Cheap, Cheap!

I have always been a person who likes to save money. I am not an extreme couponer by any means. I’m sure many of you know of more websites and apps than I do for electronic coupons. I’ve put my smart phone to good use beyond Words with Friends by downloading some apps of some the stores I frequently visit. They often offer great coupons and I don’t have to worry about clipping or forgetting anything at home.

Another way I like to save is to see if a broken appliance can be fixed by replacing a part. Let’s face it, household appliances can be expensive and often times “they don’t make ‘em like they used to.” When we first moved into our house, the bake button on the stove wouldn’t work – making the oven pretty much useless. Instead of seizing the opportunity to replace the broken one with a sleek new stainless model, we used the one year home owner’s warranty that covered things like this. It was a faulty circuit board and was replaced in a matter of minutes.

A few years later, the hot water ran for a little bit and then would stop; offering only cold water. For me, that is worse than not having electricity. I’d much rather dine by candlelight than not shower for days on end. In addition to no hot water, small white bits were clogging the faucets and shower head. We thought they were hard water mineral deposits and that the hot water heater was having problems. The tank was a few years old which made me think a part was broken. Using the make and model, I discovered with a little research on the internet that a small part called the dip tube could be faulty which would cause the lack of hot water. Alan was skeptical but we ordered the part since it was under $20 and replacing the whole unit would be substantially more. When it came time to install the replacement part, we discovered the dip tube which was made of white plastic had completely disintegrated. Once it was replaced, long hot showers were much more appreciated.

Just recently the dishwasher started making funny noises and soon after it wasn’t cleaning the stuff in the top rack so well. I hadn’t been using any rinse agent so I thought that could have been the problem. I use a cleaning agent at least twice a year to help decalcify the mineral build up. Nothing worked and it got to the point where water wasn’t reaching the top rack and it looked like everything was covered in steam. I was disappointed that a product we purchased only 10 years ago was broken. Since we are planning to renovate our kitchen in the next year or two, Alan and I resolved to buy a new one along with matching stove/oven and refrigerator.

The kitchen is my girl cave so I was thrilled at the thought of this. But I had a tiny nagging thought – what if it only took a replacement part to fix the problem? I happened to mention the dishwasher plight to my friend Brent the Mechanical Magician Extraordinaire. (This is the guy who fixed a broken generator pushrod with the shaft from a long drill bit and saved my family from being displaced from our home after Hurricane Sandy ravaged the state. He’s the guy you want to have around when the Apocalypse happens.) Brent asked for the make and model and said he would look on internet forums to find posts of the same problem and how the people fixed it. Within five minutes, I got an email containing a link to The Handy Guys Podcast website featuring a blurb describing my exact dishwasher problem along with a how-to video to fix the problem.

I watched the video before beginning the actual work on the dishwasher. After taking Brent’s suggestion to turn off the circuit breaker before working on it, we began to take apart the dishwasher. As I took off the large filter cover, I uncovered the horrors of mineral build up on home appliances. Seriously, I was expecting bits of food as the fix-it guys encountered in their video but this was grody to the max. Fortunately, I used my handy dandy Pampered Chef scraper to loosen it and then swept it up with an old toothbrush.

I was unable to get the grinder cover off because it was glued on with crud. When Alan finally got it off, we saw the problem.

The mangled blade of the chopper assembly. The other washer was practically disintegrated.

This strainer goes behind the blade. Note the hurricane like pattern worn into it.

 

Fortunately, the replacement part wasn’t too expensive and after putting it in, my dishwasher runs like new.

I like new things but there’s a side of me that causes me to pause and think about where large appliances go after end-of-life; sitting in a landfill not breaking down until kingdom come. I hope they actually go to a metal scrap yard. If everyone took time to consider buying a $20 part instead replacing the whole thing, perhaps the landfills wouldn’t be so full. There is only so much earth left and more people are taking it up day by day. Call me cheap but I hope my mentality provides a true environmental benefit to the future generations of my family.

A Few of My Favorite Things – Part 2

Some things in life are simply too good to be kept to one’s self. Of course, as the things around us are the spice of life, apply the following to your own life’s recipe accordingly.
 
