How could I refuse this candle? It had me at “hello.”
Frequently, I tell my young adult daughters, The Precious Pair, that I wish to live to 100 years old. Of course, that’s not up to me. But if I do, one of the best parts will be living through 100 Octobers!
We don’t get enough Octobers.
For now, I’ll gladly enjoy the 53rd version of my favorite month and everything about it. I wasn’t even born in October. I’m a December baby. So, what is it about the fall that makes me freak out? Let us count the ways…in a minute.
I know Summer People don’t quite get me, and that’s okay. To each their own. I see you. I like you anyway. Bundle up until June. I’ll be over here soaking up the chill in the air, having a glass of cider, and picking out all my cozy fall reads. As I saw the internet declare yesterday, “Step aside Hot Girl Summer; it’s time for Book Girl Fall!”
Strangely, the worst things tend to happen in my life during the summer, not excluding the one we just endured. I lost my puggy, I faced family legal matters, and I spent most days sweating my ass off. Heat and I aren’t on friendly terms.
But I cannot say it was all bad. I went on my first-ever trip to Canada, and I officially completed my MBA, both in August. My oldest turned 21 that month, too. In September, I took her to Vegas where we had a ball together.
Now that October is here, each of its 31 days will feel like its own little holiday to me. In honor of that, here are 31 things I plan to enjoy throughout this epic “Ber Month”:
Apple-y everything
Pumpkin Spicy everything
Fall Mums in my porch pots
The color rust
The color maroon
The color gold
Wine colored nail polish on my toes
Book club ladies gathering on my porch
Drinking wine on my porch
Reading on my porch
Reading in a hammock
Admiring the leaves as they change to all the colors named above
Watching the leaves let go
The crunch of the leaves under my shoes on the sidewalk
Driving with my windows down
Hot beverages of every variety, but especially coffee
If I’m extra lucky, a few rainy days
My obnoxious stack of blankies in the living room
My brand-new “Everything Fall” 3-Wick Candle (pictured above for dramatic effect)
Huskers Football in Maryland during a 3-day weekend
Installing my new little library
Enjoying the furry corgi of the house
Fuzzy socks
Spending time in Union Pier, Michigan (population: 609)
Adult coloring books
Jigsaw puzzles
Potter’s Bridge Park
The artistry of Boo Baskets
Seeing my young adult children still dress up because Halloween was their favorite growing up
“It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!”
Harry Potter movies on a loop, in no particular order – or maybe Gilmore Girls (even though Rory annoys me)
The simple comforts of this thing called life bring me the most joy, peace, and relaxation. Seeking out these glimmers translates to less stress. And who doesn’t need a cortisol detox these days? It’s rushing through our veins – due to the daily grind, politics, prices, traffic, social media chatter, and the unknown dangers lurking around every turn. It’s time that we fight back with all the fall vibes!
But wait. This season represents the opposite of aggression. It’s about calmly letting go. It’s about breathing crisp air into our lungs and exhaling it slowly in a healing manner. It’s about soulfulness, in spooky ways and in old-fashioned forms of expression. Crafting, baking, reading, raking, carving, sipping, booing, snuggling, crunching, harvesting. Notice how the gerunds of fall match how it looks, smells, sounds, tastes, and feels.
Where are my fellow Fall Fanatics?!?
Meet me at the corner of Patch & Orchard. We’ll grab a PSL in our favorite flannels before we hit the library to check out a witchy novel. After that, who knows? We might follow a curvy country road and chase the leaves until they land reluctantly in a quiet spot, intended for you and me and a long Saturday afternoon. There, we will be still, because that’s what fall requires of us. No chaos. No sweating. No more summer. Only Autumn and all of its chilly glory.
I’m melting. Aren’t you? If you’re anywhere in the Midwest like me, you probably are. If you’re anywhere else, you probably are. You might hate the heat like me. You might love it, as some lunatics do. (Shout out to my summer people, you know I still adore you!)
It was even humid inside Target today. I sweat my way through the sandals aisle, the seltzer section, and then the deli, where I was disappointed to find no chicken salad! After shopping with the youngest of The Presh Pair, she and I drove straight to lunch where I cooled myself off with an espresso martini. Such is summer. Cute shoes, cold drinks. I can admit it’s not all bad. But it’s still way too hot.
Every year around this time, I feel good and ready for the ‘Ber Months (SeptemBER, OctoBER, NovemBER, DecemBER). There’s so much to love about those 122 days; don’t even get me started with all the ways. I might never stop.
But as I sit here on a steamy night in the middle of July, A/C soaking into my every pore, I realize I shouldn’t push for September. I shouldn’t push for next week. I should never push time, period.
Salvador Dali was on to something when he started painting those melting clocks. The other day I found a post card featuring them, in my desk drawer. It came from the gift shop at Newfields, our art museum that hosted a digitally-immersive Dali exhibit last year. When I saw his art projected all over the walls, the melting clocks stood out to me. They whispered to me. If I were to select an image to represent the most persistent challenge of my life, it would have to be one of those famous melting clocks: to show my warped relationship with Time. (It also visualizes how hot I feel these days!)
I’ve never had a handle on Time. It has eluded my grasp from a young age. I can remember staying up way too late as a kid, watching Johnny Carson on school nights with my mom. She would let me fall asleep on the couch. Those night owl habits led into my teen years when I’d burn the midnight oil, sleep in, then leave my house too late to make it to first period on time. My AP Bio teacher during senior year gave me after-school detention multiple times. I was the only nerd in D-Hall doing my Calculus homework.
Fast forward 30+ years, if I’ve ever been late to meet you, I regret it. I will never stop trying to do better. In my middle age, I might be improving. I certainly want that for myself, and especially for others. Your time is valuable. So is mine. And it’s fleeting.
As the girls have grown up, I’ve told them repeatedly: “Time. It’s the one finite resource. You can always make more money. You cannot make more Time.” I imagine it might be one of those mantras they will share with their own children someday, if only to mock me in a reminiscent way. I would be delighted.
Tick Tock goes the clock. But where does the time go? I feel like old people say that. I’ve wondered it all my life.
So I mustn’t push for another month to get here or complain for more hours in my day. I need to own the moment in front of my face for all its glory and even if it’s ugly or sweaty or painful. There are glimmers, even within our more challenging times.
