleasant condition called prodromal labor, Lydia Frances "Lu" was born via c-section on a snowy winter's eve. I will now share the story I've told about 1,000 times, but have never written down.


Lu was due on New Year's Day, which is so annoying when you're the wife of an accountant.


"Better have your baby by December 31st for the tax deduction," said every other person I ran into every day. Yes, as my body bloats more and more, as I consider the unknowns of childbirth for the first time, as I contemplate raising a human being from a desperately needy, flailing infant to a complex adult, what I am really anticipating is that tax deduction!


Of course, December 31st came and went. No baby. Then late on January 3rd, I went into labor. We waited until morning to go to the hospital. I was determined to be a super warrior laboring goddess in the comfort of my own home before seeking medical assistance. I brought my pillow! Saw the doctor! But was quickly sent home. All those contractions and I hadn't dilated. 


Many hours later, we headed back to the hospital because I was sure now the baby was ready to slip 'n slide right out. Pillow under arm! Still contracting like a champ! Stubborn cervix hadn't changed. Sent home with Ambien. I had a fitful sleep that night and, as witnessed by Jon, sat up in pain every few minutes without waking. Freaky. 


Back to the hospital in the AM with my trusty pillow. One centimeter dilated. They could tell I was exhausted and offered something to help. (So glad I avoided every kind of medication for nine months, didn't have a sip of alcohol and curbed my caffeine, just to be given a deluge of drugs at the finish line.) Didn't work. I dreamt of colorful marching bands while scratching my nose uncontrollably. Apparently narcotics are not for me! Good to know. The psychedelic effects eventually wore off and, you'll love this, they sent me home.


The next day I grabbed that damn pillow and went back to the hospital where they finally admitted me. I got the epidural and relaxed. About ten more hours later I was still barely dilated – meaning my baby was toasty warm inside and didn't want to budge. The doctor offered a c-section before her shift was up and I jumped at the chance. (Except for I couldn't jump because I was full-o-baby.) 


They started prepping me while Jon watched the Eagles game. I began to panic a little. I'd never had any kind of surgery or stitches. And now I was about to be sliced wide open.


They took me to the operating room. The dad is brought in after the first incision is made. I was a mess. So much anticipation and fear for yourself and your baby and your life about to change forever. They finally led in Jon. He sat down on the little chair next to me. Such relief to have him close. He leaned over. I prepared for comforting words of love and support.


"The Eagles just kicked a field goal," he whispered.


And that is how Lu came into this world! Now she's ten. Crazy.


Telling your first child's birth story is not the writing cue for this week. You can if you want, but this blog is for everyone and not everyone is a mom.


But, everyone was once 10!


So in honor of my daughter's big double digit day – Describe yourself at 10.


I was a little pudgy. My bright blond hair was starting to darken. I loved preppy clothes, hand-woven friendship barrettes, my Urban Chipmunk album (Chipmunks sing country!), ABBA, stuffed animals and sticker collecting. In the summer, I was wet 98% of the day and would lay like a lizard on the concrete in order to get warm. I survived on Bottle Caps, Sugar Babies and Freeze Pops. 

I liked to watch He Man cartoons, Little House on the Prairie and Creature Double Feature on Sundays after church. I had Holly Hobbie wallpaper and a canopy bed. I was always writing or drawing something. My 4th grade class was "the bomb-diggity." It was my best year of elementary school by far. (Though I wasn't organized??)

As I recall, our class was very silly and everyone liked everyone. My best friend's name was Joby. (And still is!) I loved my brother even though he called me "Wretchin'" and/or "Grendel." It was the last year all four G's lived under one roof. Gwyn was a senior in high school, Gail was a sophomore and Geoff was in 6th grade. Innocence and security ruled. I had never lost anyone close to me. Life was grand. Ten was terrific! 

Your basic, unavoidable, emotional mash-up.

New Year's Eve is a funny thing. It looks all glittery from a distance, but I believe most people would say it consistently disappoints given any scenario.


Say you are having an incredible time, a real blast, a totally thrilling night where everything goes right and magic is in the air, once the ball drops and everyone disperses, you're suddenly weepy because change is coming and nothing could ever top this moment and now it's a new year and you want to sleep and those doughy potstickers are mixing with four sugar-rimmed appletinis to make your party dress tug at the seams.


On the flip side, if you have a terrible time, where nothing happens as planned and the weather is crap and your company is crappier or maybe you have no plans at all and you're planted on the couch flipping between Mystery Diagnosis and ABC's Rockin' Eve with poor Dick Clark, then the whole evening and all its hype is a total let down even if your sweatpants are a pleasure.