Patons Beehive Baby Sport Yarn
I’ve been especially busy this past year filling requests for yarny creations. I like to use synthetic yarns because they are easy to care for as well as light on the wallet. This yarn in particular is so soft and lies nicely on the body so it’s easy to wear. I made my favorite baby sweater project using this yarn in colors Vintage Lace and Precious Pink.

 
 
The Garden Gourmet Restaurant
You know food was going to be in the top 2 of my list. Located right on the South Branch of the Raritan River in Clinton, NJ is a shabby chic restaurant with a menu that will delight your taste buds with a comfort that is hard to be beat outside the home cook’s kitchen. Whether it’s breakfast or lunch, I have never had just an “ok” stomach filling meal. Chef Briellen’s cooking is familiar with a staple of super fresh ingredients and yet she takes it to a level that is above delicious. I highly recommend her dessert appropriately named Pretzel Crack. After you’ve eaten this locally popular chocolate, pretzel and caramel treat, you’ll understand. (Ladies – it’s got the sweet and salty flavors if you know what I mean.)

 
 
Leaving Story Avenue – My journey from the projects to the front page by Paul LaRosa
If you’re looking for a good read with substance but without pretension, definitely check this one out. There aren't many authors these days that wield words with relaxed precision and are deemed as a worthy literary master as is Paul LaRosa. The first few pages of his book are like delicious appetizers hinting at a fabulous meal soon to be served. Rest assured, I devoured it.

 
 
Kindle Fire HD
If you’ve been following my blog, you’ll know that not only did I turn down a gift but the gift was an iPad. At the time, I saw it as too frivolous which has no place in my efficient practical world. I will admit that I wished I hadn’t returned it but Alan persevered and got me a 7” Kindle. It took me a while to get acclimated but the crystal clear screen and the separately purchased cover with keyboard upped the ante in techno competition to the “i” devices. The size is truly portable via my purse which I love because now I can read without having to touch germy all for one magazines at the doctor’s office. I am very pleased with the practicality of this device’s ability to connect to my library system, check out a book and be able to read it within a matter of minutes. Above all, this tablet didn’t cost an arm and a leg or so I heard through the grapevine.

 

The Backyard Garden

I remember when my parents built a huge terraced raised bed vegetable garden in the backyard of my childhood home. It practically went from one end of our lot to the other and had two levels. The more I think about it, the more I admire my parents for seeing that project to fruition. It was an economically sound decision on their part. There was certainly no worry of price per pound when pulling produce out of their own soil and the maintenance was free. Being that it was a large garden, it took a lot of time to water and weed; which was on our list of chores rotated between my sister, brother and me. Sure we complained when it was our turn because running around or playing cops and robbers on our bikes was infinitely more fun. But digging around in the richly fertilized soil finding earth worms and planting seeds to see them grow into things we would see on our dinner plates seared something more than just a memory into my mind. The need to have a garden became something I cannot live without.

In the spring Dad would begin the process of fertilizing the soil. He and I would load up our family’s brown hatchback Volkswagen Dasher with aluminum trash cans and head up to Wagner’s Farm to collect some “black gold”. The first time I went, I thought we were going to get milk. Yes, I’m old enough to have drunk milk that came out of a glass bottle which had to be shaken first in order to get the cream that collected at the top mixed in. Dad parked the car in front of the little store area where he went in and asked the farmer if we could take some manure. The farmer pointed in the direction of the field where the manure was and happily said, “Help yourself! There’s plenty!”

We drove onto the seemingly endless field as the dusky deep periwinkle sky still offered some light for the work at hand. Dad popped the hatch, took the trash cans out and began to fill them. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the idea of bringing home cow poop slowly began to sink into my little naïve head. Over the years I actually enjoyed to help turn the soil over, watching the earthworms jostle wildly to get back into their dark, moist environment, while we mixed in the manure. There was a mature earthy smell that signaled promise of another great year of vegetables from our garden. I learned to respect all aspects of the work that made a garden a great success – even if it involved cow poop.