Losing my oldest doggie means more attention for the youngest pup.
Missing my oldest kid all summer leads to enjoying her company even more once she is home soon.
Dealing with difficult people can translate to newfound patience and inner peace.
I won’t lie; that last one is hard for me. I’m gonna’ need some more time…
You’re thinking about ice cream now, aren’t you? As Blue Bell describes, Rocky Road is “a rich, dark chocolate ice cream sprinkled with chopped, roasted almonds and miniature marshmallows.”
Ew, I say.
I’ve never been a fan of chocolate ice cream. It doesn’t taste like chocolate. It doesn’t even taste like chocolate milk. I don’t like marshmallows either, unless they are melted with sticks of butter and mixed into crispy rice cereal.
But this story isn’t about ice cream at all. Especially in my middle years, I appear to have become “ice cream intolerant” having to steer more toward Tropical Café Smoothies or fruity sorbets rather than anything in the frozen cow’s milk category. It’s a little sad for me. I have such fond childhood memories of ice cream, including trips to the DQ on a hot, Nebraskan summer’s day when my dad would catch a craving for a creme de menthe sundae or a lime Mr. Misty. That is, if he had run out of grocery store ice cream at home. Rum Raisin was his go-to flavor—a brilliant choice, since no one else would touch it.
Ew, I would say.
The Rocky Roads I speak of here are in Colorado, in the Rocky Mountain range, where my oldest of The Precious Pair is spending her summer, and where she’s busting up boulders with sledgehammers and such. Her current employer, the Rocky Mountain Youth Conservation Corps, calls this “trail work.”
Their website describes the scenario poetically: “As part of a tight-knit team of 8-10 individuals, you’ll live and work together in a camping setting, tackling priority projects throughout the week and unwinding by exploring the stunning Rocky Mountains on weekends. While it demands hard work in challenging conditions, this journey creates unforgettable memories and transformative experiences.”
The crazy thing is that she did similar work last summer, yet in Maine. There, she was also assigned to a trails team that required mastering multiple tools I’ve never heard of, all while wearing hard hats and steel-toed boots. Toward the end of the season, one of her teammates suffered an injury when he jammed his thumb beneath a rock. “It busted open like an orange out of its peel!” as she described the gruesome scene.
Ew, ew, ew, I said.
“Are we sure you haven’t volunteered for prison camp?” I asked her more than once last summer when I heard her reports of those long days hauling rocks.
I should be clear that it is a paying job, not a volunteer assignment, and not a jail sentence. But since the program is part of Americorps, we hope the paychecks keep coming for the duration of the summer. She assures me that “they have the money.”
So, Colorado has been home to the 20-year-old for four weeks now, with another eight weeks of physical labor to go. How does a sweet child of mine end up as one who slings sledgehammers? I haven’t a clue. She’s my tough little tree hugger. (Not little anymore.)
Her cell phone reception at the high elevations and in the forests is spotty at best. I get a notice when she expects to be without service for multiple days. After one of her recent outages, we exchanged a text thread that went like this:
E: I do miss hearing from you. I know I don’t have reception, but I hope to see more pictures and updates about everything you guys have going on when you have the time. It made me sad when I came back without any texts from you this week.
ME: Knowing you were off the grid, it did not occur to me to send you texts and photos. I feel like they might not be getting through to you if you are out of service. I will be more intentional about sending you updates.
As proof to this child that she is out of sight, but never out of mind, I am writing about Rocky Roads – both the literal type she’s working on, and the figurative type I’m working on.
Rocks along our route can make things difficult, can’t they? If by car, they can flatten your tire. If by foot, they can get stuck in your shoe. There’s nothing worse than a tiny sharp pebble that wedges into the comfort of your boot. It’s hard to shake it out, and as soon as you think it’s gone, you realize it’s still there, piercing into your heel.
Sometimes, we can’t see what’s coming next, past the curves and bends in the rocky road. I can’t fully visualize the path ahead this summer, yet I do know the people I want alongside me. My girls (one here and one there). My family. My friends. My true love. If they are with me, either in person or in spirit, I can handle a bumpy ride and an uneven trail.
Rocks eventually tumble into place. There isn’t a map showing me where they will fall, yet that’s how patience insists on me honoring it. I will learn soon enough.
In August, I will travel to Banff, Canada – another place with a gorgeous mountain range. There, you will find me hiking with two walking sticks and a dozen ladies, huffing and puffing at the back of the pack. A vacation like this ranks nowhere near the level of nature that the Conservation Corps embraces daily, yet it’s outdoorsy enough for me. (Especially considering my favorite part of summertime is air conditioning.)
Upon my return from the north, my favorite environmentalist will be back home again in Indiana, right where I think she belongs, yet I know better. There will always be new roads to tempt her away. The same will be true for her younger sister before long. My wish for both of them as adults is smooth pavement.
I read a news article maybe a year ago about a celebration for the 100th Roundabout in nearby Carmel, Indiana. The small city wanted everyone to know that they had more roundabouts per capita than any comparable town in Europe or elsewhere. “Good for them,” I remember muttering under my breath at the time, and “Note to Self: Keep out of Carmel!”
If anyone out there feels that they have mastered the roundabout, please contact me directly and immediately. I need a lesson. Then I need to give my child that lesson.
In fact, is anyone out there for hire as a private driving instructor? I’m only half-jesting. I like to think I’m a person who can recognize one’s weaknesses, and driving is one of them. Yet as the mother of a 17 ½ year old, I must act the part of a subject matter expert in driving a vehicle so I can share that expertise with her, the older half of The Precious Pair. The poor kid is like the The Last of the Mohicans, as they say — the oldest among most of her friends, yet she will be the last to earn her driver’s license.
Most of them already drive effortlessly in cars of their own, so she can usually find a ride, and that’s nice. Kudos to their parents! I salute you for a job well done. At the rate we’re going, we should get the beastly challenge of learning to drive knocked out by next Summer, maybe. It’s hard to tell at this point. But I do know one thing: I am not the person for this job.