And those are my rather bleak-sounding thoughts on the holiday. I'm generally an optimist, definitely upbeat and resilient during the worst of times, but also a realist. In my opinion, New Year's Eve is doomed to disenchant because feelings are clashing at high speeds.


Now poll the same group of people (from my pretend poll) and they will probably loathe the resolution concept, too. But I think it's great! I make the same ones over and over. I resolve to be more patient with certain individuals who drive me insane and I vow to be on time for appointments and activities. The last one promises I will scream less at my children and that is a fantastic bonus outcome. I embrace the yearly nudge to be better and do better.


Just for fun, and because this blog is about recording memories as well as thoughts, I will now piece together my personal New Year's Eve timeline. 


When I was real young, my parents dropped me off at my grandparents' house and went somewhere groovy to disco dance. This may be my imagination colliding with top trends of the era, but let's go with it.


Then for a few years, they brought me with them to my friend's house because - get this - they were friends with her parents. It was the perfect set-up! Parents partied downstairs. We hung upstairs and I can't remember much else. Apparently the sparkling grape juice was pretty potent.


During my teen years I babysat for a giant group of unruly children who were ignored while I scavenged for snacks. At that age, other people's pantry items are far more appealing than anything you have in your cabinets at home. It's a rule. 


For the next decade and a half, my "eves" seem to run together. I couldn't place them in sequential order if you paid me. (And no one's paying me for this blog, which is precisely what Jon is thinking when I complain about my self-imposed Friday deadlines.)


There were a couple of years spent in basements that smelled like old laundry. I was in New York once. Not Times Square. And, for reasons unknown, I went to Wildwood, NJ, to watch a Grateful Dead cover band and stay in perhaps the dumpiest motel on planet earth. We also swung by Atlantic City during that trip and after requesting only cash for Christmas, I gambled it away in about ten minutes.


When Jon and I were first married and living in our cute little house in Baltimore, we started hosting a small but stellar party every year with only close friends, appetizer recipes cut from magazines and quality music mixes. We were caught between the allure of a grown-up world and our pre-kid youth, meaning we launched the night with signature cocktails and smart discussions on world events, and ended it with breakdancing to Grand Master Flash. 


We even took on the daunting challenge of welcoming the millennium. I couldn't believe anyone would trust their HAPPY 2000! moment to my party planning skills. To quell the pressure, I drank too much and passed out at 12:05. Guests had to roll me off of their coats in order to go home. You'll be happy to learn that I didn't throw up on anyone's pricey pashmina. (Though who would have cared? Pashminas were so 1999!)


Since moving back to Philly, we've had friends over a few times with kids and noisemakers and champagne headaches. It was fun and sentimental and a little sad, too. Your basic, unavoidable, New Year's Eve mash-up of emotion.


Tomorrow we are laying low by design. There were possibilities, but we decided to stay home. It will be a glitz-free evening with the possible exception of a Toddlers & Tiaras marathon if the stars line up in my favor. Nothing boosts potentially sagging holiday spirits more than train wreck families who spray tan their children. 


And if this is our last New Year's Eve, with the world ending at some point during 2012, I will be satisfied knowing I didn't spend it in clothes that bind.


What are your thoughts on New Year's Eve? 
How many New Year's Eves can you recall?

Santa's beard and jelly doughnuts.

When the first journals were hot off the press, we shopped them around... to family. My dad was one of my first customers. No discount. He paid the full price for his very own Black and White Original Know Me Journal. My accountant (Jon) would have it no other way.

Fast forward to present day and if you're standing real close to me, I may slip a journal in your pocket. I give them away a lot. But I always write it down. So my accountant (Jon) can document the slow bleed.

My father dutifully filled out his book using his very best scribbly chicken scratch handwriting, which is probably what I love most about it. He answered and reflected and included a really sweet childhood memory I never knew about. (And never would have known about had he not been asked in the book. So buy a book because they are great! Or stand real close to me and check your pockets.)

My father was born during the Depression. He lived with his working class parents and sister in a tiny Sears shotgun house. They didn't have much. But at Christmas, my grandmother would make things magical for her kids even though there weren't a ton of presents. My dad told the story of how she trimmed hairs from their white dog and left them by Santa's note as if his beard had shed. How sweet is that? 

I only knew my grandmother as a cranky, tired, blunt and worn out old lady. Who could blame her? Life had been a challenge at times. To read about how she, as a young mother, came up with a creative way to thrill her children on Christmas morning made me want to sob buckets. I'm so glad that image pops into my head now when I think of her. Along with the white chalky mints she always carried in her purse and the smell of scrambled eggs cooking in a cast iron pan.

This inspired me to contemplate my most memorable Christmas morning moment and I was suddenly very ashamed. Because it isn't beautiful or touching. It's not about loving family and appreciating the true meaning of blah, blah. It's about the highest high and the lowest low - in that order - and a misbehaving jelly doughnut.