For years afterwards, we had successful crops of tomatoes, beans, carrots, all kinds of herbs and lettuce, and of course the dreaded kale and Swiss chard. If you’re wondering why I wrote “dreaded” it’s because those two leafy greens are highly nutritious for the human body and they are extremely hardy plants. Those were probably the two reasons my mom liked to repeatedly serve them as a side dish for dinner every week. We saw this repetition as unfortunate as we kids hadn’t developed the palate for these somewhat bitter common comestibles. Thankfully our backyard neighbor, Kitty, was more than happy to take some of the superfluous leafies.

My sister, brother and I depended on the garden’s goods when we occasionally got locked out of the house. Mom has ingenious practical skills and had made a cold frame from an old glass paned storm door. This gave some plants a tremendous start way before the harvest season. We’d walk home from school and find that Mom was a bit slow in getting back from the grocery store. If we were a bit hungry – no problem; we had an outdoor pantry! There was a large bunch of curly parsley, string beans and even small carrots as a quick snack.

Yes, all those positive experiences from our childhood garden carried with me into adulthood. When Alan and I were dating, we created a vegetable garden area in a very rocky and somewhat shady area at the house he was renting at the time. We tried tomatoes and cucumbers but the soil and sunlight were too poor to produce what I had been accustomed to as a child.

The house we bought and now live in had a small garden much to our delight. The year we got married, we planted seeds and starters before we left for our long honeymoon. When we got back, it had grown jungle style and we practically needed a machete to get through the plants that had grown waist high in three weeks.

When the weather begins to warm up to 60 degrees, I get bitten by the infectious garden bug and I’m not satisfied until the soil has been turned over and some seeds and starters are planted. It does not matter what’s high on my priority list at the time – I need to begin my garden. It is the closest thing I have to an addiction but this is actually good for me. Perhaps it’s an evolutionary process within my family genetics but whatever the case may be, the desire is so strong I cannot deny it. I am now passing on the knowledge of how important it is to grow one’s own food onto Nate. In truth, sharing the gardening experience with Nate surpasses planting by myself. I feel as if I’m somehow preparing him to survive on his own, which is the goal of every parent, right?

I thought nothing could beat the satisfaction of first plantings in the Spring. Although I’ve planted and harvested with Nate for a few years now, this past year was the best season yet in my book. Nate actually looked forward toward the planting. He stayed for hours dedicated in digging holes and extricating even the most stubborn weeds. We were both amused that the carrots we forgot to harvest in the Fall were still there growing happily until we disrupted the bed. Some of them where the diameter of the handle of a baseball bat!

When the sugar snap peas were ready for harvest, we ate a few as we picked. The look on his face as he crunched on the fresh green spheres of sweetness couldn’t have been beat by the likes of Charlie Bucket or Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. My heart swelled with joy and pride as I saw Nate had grasped the understanding I learned when I was about his age – vegetables are not only good for you but they taste the best when they come from your own garden.

Back to the Beginning

Welcome 2013! In the spirit of the New Year and fresh beginnings, and for the geek that I am, I wanted to learn more about the people who founded this country. While I try to refrain from divulging my political opinions on my blog, I feel I must share new insights I have gained from reading about John Adams and his wife Abigail.

I recently had an insatiable urge to read up on Mr. Adams. As it turns out, my husband’s family tree shares a relative with our second president. I wanted to delve deeper past my high school history knowledge and learn more about this very distant relative.

John Adams’s popular profile is short and pudgy with male pattern baldness all the while having a sulky, outspoken, snobbish attitude. After reading First Family: John and Abigail Adams by Joseph J. Ellis, I now know John Adams made tremendous sacrifices of his personal time and familial responsibilities in order to bring independence and government structure to our country which we have today. In all that John Adams did, he truly did it for the greater good of the country which ironically fueled his ego which mainly desired to be looked upon as one of the greatest American dignitaries of all time. He knew for that to happen, he had to do his job beyond the best of his ability but to the unerring truth, for justice for all people.