Beyond the fact that I’m not a good driver myself – and apparently, according to my friends, I’m widely-recognized as such – I’m also a yeller on the road. Not as in Old Yeller. As in yelling. This is my instinctual reaction to fear, danger, and roundabouts. But come on, how does any parent embrace this ritual of teaching a child to drive? It’s basically engaging in anti-survival and represents the opposite of everything I’ve done as a parent, thus far.
All good moms and dads spend tremendous time, energy, and attention caring for and raising their children to understand how to live safely and healthfully, through a wide range of habits, from crossing the street properly to chewing their food thoroughly to brushing their teeth daily (most days is good enough). Then comes teaching them to drive. Putting them behind the wheel of a one ton-sized weapon, putting a younger sibling in the backseat who’s along for the wild ride without choice in the matter, and putting yourself in the usually-preferred shotgun spot to witness the action upclose – this is all while telling the driver-in-training, in so many words, “Go ahead and gun this baby. You will figure it out.”
Eek! WTF???
I’m not made for this part of parenting.
Before you ask, yes, we have enrolled with the local driving school for support. But it seems that the infamous supply chain has also impacted the availability of driving instructors as there simply aren’t enough to serve the number of teens learning to drive in this town. The availability of these valuable lessons is slim pickings, and the process is comparable to snagging dining reservations at Disney. If you’re not on the app at the stroke of 6am when they publish the new schedule, then forget about your scrambled eggs with the princesses or your one-hour with the driving instructor. Honestly, can we give these people a round of applause or at least a Xanex for their efforts? They are true heroes in my eyes, capable of courage, patience, and a calm that I will never achieve.
But recently when the teen did score her second driving lesson, she was given the quintessential advice “You need more practice with your parents.” She couldn’t wait to tell me this, since I had been telling her repeatedly “You need more lessons with the driving school.” What comes first in this conundrum? Practice or Lessons? Practice with me does not seem overly effective, yet I’m trying harder to accept this role, to do it better, and to figure out why I’m so bad at this.
And I already know why I’m so bad at this. Because it’s all about surrendering control and handing it over to the teen driver who is my oldest daughter. The one who made me a mother in the first place. The one who tried as a toddler to run into a busy parking lot until I fully-convinced her that all cars and all drivers are dangerous. Fast forward to the one who is 8 months shy of turning 18. The one who is also leaving for college in a year and a half. The one who has shown me what pride really feels like. The one who also seems to break my heart every day right now with her stubborn nature and our disagreements, but who also has a magical way of picking up the pieces every time and putting it back together inside my chest like new and even bigger than before.
This is just the way it works. I can’t resist it. And by “it” I mean the inevitable cycle of this crazy parenting life many of us opt into. We pour ourselves into these people so they can successfully do things their own way and then leave us. That’s the end goal. Create the adult and they will leave. They will thrive. They will suffer. They will win. They will lose. They will drive. There’s no stopping any of it. And there’s no stopping the pain that accompanies this process of their growth.
Yeah, parenting can suck for a good portion of the time. But all the same, what a joy and a privilege it is to mold other human beings to become exclusively themselves. I just don’t want to teach the young humans how to drive. 😉
It seems that half the people I know went to Florida for Spring Break. In our traditional quirkiness, The Precious Pair and I headed the opposite direction — seven hours north to explore an area of Pure Michigan new to us called Petoskey. Yes, we drove all the way through the worst state in America for current COVID rates. Not ideal, yet we practiced all our usual precautions consistently.
We are not typically road warriors. I get far too antsy trapped in a car for more than three or four hours at a time, as the driver or the passenger. So I split the trip up there and back into two legs. Stopping in Grand Rapids on the way and Holland on the way back. That plan worked out fairly well.
We expected cool temps in the 50s, clouds, and rain, according to my weather app, and, of course, all of us packed hoodies and jeans for those conditions. Instead, we encountered unseasonably warm weather in the 70s and sunshine for most of the week – the perfect conditions for hunting Petoskey Stones.
Finding hidden gems among the beach rocks is much like finding characters in the clouds. It definitely has a similar calming effect and works the same creative muscles. The best difference is tangibility – you can touch and hold stones in your hand, admire them up close, toss them back into the water or onto the shoreline, and even take a precious few home with you.
It didn’t take long before we spotted some pretty cool finds, like what we called the “Stone Phone.” It was a good-sized rock that looked like a circa 1980’s car phone. Or there was the one that had the color, shape, and size of a human heart.
The special rock we were seeking though was the Official State Stone of Michigan, the famed Petoskey Stone. Actually fossilized coral once alive in the saltwater seas that covered the area 350 million years ago, they are found primarily in the water and beaches of Northern Michigan.
In raw form, a Petoskey Stone is worth $4 per pound. But polished, their value ranges from $10 to $100 a piece. For perspective, I bought a small pair of earrings made from the material for $17. I also considered a wine stopper and a business card holder for my desk, but those items started around $40 each.
The best tip for finding them – they must be wet to see the distinctive hexagonal pattern. Otherwise, they look like ordinary pale gray rocks. Nothing sexy about that.
Yet the hunt is rewarding. It’s priceless in terms of its relaxation value. Cleansing. Purifying. All-Natural. Completely Non-Digital. The event included lake water, spring breeze, rocky shoreline, loads of sunshine, and my two girls and me. The perfectly socially-distanced activity, too!
We did not leave empty-handed. We found a small handful of the elusive stones plus two pockets full of other rocks we simply found to be pretty in one way or another. I have no idea what we will do with them. But I have learned that one of my besties owns a rock tumbler, so we plan to borrow that to see how our collection shines up.
Due to the distance, I doubt we will get back to Petoskey anytime soon. But it’s definitely worthy of our return someday. As we left town, I felt the typical vacationer’s longing for more time – at least another day. All three of us agreed there were a few more things we wish we could have done. We never stopped in at the weird pottery place we kept passing. There was one more local restaurant I wanted us to try. There was one more road I wanted us to follow…
On Saturday, our last day of travel, we had 3 hours to go until we got home. We hadn’t quite made it to Indiana yet, and there were a few more fun Lake Michigan towns we were nearing and soon to be passing. Only half kidding, I said “What if we stopped and stayed someplace for one more night, girls? Just for fun!”
Maturely, both of them responded that they were ready to get home. Back to their dogs. Back to their beds. Back to their busy lives. All the things I didn’t mind steering clear of, just a little longer.