I was probably about 12. The gig was up. No more Santa. All I really wanted that year was a 10 speed bike to ride to school and I bugged my parents relentlessly.


They made me wait. We opened all the gifts. No bike. Then they told me to look around. Yes! When I found my beautiful 10 speed parked on the porch, I was so very happy. It was sand colored with a suede seat. Gorgeous. 


Until my brother, while checking out the gears, accidentally (??) squirted a gush of sloppy jelly from his sloppy doughnut all over the handlebars. Total and complete devastation. If you know me, you know I like things a certain way. On occasion I can have ridiculously high standards and my bike not being perfect anymore was heart wrenching. I scrubbed and scrubbed but the purple stayed put. If only I could turn back the clock! And get my brother a plate!


Somehow I survived the tragic events of that woeful Christmas morn. I had my bike for a very long time. It came with me, stain and all, to the beach for a few summers where I logged about 10,000 miles on that increasingly less comfy suede seat. Eventually the bright purple stain blended with palm dirt and I realized it wasn't that big a deal after all.


I am a lucky girl. I have the fortune to consider the doughnut incident my most memorable Christmas morning moment. That's because it stood out among all the good. So many joyful days and wishes realized. So very many traditions kept. Warm, comfortable, funny family time that was totally natural and expected. I had a happy childhood. And now I have a happy family of my own. I am a lucky girl.


What is your most memorable holiday moment?

Baby Ben is driving.

Have you ever been sorting laundry and you have your pile of regular wash and your pile of delicates and you get mixed up half way through and you start putting delicates with your regulars and regulars with your delicates and so you accomplish nothing and need to start over? Then you sigh with frustration, begin to re-sort, zone out half way through and mix them up again? I do that a lot. It makes me feel old. I can't even concentrate for the duration of a two minute task.

I marvel at Edy who remembers intricate details with ease. She corrects me often and patiently reminds me when it's pizza day at school or when library books are due. I write frantic notes on post-its everywhere. So many post-its. Her brain is sweet and sponge-like. My brain is old and full. Not of beneficial stuff either. Pop culture details mostly. Like the name of the dog on Hart to Hart. Freeway. I'm a little savant-ish about it. I watch a lot of tv. Always have. Always will. But lately even my best friend the boob tube has conspired to make me feel extra ancient.

Just the other day I was watching the Friends episode where Ross' son Ben is born. I did a little math to come up with Ben's current age. Holy crap! That baby is 16! (I'm old.)


Then I was uber excited to see My So-Called Life on the Sundance Channel. I loved that show when it originally aired in the early 90's. So much teen angst. The hot, dumb crush. The wild best friend. Flannel tied at the hips. I couldn't wait to watch it. But you know what? I related better to the parents. The kids were ultra melodramatic. Lighten up! (I'm old.)

Still love the opening theme. But seriously, those kids need to lighten up.

So to recap, what makes me feel old? Inept laundry sorting, early episodes of Friends and the "too deep teens" from My So-Called Life.


What makes me feel young? Running regularly with no major injuries, my sweet baby Bea and Betty White's resurgence in popularity.


What makes you feel old? What makes you feel young?

Tennis with Steve Jobs.

I went to the beach with my sister on an annual ladies’ trip she takes with her church friends. I needed to get out of town. Even if it meant daily devotionals and sharing a bathroom with nine strangers. It would be my first night away from Bea. I was apprehensive. For about a minute.

What a thrill it was to pack for just me! Turns out, I need surprisingly little to get by. But the real joy, besides the bonding time with Gwyn and the free gelato samples at Grottos, was the two plus hours in the car each way. I’m not joking. I listened to satellite radio and laughed heartily at adult content. Not the Playboy station (Playmates on air = unnecessary), just raunchy talk shows. I cruised along, didn’t flinch at the constant cursing, and silently reclaimed a piece of my soul.

On the drive home, one show was discussing each individual’s ideal heaven in a matter-of-fact and silly way. One person mentioned seeing loved ones and another thought tennis and a pool would be nice because what do you do after the reunion, when all the hugging is over? I like tennis. Tennis would be good. My game should improve by the end of eternity.

I guess I always assumed/hoped that family would be there to greet me. Probably from all the near death-themed programming I seek out on tv. If someone’s coming back from the brink and talking about it, I’m tuning in!

(This, by the way, is the very last kind of show Jon would choose to watch. I know I’m always pointing out our many differences and, yes, here’s another. Crime shows, ghost shows, not his thing. If there's a corpse and/or a tunnel of white light, I'm transfixed!)

My grandmother spent many decades caring for my grandfather who rarely left the comfortable haven of his recliner. He would smoke a pipe and listen to the police scanner all day and night. And watch Wheel of Fortune.