As I read more of Ellis’s book, I learned that John and Abigail Adams were true soul mates; the kind of stuff read about in fairy tales or romance novels. I admire John Adams for his steadfast dedication to our country’s creation but it was Abigail who bolstered him and gave him the necessary strength to drive through the icy walls of infant American democracy. Without Abigail, I don’t think John would have gone as far as he did politically. Although in the time period she lived in, she was expected to keep house and take care of family not much beyond that. Her intelligence and sharp wit would have easily paralleled and even surpassed the men her husband worked with. I believe historians are now giving her due credit. I wonder if she was given the opportunity, would she have joined the Continental Congress? If she did, the Adams story would be a completely different one and what would that have meant for our country?

Quite unexpectedly, I gained a newfound respect for Abigail. I saw great beauty in Abigail’s love for her husband in having to let him go often while remaining home. She shared with her husband a faith and personal sacrifices that in doing his job well, our country would become one of the greatest on the planet. In her day, travel was much slower so John would be away months even years at a time. They didn’t have texts, email or even phones so the time between communications must have been agonizing. Yet her love never waned. She was the ballast for the family so that John could easily sail, literally and figuratively, to wherever he needed to be.

From Abigail’s steadfastness, I have come to realize there is much strength in a woman of our day and age who decides to keep house and take care of family full time. I am not casting a shadow on women who are in the workforce full time. Often times it is financially necessary for many families to have both parents in the workforce. Some women simply want a career instead of family and I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. But I’d like to take time and wave a banner for the stay-at-home mom. I’d like to dispel the notion that stay-at-home moms eat ice cream while sitting on the couch watching tv all day. Even more so, I’d like to dispel the notion that a woman loses her strength and purpose if she chooses to put aside her professional career.

Right after Nate was born I greatly struggled with this shift in my own life – going from the corporate business world to the somewhat solitary life as a stay-at-home mom. Actually to be blunt, it was agonizing. For over a decade before Nate, I enthusiastically climbed the proverbial corporate ladder and placed high importance on my job so that it became my identity. I was well liked by my co-workers and often got slaps on the back and praises from the managerial staff that only fueled my ego and my need to excel at my job.

When I got laid off from my job and was home for the first few months alone, I found physical and emotional refreshment. When I realized I was pregnant, I had no idea of the full commitment he would need from me. Within the first six months of Nate’s life, I stood before a figurative full sized mirror and saw the naked truth of who I really was and the tower of strength that I had built myself to be was quickly beginning to fall apart brick by brick.

Being a mom, and a full time one at that, was a dream I never had. I think God allowed this to happen to me in order to break me down so He could rebuild me into someone better, not necessarily an important figurehead but a kinder, gentler and more thoughtful person that I had been. He’s got a long while to go to complete this project but it’s nothing He can’t handle.

Just as Abigail Adams did, I can take pride in being a stay-at-home mom for this fact alone: it brings essential structure to our family which provides priceless peace in our home. I know I am intelligent enough to have climbed the corporate ladder even further than I had but for me, it was eating away at the goodness in my spirit. I feel as I have been given a second chance - a new beginning. I am learning to be content to walk slowly along on this new path, allowing to be reshaped into a different person, and being stronger than ever. For there is much power in loving and caring for others.

Christmas Polish Bows

My sister and I were very fortunate to have many weekends spent at my Nana’s place when we were young. Throughout the school year and even over the summer, she would collect us in her boxy ivory Volvo on a Friday afternoon and we would embark on our 24 hour girls only time. Our visits included: two meals eating at a restaurant, watching the Merv Griffin show and a shopping trip to Macy’s department store, previously named Bamberger’s.

Once on the long flight of stairs to her upper apartment, the familiar soapy smell of the pink Caress bar in the bathroom enveloped our sense of smell like a welcoming hug. Her apartment wasn’t large by any means but to Chris and I, this was a true retreat for a girl. Her many dolls and sculptured collectible cats greeted us as did the bright warm sun that always seemed to shine through her large front window. Occasionally, she would ask us to dust and vacuum her apartment which meant the living and dining rooms. She rarely cooked in her tiny kitchen so the dining room was barely used except when we were there visiting. That was the place where she taught us the rules and strategies of her favorite card game canasta.