Because the busier we are and the older everyone gets, the faster the time goes. Along the way, I hope we will always make some time to search for stones.
I remember getting my ears pierced as a kid, and that was a rite of passage. I had wanted pierced ears probably even as a toddler, but my mom said I had to wait until I turned 8 years old. So I waited and it happened for me in 1980 at the hair salon. I’ll never forget the small, shiny pistol the lady used to shoot those silver “training studs” through my lobes. I clearly remember the burn in each ear.
The Precious Pair has never been as interested in ear piercing as I was. My oldest reluctantly decided to have hers done at age 8, based on my prompting – at the modern earring mecca of Claire’s. But a year or so later, she heard her babysitter tell a story about her own ear, an earring, and considerable amounts of blood; then it was all over, and that child of mine decided to stop wearing earrings forever. Until she turned 16 and decided she wanted to wear earrings again. Somehow, the holes had not grown shut, so I saved about $40 and another trip to Claire’s, one place no mother wants to end up once your kids pass the age of 10. It’s one of those spots where you spin into an instant state of panic and over-stimulus, much like Five Below and Chuck E. Cheese. Luckily, so far, my youngest has shown zero interest in earrings, even at age 12.
Only a few days ago, I heard about a young woman launching a new Etsy shop with artfully-crafted earrings. As a sucker for pretty and unique handmade jewelry, I couldn’t wait to check it out. I found several styles I wanted to buy and began tossing them in my cart. When I got ready to check out, I had forgotten my password – of course – so I had to go through a 10-minute process of setting up a new one. By the time I made it back to my cart, the little gray rainbows had been nabbed by another eager shopper. I was bummed! Those earrings had spoken to me. While I’m typically drawn to a nice dangle earring, these were studs. Small, solid, gray clay rainbows. If you’re not familiar with my obsession with the color gray, feel free to check that out here.
When it comes to rainbows, they’ve become a meaningful symbol in my life. Someone special refers to me jokingly as a “Skittles Rainbow” because I believe in a serendipitous path, where life generally works out as it should, day-by-day. It’s fair to say I’m an idealist. I tend to think in terms of what can happen versus what will happen. But in middle age, it’s fair and accurate to say that I’m NOT bursting with vivid colors. I’m graying a bit, and not just my hair; not just my home décor; not just my wardrobe…
My Temperament I am cooling off and calming down and becoming more steady and stable. In the spirit of TMI, I will tell you that I recently weaned myself off of two prescription drugs I had been taking for years for anti-anxiety. Why did I decide to do that? Well, I was bad about taking them consistently in the first place, and I wasn’t convinced they were doing much for me anyway, anymore. I’m certainly not advocating for ditching a good medicine if it serves you well. In my case, I felt the need to cleanse and detox for a while. This doesn’t mean I won’t go back to them. We’re on a break.
My Qualities “Nice is a not a word I would use to describe you,” The Teen said to me not long ago. I wasn’t sure what to think of that comment, so I asked her what words she would use. She thought for a bit and replied with “fierce, hard-working, determined.” While that doesn’t reflect a warm and fuzzy golden glow, it does feel a bit steely gray, doesn’t it? I’m happy these words came to her mind, and I would use the same to describe many of my middle-aged friends. I think these are the qualities most of us have learned by now. It’s tough to get through marriage, parenting, and, as in my case, divorce without them.
My Behavior I love a good rant. And I have “skills” in the areas of griping, complaining, and whining (or should I say “wining”?), as well as anybody else. My daily behavior is not always stellar, and I certainly don’t always give others the benefit of the doubt. I’m impatient and nitpicky and, at times, highly irritated by others whose values and standards do not match my own. Dare I describe my own behavior as “judgmental”? Yes, maybe, sometimes.
Yet beneath these layers of gray, I still believe in everything a traditional Roy G. Biv rainbow represents – hope, joy, faith, renewal, a fresh start, a bright spot, happiness, love. And I am grateful to report that I experience all of these colorful emotions these days! There was a chapter in my adult life when rainbows felt quite elusive, but I can tell you confidently now: they are real. Is there a special symbol that speaks to you?
Here on Saint Patrick’s Day, it feels like a great time to talk about rainbows. After all, we know that’s where The Lucky Leprechaun finds his bigass pot of gold. As bonus timing for this blog, the dear friend I mentioned above has a birthday coming up a week from today. #49. I would say it’s just as significant to turn 49 as it is to turn 50, because it’s the last one we get before we turn 50. I’m hopeful we can take a special trip together in 2022, to celebrate our dual 50th Birthdays in the same year. Maybe even to someplace splendid like Ireland. What a perfect spot that would be to see some stunning gray rainbows.
Wish me 🍀 with that, Meesh
BONUS: A Green Cocktail Recipe…”The Lucky Leprechaun” I made this for some work colleagues during a Zoom Happy Hour the other day. They seemed to like it; hope you do, too!
Your favorite vodka or gin; not flavored Rum – a clear or golden variety; not flavored Blue Curacao – you’ll find this near the schnapps; an orange liqueur, unnaturally blue in color, but a crucial ingredient! Orange or Pineapple Juice or Both – another crucial ingredient! Something fizzy – Sprite, Ginger Ale, Tonic, Club Soda, or Seltzer (use a diet version for less sweetness) Crushed Ice Cocktail Shaker & Spoon OPTIONAL: Straw, Fun Napkin, Shamrock on a Stick – cocktail flair! Why not?!?
Add crushed ice to your cocktail shaker. Pour in nice splashes of your vodka or gin, rum, and blue curacao. Add a cup of juice and shake. Pour into a tall glass holding more chipped ice, but fill only 2/3 to top. No need to strain. Top it off with your fizzy ingredient, stir, add your flair, and sip your magically green concoction to your heart’s content.