Pop Pop and Granny, for whom Edy is named. 

With each year I age, her leisure dresses look more and more appealing.

When Pop Pop died, my grandmother’s health rapidly declined. She ended up in a nursing home because her body didn’t work, though her mind remained sharp. She read books all day. Tore through books. Book after book. Being stuck in that place without dementia must have been torture. My friend’s great grandmother was in a nursing home and she thought it was a beautiful and well-run cruise ship. Fun!

One evening I asked my father if he’d visited Granny that day. He hadn’t but his sister had and reported that my grandmother was possibly starting to lose it. I admit to feeling a sense of relief – for her sake. When my aunt asked my grandmother about her day, she casually mentioned that Pop Pop, who was long dead, had been by. Senility was knocking. Hopefully on the door of her cruise ship cabin!

She died later that night.

So maybe loved ones greet you, but then what? Personally, I think it’s something we can’t begin to wrap our simple minds around. I remember telling Gail that. When she was semi-conscious. Heaven is just answers. The absence of wonder and worry. You know everything and everything knows you. And it’s a good feeling. (Especially after cancer when we were constantly waiting for test results, hoping, praying, not knowing why or when or how.) 

I can’t imagine what our spirits do all day, or if “days” even exist, but as I type on my Mac and dream of the iPad Santa is bringing, I bet heaven is extra cool since Steve Jobs crossed over. 

What are your thoughts on the after-life?

P.S. I considered asking Lu and Edy their opinions on heaven, but decided against it. 

Lu would stress out, start asking me about the exact ways in which someone her age could die and the statistics involved. I would field each question carefully and dodge the stuff that’s impossible to grasp, as an adult let alone a child. She would seem okay, then bring it up again at least ten more times in the next three days and twenty additional times over the next year.

Edy would say it’s GREAT! Dance around a little to get the point across. Then request a snack and move on.

Historically accurate fruit.

There is a certain divisive matter that separates the masses more than religion, politics, culture, or age. And it isn't a soft drink preference or a sports franchise.


It's how you choose to decorate your house for the holidays.


On one end of the spectrum, you have your giant displays that encompass the entire lawn and feature moving objects - usually elves with hammers - and lots of inflatables. Forget the incredible computer generated special effects our society is capable of producing (and our children are entirely accustomed to), a sleigh that rocks back and forth, all halting and wobbly-like, on a neighbor's front yard is pure magic! 


Then you have the houses with an excessive amount of glow. Just lights, but oh so many crazy lights. They may even flicker in time with music. If you knock on the door, the man of the house could quote a wattage figure.


Moving along the scale we find the reasonable houses. These perfectly practical people hang a perfectly practical number of lights, typically white, and a wreath on the door with a velvet red ribbon. Maybe a pair of grapevine reindeer. Maybe a three foot wooden toy soldier and a seasonal flag. Nothing crazy.


Then on the opposite end of the spectrum is the house in which I grew up... and several pounds of historically accurate fruit.


A little background: My mother liked old things. Traditional and all-American. Think folk art, hanging baskets and fife and drum figurines. If you're about to Google "fife and drum," you will never truly understand. 


Our house was packed with antiques and always smelled like cloves. There was lots of brass and impractically small chairs with cane seats. We had wallpaper in our hallway that featured blue and white toile sketches of Philadelphia landmarks while the hip of the world, circa 1988, decorated with pleather sectionals and neon accents.


We spent a couple of Thanksgivings in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, an 18th century reenactment town. While I would surely love it today, it was terrible as a kid. I remember lots of driving, and sulking, and reenacting, and a waitress at the Ye Old Something serving us extra cornbread because she thought my dad was Walter Matthau.


So not surprisingly, every Christmas we did it up Colonial style. There were candles in the windows and fruit, fruit, fruit. My dad took a giant board with nails and impaled apples, oranges, lemons and a pineapple, then hung it above our front door, which we never used. To be honest, I thought all that pretty produce was a yawn-fest, totally.


Until a decade later when I had poor Jon on a ladder trying to secure our very own board of fruit above the door of our very first house. The door we used every day. The only door we ever used. For the entire month of December, pineapple juice rained on our heads and made for icky, sticky shoes. But it was classy. And pretty. And completely worth it when we won the coveted neighborhood garden club award. That congratulatory stake in the ground filled me with an embarrassing amount of pride.


And then we bought our second house and had a few kids and the dripping pineapple seemed less charming. 


Now we are rapidly heading backwards on the spectrum. We passed simple white lights and have moved on to colorful, blinking bulbs and lit up plastic candy canes. 


In another few years, you can expect those elves with hammers.


How was your childhood home decorated for the holidays? Describe your current holiday decorating style?