The conclusion of our visit would end at her restaurant of choice - the Mountainview Diner which ironically didn’t have any view of a mountain except the vast expanse of the macadam parking lot. We became so familiar with this diner over the years that it felt like going to a dear friend’s place to eat. Nana would always have coffee with a light meal unless strawberries were in season which she would order to perch atop a Belgian waffle – her favorite. We could order whatever we wanted on the menu as long as it was enough to fully fill our stomachs.

These visits were close to routine but we never considered them a mundane obligation because we loved Nana and she reciprocated with abundant kindness and generosity. She truly treated us like princesses. I am so grateful she wanted to spend so much time with us because unlike many of my childhood memories, these memories spent with her are almost completely intact.

I resist subscribing to the commercialism of Christmas for it is the simple memories of loved ones from my past who are no longer here and making new memories with the next generation of our family which I truly cherish above material things. I realize that may sound ridiculous or overly sentimental, however, over the years I have amassed a treasured collection. My mind has a virtual album of recollections I like to pick up often and look through. This time of the year holds a special memory. Although Chris and I had much fun at Nana’s, when we were summoned to go there to make Polish bows it meant serious businesses and we took it as such. Oh, she loved us so much that it was never a chore nor did we ever resent helping her.

Polish bows have a different name outside of our family. Nana’s family emigrated from Poland and consequently, without any real reason, many things were labeled “Polish” including certain idiosyncrasies of various family members. If you look up chrusciki on the internet, you can find the recipe.

By the time we would get to her house to make the Polish bows, she had the yellowy dough already prepared since it had to rest in the refrigerator for several hours. The process began with her cast iron pot and getting the oil inside it up to temperature. While that was beginning, the dough was rolled out until it was very thin. Chris usually took that task since she liked to sneak a few pieces of the raw dough to eat. Once it was satisfactorily thin, the dough was cut into long thin strips, the strips then cut again into three or four pieces each with a small slit cut in the center. The end of a piece was very gently pushed through the slit to create a knot or a bow. I would bring these over the pot where Nana supervised while I would carefully drop them in. She would cook them until puffy and slightly golden; transferring them from the oil via a fork to an unfolded brown paper bag once they were out of the oil so they could dry. The final touch included a healthy flurry of white powdered sugar.

We ended up with dozens of these wonderful treats. We were allowed to sneak a few but Nana knew that once we got the highly addictive taste of the sugary melt-in-your-mouth delight, Chris and I would have assaulted them to obliteration into our stomachs. The next day we would bring them to the large family gathering where we were met with “oooo’s” and “ahhhhh’s”. I felt great pride in that not only did we get such a reception (rather the bows we were carrying did) but that Nana chose only Chris and me to make the Polish bows Christmas after Christmas.

I never did get the recipe from Nana. Once I awoke from the stupor of my young adulthood and settled into the life I now live, I deeply lamented that I let her leave this life without endowing me with her recipe - simply for the fact of being able to actually hold a piece of the memory in my hands. Without having the real name of the Polish bows, I couldn’t even look up the recipe on the internet. And then years later as I was reading a December issue of Gourmet magazine, my heart rejoiced when I saw a picture of them complete with recipe. I immediately called Chris who shared my excitement when I told her the treasure I discovered. We made them that Christmas to share with our family and to my amazement; it was clear in everyone’s eyes that for a brief moment as Chris and I presented our surprise that the spirit of Nana was amongst us in the form of a simple delicious treat.

Foodtastic!

There’s no denying that I am a foodie. Dictionary.com says a foodie is “a person keenly interested in food, especially in eating or cooking.” That is a rather cardboard definition to the passion I know a foodie has when it comes to all things culinary. For a while the word foodie was such a buzz word that I wasn’t even sure I was one. I’ve never felt that I was cool enough to be tagged with a word that is used by the likes of Gourmet magazine. My self doubt was dismissed when some of my friends told me they get great enjoyment just listening to me describe food from either a new restaurant or recipe I recently tried. I suppose I have a passionate way of translating from taste buds to words delicious food’s absolute sensual fulfillment. Whoa…

One of my main tenets of eating the best food is freshness: just picked from the garden, right off the boat seafood or straight from the farm meat – organic when possible. Even the best grocery stores cannot compete with these unless they have some sort of co-op with local farmers and the food isn’t shipped far from its origin.