Note: This is my fourth installment ever featuring a guest blogger – a dear, longtime friend of mine! Many thanks for her willingness to share a story here on my site, especially one that features such a down-to-earth and heart-wrenching topic: the passing of a family pet. I’m grateful she wrote this piece for us as part of her healing process. Hope you’re as touched by it as I was…
We lost our dog a few weeks ago. It felt pretty sudden….about 72 hours of Pure Hell. Looking back now on pictures and videos, we can see a decline that we just didn’t see in front of our faces. My husband and I have been lucky to love and lose pets before. I say “lucky” because, gosh, it hurts SO bad to lose something so valuable, but how lucky we are to have loved at all. However, this one was different. Unlike the pups of our youth, this time we were catapulted into the driver’s seat in making decisions for our special Golden, Barkley. Never before have we had to make a decision with our mind that would completely break our hearts in two. It was the hardest and kindest decision either of us has ever made.
It came with so much uncertainty. Silent glances over his labored breathing….will he get better? Are we jumping the gun? But he’s still drinking water? Do you think he’s in pain?
We nearly lost our first Golden, Bo, in November – literally 3 paws in the grave and he’s come back to us with a vengeance and literal hunger and is eating for lost time….so we were holding on to hope for Barkley’s comeback.
COVID added another layer of complexity because our vet wasn’t allowing anyone inside their building, so they would take him inside from the parking lot and that would be it and THAT was a NO DEAL for us. As hard as it was to watch him take his last breath, and trust me – it was gutting – the thought of him being scared and sick AND with a stranger, that was a hard pass.
So on a snowy evening in February, we loaded up, masked up, and our emergency vet clinic graciously allowed us to say goodbye to our beautiful Barks in person. And we came back home to an empty food bowl and empty bed and a seemingly quiet house – even though we still have Bo. It was heartbreaking. If you know, you know; and we didn’t know.
We didn’t know that walking up to bed empty-handed would bring us to our knees, when normally my husband would carry Barkley up with him. (I joked he was carrying his bride to bed at night!) We didn’t know that seeing his stay hairs on our car seats would take our breath away. And we didn’t know that this pain would last and that simple tasks would hurt. To our friends and family who have had to say goodbye to a family pet – I am so sorry…..we just didn’t know.
Barkley was never my dog. He wasn’t even a family dog. He was solely my husband Brent’s dog. I found Barkley at a local shelter and bolted out to meet him that day – finding a Golden Retriever at a shelter is a bit like finding a unicorn. The shelter asked that I bring my whole family the next day, kid and current dog included. We did. And Barkley jumped crazily on all of us, and our older Golden wasn’t the first member of his fan club, so I wanted to pass on him. My husband said absolutely not, and Barkley must have understood every word because that dog was LOYAL to Brent from that day on.
They were inseparable. Barkley was his shotgun rider, his campfire buddy, his fellow late night snacker, and his shadow. That didn’t come without a lot of exasperation for Barkey’s antics on Brent’s part….Barkley ONLY wanted to pee in our front yard; a fenced in backyard was useless. And he had NO problem pooping on our driveway or pool deck. I would belly laugh and look at Brent with my “Your dog!” look. It is these memories that can pull us out of our sadness, and we can always share another laugh about our Barks.
When Brent and I first started dating, we took a trip to New Orleans. I had my palm read and the fortune teller told me we would have twin boys someday! I was ecstatic since Brent WAS a twin, so that could have been a possibility. A few years later, we returned to NOLA and I had my fortune told again in a completely different area of the city, and again….twin boys were mentioned. What were the odds?
A few summers ago, we sat in our backyard watching the two dogs, and I looked at Brent and said…”Twin Boys.” Those fortune tellers years ago never elaborated, but I am confident that our Bo & Barkley are who they meant. Our twin boys.
We have been on the receiving end of a lot of love, advice, nurturing texts, and check-ins from our friends who DO know and have been there, and the best advice has been we just have to sit in “the suck” for a while….so here we sit.
Thinking about what I learned from Barkley, it would be these things:
Take naps in the sun whenever you can – in fact, take several.
If someone asks you to go for a walk, you go.
You can never eat too much bacon.
Accept affection from people, and if you are missing it – seek it out.
Sometimes a deep sigh is all you need to get your point across.
Love unconditionally.
Be genuinely happy to see people and make sure they know it.
Find your person.
We had Barkley for a short 7 years, and we were his second family, but 7 years taught us invaluable lessons and gave us a lifetime of love. This one will leave a mark.
Let’s start with a text exchange I had last Wednesday Night:
ME: “Do you think buying a bottle of that alcohol-free wine is cheating? It’s called FRE.”
MY FRIEND KELLY: “Yes. Drink a diet ginger ale. 😂”
ME: “Well, I don’t have any of that. I guess I have cranberry and tonic.”
ME: “These snowy nights when the girls are gone and I have to do sucky stuff on the computer are the hardest. Wine makes it better.”
MY FRIEND KELLY: “Yeah, it feels like Groundhog Day these days.”
ME: “I guess we will make it. Ugh. But I shoulda’ gone out for some kombucha today.”
Now here we are on actual Groundhog Day, and it looks like we made it. (GREAT Barry Manilow song!) I observed Dry January. I did it. I completed it. I succeeded. I survived. And contrary to what my title implies, I did not get high as an alternative to alcohol. I am on a natural high because I detoxed my body for 31 days! Something like that.
I did not have Dry January on my radar until I noticed my sister mention it on Facebook at the end of 2020. So without thinking it through, I volunteered to do it, too. I like a good challenge. Then I spent an entire month wondering why anybody would sign up for this?!?
I was my biggest doubter from the beginning. But I was not alone. There were others. Many dear friends and coworkers practically squealed and giggled like toddler girls when I told them I was going to “Try Dry.”
“Wait, what?
“Why?”
“Really?”
“Are you joking?”
“Are you serious?”
“This should be interesting.”
“Well, that’s sad!”
“Booooooo!”
…These are real things they said.
Everyone laughed. Most people wondered why. Many people wanted nothing to do with this. And I didn’t blame them. I was surprised by my own decision. To give you a sense for how much I enjoy a nice cocktail, I mixed up a nice cocktail as my talent during my family’s virtual Christmas Eve talent show. It was a French 75. I made it; then, then I chugged it right there on the Zoom. (Please try one for yourself if you never have. See recipe below.)
But, after all, my personal word for this year is DISCIPLINE. Of all things, Dry January would provide a great test of my chosen theme. If I could do a month without cocktails, maybe I could do other hard things this year, like my laundry, like exercise, like graduate school…
What Happened?