Secondly, food that is cooked in one’s kitchen cannot be compared to restaurant dishes, provided of course that one knows how to cook or whether or not one is in Italy. When cooking in your own kitchen, the obvious but important reality is that you know exactly what is going on your plate. One of the reasons I enjoy cooking so much is it’s a fabulous and highly functional creative art that truly nourishes others who partake of the end result.

I think this is one of the reasons why I have to grow a vegetable garden every year. Since my youth year after year from a backyard garden I have picked tomatoes, all kinds of greens, beans and herbs. It’s the addictive crunch from the sugar snap peas and the teasing aromatics released from the oregano and basil plants because the garden hose accidentally brushed over them. Anyone who has grown their own tomatoes knows that summer can be defined by those large red beefsteak varieties; simply sliced and salted served unaccompanied on a plate if they make it that far. Harvesting from my tiny backyard garden brings a great sense of completeness to my heart. Perhaps this is some throwback to some ancestral gene but I know putting the work into my garden comes back to benefit me tenfold. There is also the satisfaction of bragging rights that some or all of the ingredients from a meal I’ve made came from my garden.

After Alan and I spent three weeks in Italy we were spoiled by some of the world’s greatest culinary masters. I’m not talking about well known chefs at five star restaurants listed in the Zagat guide. These literal mom-and-pop restaurants didn’t even have menus. They provided a five course meal with some pantry staples like herbs and beans but the star attractions were the ingredients that were available to them only for that season and sometimes just for a few weeks. It was like going to my grandparents’ house for a visit – relaxed with the anticipation of a culinary delight that makes you close your eyes so all your senses can be focused to the mouth and nose. This picture here shows my husband and me quite overcome with palatable pleasures. It also shows that I had several wine tastings with each course and was left fairly inebriated. It’s all part of the experience over there. Even so, with each taste my brain became infused with new recipes of my own devising by the tastes and smells of what lay on my plate.

in Castellina in Chianti, Italy

I am adamant about teaching Nate the simple act that yields huge satisfaction from planting tiny seeds in the ground that soon grow into food we eat. I know now as an adult, whether they intended to or not, my parents imparted this teaching in me by involving us kids in helping with their annual vegetable garden. So far this year Nate has harvested oregano, carrots, lettuce, and sugar snap peas. I know he enjoys it because while I’m busy making dinner and need some fresh herbs, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to go clip some if I ask. He has eaten the peas and seems to enjoy them more while standing in the garden picking them one by one rather than having them a half hour later on his plate in the kitchen.

Very slowly Nate is learning to have patience during those agonizing days it takes for the seeds to germinate and emerge from the stark soil. Sometimes during this waiting period, depending on the time of year, we’ll go to a local pick your own farm. My favorite is Phillips Farm in Milford, NJ. Drive down the country road to get to the little roadside stand where you pick up the collecting baskets and you’ll see for yourself why visually alone I love going there. This farmer clearly shares my belief that if you respect your food, your food will respect you.

It is having respect that sums it up. Respecting the environment by growing and eating locally, respecting the plants and animals that we eat who in return give us nourishment and health, and finally respecting our bodies by eating the way God intended us to.

iPad or am iMad?

Alan and I recently celebrated our anniversary. The morning of our special day appeared at first like any other weekday morning. I sleepily made it to the kitchen where I saw a box wrapped in pink flowery wrapping paper on the table. This surprise woke me up from the usual routine stupor. I read the cards. Yes, there were three. The first was a sweet traditional printed greeting card, the second was Alan’s gift disclaimer (it’s returnable if you don’t like it) and the third card’s contents will remain between my husband and I. My first thought was, “Oh yes! He got me a Kindle!”