January was a long and weird month. Early on, January 6th happened in Washington DC, and that Wednesday all of us sat watching that debacle on live television in disbelief. If ever there was a night I wanted to drink last month, that was it. And there were many nights before and after that one that tried my commitment. Especially the numerous times I found myself either home alone and/or cooking dinner in the evening. Those situations triggered me. I guess I never realized how much I adore a big, full glass of wine or a fizzy cocktail when I make food or while I’m binging Netflix solo.
I struggled for the first 21 days. It’s often said it takes about that amount of time to form a new habit or to break an old one. Then, I hit my easiest stretch and stride from about the 21st until the 26th. The final five days came back to bite me, especially with a 5th weekend wedged in there.
Full Disclosure: The teen half of the Precious Pair prevented me from failing when The Night of January 16th happened. At that midpoint of the month, I decided I did not want to endure further dryness. I had made it halfway and wasn’t that good enough? She convinced me otherwise with a great pep talk beyond her years – she often does that – and I’m grateful.
What Did I Drink Instead?
Alternatives and Mocktails. Flavored iced teas, Arnold Palmers, cranberry juice & tonic, other juices , Coke Zero and ginger ale, inordinate amounts of coffee. Hot tea and hot cocoa, too. And water, both still-style and my preferred bubbly varieties. But kombucha was my best discovery of Dry January. (Natural fermentation!)
How Did I Benefit?
Healthwise. – Maybe? I’m sure my liver got a nice sabbatical. I didn’t lose any weight, but I didn’t gain any either. I did not notice any upgrades in my skin, sleep, or general wellness as the Dry January bloggers suggested I would enjoy.
Greater Appreciation. – Definitely. I will approach my libations with more gratitude moving forward. I intend to sip and savor them now.
Lower Tolerance. – No doubt, I’ve become a much cheaper date. I will likely hold myself to imbibing only 1-2 nights weekly or I might even limit myself to special occasions only. This is what my friend Kelly is calling “mindful drinking” and I like that term. I’m stealing it.
Self-Control. – There’s a thin line between our pleasures and our problems. With 2021 as my Year of Discipline, I’m committed to staying in line, on track, and under control in many aspects of my life, more than ever before. Because that’s what a single middle-aged mom with a tween and teen watching does, or at least tries her best to do.
Most likely, I succeeded because I’m competitive. And my competition was Me. This experience wasn’t easy, but as I often say – Good Things Are Hard. Not always, but I often find this to be true.
The writer in me might have been the most helpful persona throughout this cause. I kept thinking “If I can do this, then I can write about this.” It was similar to the motivation I had last August when I struggled through COVID. I knew once I got through it, I would have something to say about it. What kind of story would I be telling you now if I had quit way back on January 6th? On second thought, I could have told a great story about quitting. Come to think of it, that one might have been better, probably funnier. Well, there’s always next January for failing!
But I conquered Dry January 2021 – as did my sister and Kelly and probably others here reading this. Congratulations! And by sharing this silly story, I mean no disrespect to my friends and family and the strangers out there who have declared Dry for Life. On the contrary, I honor you, support you, and respect you boatloads.
Cheers, Meesh
My French 75: Start with ice in a traditional cocktail shaker. Open a bottle of something boozy and bubbly – any champagne, prosecco, or sparkling wine you like. Pour 4 ounces into the shaker and add a shot of your favorite gin – I prefer Aviator or Hendrick’s. Add a tablespoon of simple syrup, which is so easy to make yourself – boil equal parts water and sugar and add a touch of vanilla extract. For something different and extra fancy, add a little St. Germaine Elderflower Liqueur instead of the simple syrup. Shake and pour into your glass of choice – martini, champagne flute, or stemless wine recommended. Add a swirly lemon peel twist and/or a stemmed cherry. Enjoy mindfully!
My Dry 75: Replace the champagne with ginger ale and swap out the gin and simple syrup with a nice, natural lemonade or limeade. Voila!
“I passed through the seven levels of the Candy Cane Forest, through the sea of swirly-twirly gumdrops, and then I walked through the Lincoln Tunnel.” – Buddy the Elf from the movie Elf, describing his journey from the North Pole to New York
At age 40-plus-ish with almost two decades of motherhood under my belt, I wish I could say I have mastered the domestic arts on some level, at any level. Yet management of the household has always challenged me.
I’m not a great cook. I often tell people I don’t really cook – I prepare food that other people have cooked and frozen. Chicken tenders or the vegetarian version of the same are staples of my repertoire. I’m a semi-homemade kind of girl with a few exceptions, like when I try a recipe or grill out in the summertime. I’m a slightly better baker, yet I rarely make the time to do it right. The Precious Pair bakes far more than I ever do, and I enjoy the cookies of their labor.
When it comes to home organization, I will forever seek it. (I can barely park my car in my garage due to its disarray.) General cleaning is not my strongest suit either. My house is cleanish, but not in the spic and span way that my friends seem to achieve. My dishes plague me. Even grocery shopping – in this pandemic year, I’ve resigned. It’s best to let someone else do it and deliver right to my front porch. I’m not bothered all too much by the infamous “replacements” if something I want is sold out.
But my underachieving when it comes to these six tasks – cooking, baking, organizing, cleaning, dishwashing, and grocery shopping – pales in comparison to my pure failure associated with the seventh level of household chores, The Laundry.
Or I should say The Godforsaken Laundry. Yep, that’s what I call it often. And I know I shouldn’t use that kind of blasphemy. In fact, as the Teen Member of the Precious Pair noted with annoyance the other day when I was having a tough time overall, “Why must you use the word ‘godforsaken’ in front of everything?!?” She’s right. I tend to do that when I’m in a bad mood, for dramatic effect.
During the month of December, all the above gets a little harder. And, well, it’s because I’d rather decorate the house than clean it. I’d rather shop for fun gifty things versus boring groceries. I’d rather wrap those gifts than wash those dishes. And, let’s face it, I’d rather binge Hallmark Channel Christmas Movies and sip hot cocoa in front of our glowing and glorious tree than do ANY of the above-named chores.