I apologize for the following digression but I think you’ll agree it all makes sense in the end.

I got Alan a Kindle for his birthday and I think this maybe the best gift I’ve ever given him. He is an avid reader and the books he has been reading lately are hardcover and almost 1000 pages. I felt bad that he was carrying around three pound books especially when he would pack them when traveling. His computer bag would get so stuffed and heavy with books that carrying it was similar to an ancient Egyptian slave hauling a block of stone to build the pyramids. Even so, knowing his reluctance to zippy new electronic toys I bit the bullet and remembered the ol’ disclaimer “it’s returnable if you don’t like it.” Much to our happiness, he loves the Kindle.

I have debated with myself for a while now if I really want a Kindle or continue reading the old fashioned way. I’ve been on the fence for a while because I actually like the smell of old books. Unless Amazon comes up with a scratch and sniff sticker or some kind of air freshener attachment that emanates the smell of aging paper, I’m not sure if reading from a Kindle would satisfy and complete my book reading experience. Another reason I’m apprehensive is most of the books I read are from the library; a megatropolis of geriatric book smell. Ahhh! The library is also one of my favorite hang outs so it would totally cramp my style to download books from home.

Previous to my giving the Kindle to Alan, I asked him if he would be interested in one. He emphatically stated why get one when the iPad does the same thing in color and it can surf the web. The practical person that I am I couldn’t part with $500 for a frivolous web surfing tablet when we already have iPhones not to mention I could buy a laptop that does so much more for around the same price. Buying the Kindle for him was for me part experiment and part surviving in a world of gift giving cluelessness.

And now I will continue with the point of my story.

As soon as I tore the wrapping paper, I saw the white box and knew exactly what was gifted to me. I wonder now if Alan was conducting his own experiment with me as I had done with him with the Kindle. I had mixed feelings as I stared at the plain box featuring a picture of what was inside. Nate wanted me to tear off the shrink wrapping but I wanted to wait until Alan got home from work. I began to methodically calculate throughout the day all the possibilities of how exactly I would use an iPad. Using my logic, I couldn’t justify owning one.

When Alan got home from work, there was a slight awkward moment of thanking him for a great gift that just about anyone on the planet would love to have to telling him that I’d rather have a laptop instead. I felt like the infamous Veruca Salt – spoiled, bratty and completely ungrateful. Had I gone completely mad rejecting possibly the best digital toy of the early 21^st century? The jury is still out on that one.

This whole situation didn’t end without my gaining tremendous knowledge though. After I asked Alan if he wouldn’t mind making good on his gift giving disclaimer by returning the iPad and replacing my old laptop with a new one, the look on his face told me volumes. He asked if I would use it a little as there was a grace period before it became unreturnable to the store. This was his disguised plea - his wish that I would bond with this metallic pet if I stroked it and gazed at it enough. Unfortunately for him, I was solid in my decision and he took it back.

The experiment may have failed for Alan but I now know without a doubt that if I give a particular someone an iPad, it will be received wholeheartedly. When that day comes, I will for the second time in our years together have gotten my husband a gift that he really wants and likes.

For Whom the Doorbell Tolls

For those of us who were there, it was a day none of us wanted to face. It was the last day that our family had ownership of the house my grandparents lived in for over 50 years. It was the house my mom grew up in and continued to visit consistently throughout her adult life. It was the house my siblings and I visited so often it was as familiar and comfortable to us as our own home. Many summer picnics, holidays and small family gatherings when out of town relatives came to visit all happened there. We knew on that day, when the rental moving truck was stoically parked in the driveway ready to take away within a matter of hours the concrete memories that were made over decades, there would be an undeniable end to an era in our family.

Almost a year and a half ago my grandfather, who all of us in the family affectionately called Pop-pop, lost his battle with cancer. He was from the old school, born and raised in Brooklyn, NY by Italian immigrant parents during the Great Depression. He enlisted in the US Army and served during World War II. He met my grandmother while stationed in the Philippines and took care of her all his life until his body wouldn’t allow him to any longer. He was a paradox of father and grandfather. His children described him as tough, strict and even mean when they were growing up. As his granddaughter, I knew him as funny, a great story teller and the best cook I have ever known.