Suddenly one evening, no human in the household had clean underwear. (It sure doesn’t help that the two canines also living here confiscate and destroy any pair they get their paws on.) This became the now infamous night in December when I went head-to-head with The Laundry in a fierce battle. As I huffed and puffed and sorted, I lost count at 9 piles. I had a pit in my stomach that told me there was no coming back from this level of neglect.
The Little Red Devil crept up on my left shoulder and whispered into my ear, “You have failed miserably, and you really should be ashamed of yourself.” I felt a moment of panic at the thought of it, then I knocked the creepy jerk into a huge pile of darks, making way for the Little White Angel to hover over my right shoulder where she brought me hope and the best idea of 2020. “Take the laundry away, my child. Take it away.” And with that, I headed to the kitchen and grabbed the garbage bags from beneath the sink. I proceeded to stuff and suffocate the majority of that godforsaken laundry into 4 bulging white plastic bags that I hauled straight to my car. That night, I traveled through the Candy Cane Forest to the Tide Laundromat located in a typical suburban strip mall. This is where I dumped my 42 pounds of Holiday Laundry and where I returned the next day to find it unrecognizable — washed, fluffed, folded, and bundled tightly in plastic. I paid for the Peace of Christmastime when I shelled out $95 for this service, and it was the best money I spent all year.
Of course, now my challenge is not to let it happen again. I can’t justify “taking the laundry away” on a regular basis. There are three able-bodied people in the house who can do laundry and all the other tasks I’ve mentioned. And with the New Year upon us, we must look at different ways of staying on track. When we “divide and conquer” each of us tackles a different chore during a focused period of time, making lighter work for everyone. We definitely need to do more of this in 2021. The result is sure to be more clean underwear!
Reflecting on 2020 as a whole, it seems fair to deem it The Year of Dirty Laundry. Stains. Grime. Mismatched socks most days. As the Grinch would say, 2020 “stinks, stank, stunk” in multiple ways. But did it entirely? No, of course not. If you say it did, you’re missing or forgetting something good about it.
If I think of this past year in terms of 7 Levels again, the following chronological themes come to my mind:
Hope – Any year typically begins with it. 2020 was no different and for the first two months, life was the former normal. Funny how it’s hard to even remember January and February, right?
Panic – With the month of March came a rush of uncertainty and strangeness. Many of us were sent home to work and never went back. I’m still working 100% remotely and have done so since Saint Patrick’s Day.
Closeness – April and May found not only me working at home, but my girls attending school virtually. Everyone was homebound. Those were some weird weeks in lockdown mode. I caught a mouse in my toaster. That pretty much sums up how quarantine went in those early days. (Here’s my blog about it – Counting Stuff During Quarantine.)
Uncertainty – The summer came and things seemed to be letting up some, but no one was sure about where they should go and how they should behave when they got there. Masks or no masks? Outdoors or indoors? Safe or sorry? These were the questions we asked ourselves.
Illness – School began in August. My girls wanted to attend in-person, so they did. Within two weeks of their return, I contracted COVID-19. I had been a careful person, so getting the dreaded virus was confusing and unsettling and disappointing and physically challenging. But we stayed home and beat it, thankfully without medical intervention. (Here’s my blog about it – Not Your Mom’s Guide to Coronavirus.)
Gratefulness – After the virus, in came The Fall. My favorite time of year. It was lovely, as always. I soaked up all its simple joys such as the rare chilly/sunny days and the leaves in all their luster. These aspects were fleeting; gone way too fast. Yet I was grateful for them. I was grateful for my antibodies. They were still present in my system on December 11 when I tested Positive for them. But who knows? They might be gone today. There are no guarantees, no “Good Until” dates.
Hope – Pairing well with the Gratefulness, here comes Hope again. Right where we started, before anyone had any clue what was ahead of us. We still don’t know what is ahead of us. We hear stories and theories and studies and highlights and lowlights. Beyond it all, we must cling to Hope.
I’m guessing these 7 Levels of 2020 feel familiar to many of you, too. Yes, we have collectively navigated through the piles of dirty laundry and the pits of despair that have surrounded us. Maybe you have even lived yourself in one or more of those pits at different points of this year. Many people in my circle have suffered from COVID, either directly or via loved ones. Those of us who have had it tend to kid around and refer to ourselves as “The COVID Club.” But shame on us, because it’s no joke. One dear friend lost her father to it, and they were close. (Hugs, My Friend.) Hundreds of thousands of American families have lost people they care about. I pray that I won’t.
Much like Buddy the Elf who emerged into NYC through a grimy tunnel, we are walking through a time tunnel these next couple of days – one that connects 2020 to our All-New Year. Let’s not be naïve about this milestone. All the bad from this year won’t be gone, yet a good portion of it will be in our rear view. All the good things we’re seeking from 2021 won’t be directly on the other side, yet more good could be ahead. We will say farewell to this year, yet none of us will soon forget it.
I will remember 2020 as the one where COVID didn’t beat me, but The Laundry nearly did.
I recently had a conversation with a shy teen girl I know – a family friend. She and her dad were in the process of re-painting her bedroom. It had been a light teal blue color, but now that she’s 14, she wants something more mature. I asked her about the colors she chose, including the names of the paints.
I’ve always enjoyed looking at paint chips and admiring the names of them at Lowe’s. The paint section is a patch of colorful creativity where I feel at home among an overwhelming vastness of stainless steel, wooden 2x4s, and white PVC pipe. I never pick a paint unless the name speaks to me as well as the hue.
The teenager told me her walls would be Fog/a medium shade of gray; her ceiling, Pegasus/a bright white; and her trim, best of all, Zombie/almost black. The names of paint do not get any cooler than this combination! This brief chat set my mind in so many crazy directions as I imagined a fairytale woven from this pallet. A Zombie riding his winged Pegasus through a soup-like Fog toward the Apocalypse. (I’m fascinated by Zombies, as shown previously here.)
This interaction also got me thinking a lot about how much I’ve grown to prefer neutrals myself. Especially in my middle age. Gray is becoming my favorite color in addition to pink, aqua blue, sometimes yellow. But nowadays, I’m definitely tending toward gray. Or is it grey? I’m never sure.
It might sound drab and maybe even a little sad that I have fallen in love with gray. Research shows that people who suffer from anxiety (Guilty!) or depression are drawn to gray. But don’t shed a tear for me. I’m actually doing quite well in this great gray stage of my life — a chapter I call my “Mid-Life Chaos” (not a Crisis), a continuously busy time. Yet, amid the blur, I make rest a priority so I can keep up the steady pace of single parenthood.
Every wall in my renovated circa 1900 home is painted Worldly Gray by Sherwin-Williams. When we moved into this house back in June 2019, The Precious Pair asked me about painting their rooms. And as much as I enjoy browsing the paint department, I am simply horrible at painting walls. The idea of it made me cringe, so I struck a deal with them. Let’s live in the house for a while and just see how we feel about these walls. Now, a year later, I can say all of us are quite content with them. They provide the perfect clean slate for adding pops of pizzazz throughout the home. My own room? The color scheme is gray and white with blushes of pink. My perfect girly girl sanctuary.
I especially love being tucked away upstairs in my room when the weather is damp and dreary and a fog has rolled in. Nature’s version of gray. As long as you’re not driving in it, there’s little to fear about the fog. It’s a rare, quiet, peaceful weather state where you should just stay put, stay home, stay off the road, and take a nap – one of my favorite things to do. A fog is cool and comfortable – the perfect condition for burrowing in my favorite fuzzy blanket I keep at the foot of my bed, the one I drag along with me to hotels. My adulthood version of a “blankie.” It is, you guessed it, gray.
Yep, give me a foggy day and I’ll give you a couch potato, lazing around with Netflix humming on the TV, probably some ridiculous teen drama series that has its clutches in me. Something like Riverdale or Glee or Cobra Kai. I’ll order Panera. Most likely soup. Probably with one of those sprouted grain rolls. (Try that instead of the default baguette!) Hopefully, my two dogs will catch on. It’s not a day for their shenanigans. Hopefully, they got the memo about Lazy Fog Day. Lazy requires canine cooperation.
As I explore my newfound appreciation for drabness, it all lines up. In my 40s especially, I’ve come to realize there’s far less black and white in this world than I ever realized before. Rather, there’s an abundance of gray. So much uncertainty in our days. So few clear-cut answers. Especially in 2020, more so than any year in my life thus far. I know it’s the same for many of you.
Remember for a minute when you would go to the doctor as a child. For me, I believed that simply going to his office made me better, as if the visit itself would heal me. In adulthood, one learns that’s certainly not the case. Doctors are doing their best, just like the rest of us. Asking questions, guessing, wondering, problem-solving. There’s a lot of uncertainty to what they do. It’s science, yet foggy. As in the case of “Yes, you likely have a concussion, probably,” OR “You’ve lost your taste again? That could continue to happen off and on for the rest of your life, after having COVID. Maybe.”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for our health care heroes! I’ve enjoyed the privilege of their care quite a bit lately. They often work in grayness, and that takes incredible persistence and patience. Toss in a pandemic and their version of daily gray deepens like never before.
Another example of what gray life looks like is a teenager contemplating college and career. My oldest is a high school sophomore. She’s often thinking aloud about where she wants to go and what she wants to do with her life. Like most of us, regardless of age, she’s torn over her choices. She knows she likes kids, she’s strong in her faith, and she loves thrifting and Mother Earth. That leads her to consider teaching, the ministry, and sustainable fashion design. Quite a range with benefits and challenges to each of these paths, including economic considerations.
But who am I to question her? When I was a teen, I told a family member I wanted to be a high school English teacher. The reaction was not supportive – “Well, you won’t make any money doing that!” That advice stuck with me, and I chose to pursue public relations instead. I spent my first 10 years working in charities and the last 18, with a nonprofit financial institution.
Luckily, my shift in career plans worked out, and I love what I do for a living, but I’m certainly not rolling in the dough. I live in a financial state of gray. Having enough to pay for most of what I want to buy and do, while also struggling with the debt load I carry, for various reasons. But I will not encourage my daughters to allow the earning side of their career choices to sway them considerably. As I tell them, no one really has all the money they want. All the middle-income families I know live in a similar zone where, God willing, we have what we need, yet we’d happily take more. It’s a never-ending cycle.
Living gray, one learns to accept a feeling of contentment and stops seeking more and better everything. Inevitably, there are struggles. There are illnesses and injuries. There are unexpected expenses. There are conflicts. There are hard decisions to make. There are choices that will alter the course of our lives. There are no weather maps showing us a personalized forecast that warns us of the foggy patches ahead.
With Halloween coming this weekend, many people will set up machines to manufacture fog on their porches and in their driveways. The idea is to create a mysterious and haunting vibe that makes the trick-or-treaters wonder what’s lurking. It could be a zombie, a werewolf, a ghoul, or countless other creepers. Most likely it’s just the creator of the fog himself – the suburban dad with the candy bowl. He’s probably eaten all the Reese’s by the time you find him.
Then there’s another holiday, where a thick fog produces a different type of ghost: The Grim Reaper representing Ebeneezer Scrooge’s “Christmas Future.” That part of the famous tale is always good and spooky in any film or live production I’ve seen of it – eek!
But why is the fog always portrayed as a source of negativity? After all, it’s a patch of beautiful grayness. True, you can’t see through it and you don’t know what’s coming. But isn’t it precisely the unknown that becomes so much of the greatness in our lives? Things, events, people. The lovely gift you didn’t expect. The awesome day that fell together effortlessly. The amazing man or woman you didn’t plan to meet.
My fog isn’t frightful or ominous. There are rainbows, bunnies, and patches of candy flowers hidden in there! A Skittles Moment. You just have to wait for the fog to clear away to enjoy all the colors inside. Until the gray rolls back in again…
When we learn to appreciate the in-between and unexciting shades of life, we can discover a truth and a strength that’s pure, calming, and quite comfy. We renew ourselves in these neutral moments. If you’re like me, you might even get to know yourself best while you’re resting in them. Not thinking about what’s ahead and what’s behind you, but truly enjoying the subtlety of your current state and surroundings.
Try it. You might decide you have a new favorite color, too.
Graycefully, Meesh
“To be a great fighter, you got to learn to adapt…life’s not black and white. More often than not, it’s gray.” – Johnny Keene, Sensei at Cobra Kai Dojo, Season 2 of “Cobra Kai”
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