After Pop-pop died, Nana lost interest in life. Her happiness was pinned securely to the man she loved for over 60 years. Her lackluster showed not only in her actions but her entire being. I saw firsthand that two humans can truly be one and when one of them is gone, it is similar to a butterfly that has lost one of its wings. Although well cared for, the life in her dwindled away as her sadness turned into depression which eventually claimed her.

In earlier and happier times, my mom would bring us frequently to their split level house painted in Federal Blue. It was such a treat as a kid to race up the front steps and ring the doorbell. When we were young, Nana was the one who always answered the door. Smiles met with smiles followed by hugs. She dearly loved us all but the youngest of the lot was always her favorite. In this way, we were all her favorites at one time. This affection was carried forward when as adults we started to bring her great grandchildren for a visit. At this point in time, she was too weak and frail so Pop-pop would make the trip up the stairs from the den if he wasn’t cooking something in the kitchen.

The ringing of that doorbell had evolved over time into a different expectation on either side of the door. For us, we awaited the voluptuous smell of a concoction Pop-pop was in the midst of creating on the stove or in the oven. Perhaps he didn’t know who was on the other side of the door but he hoped they came with a good appetite. His happiness didn’t always stem from the same source that Nana’s did when seeing us on their doorstep but it was very apparent that he got great enjoyment in tantalizing our taste buds and filling our stomachs. We knew we hit the jackpot when we would walk over the threshold as he casually said over his shoulder he had spaghetti or pot roast. Actually, he appeared to be casual but he certainly had one eye trained on us to see our excitement.

On that last day at my grandparent’s house, I walked in and much of the familiar furniture that made that house theirs was gone. The large bookshelf that held framed photos of my cousins taken almost two decades ago and albums of Dean Martin was given away. The over-sized dining room table on which so many birthday cakes had graced upon it while the little ones played under it, had met the fate of being sold to a total stranger. The house now seemed incredibly small even though most of its contents had been taken out.

We began to remove the last pieces of furniture. I keenly focused on the work at hand instead of the fact that it was close to sacrilege that I was removing the master bedroom furniture that had been there my entire life. I watched as my brothers and uncle moved the heavy pieces into the truck. I felt that buoyant feeling one gets when accomplishing a task and seeing the end result. In my ephemeral confidence, I flippantly rang the doorbell and then something most unexpectedly happened. A tidal wave of profound sadness washed over me and soaked me to the bones.

Within seconds the forgotten moments that happened decades ago, that only Nana had dearly held onto until her very last breath, now pierced my heart with a massive sense of loss. I thought of how many times I rang that bell in my life and the constant was that Pop-pop or Nana would always be there to answer that door and I would feel right at home. For the first time since their deaths, I realized that I would never experience those warm feelings again. The comfort in knowing they were always there vanished.

I bit my lower lip hard to keep my emotions in check so no one would see how vulnerable I was in my sadness but remembering my grandparents’ enduring love that I was fortunate to have experienced over my entire my life was too much for me to resist. I stood in the upper hallway smelling the familiar smells of soap, the now shabby linens that as a child had slept on and the dust that was probably resident there for half my life. It was on that day of recognizing the actual loss that I refused to acknowledge previously, I mourned my grandparents with tears streaming down my cheeks and an ache in my chest. My mom found me immobilized in my cocoon of sorrow and wrapped her arms around me, quietly knowing full well why I was crying. I finally met her in the sadness of acknowledging the loss of loved ones that were historically steadfast figures in our lives.

As we loaded up the final pieces into the truck and I walked for the last time through the front door of the Federal Blue house, I realized what we had actually done on that day. This house, which had been such a large part of four generations in my family, had been a time capsule and we had dismantled it. Now that the owners of that house were no longer alive, the memories they had of us were no longer treasured as they had been so carefully remembered over all those years.

Today in an age where many things are disposable, even relationships, this recent experience affected me enough to pause and reconsider how I live every day, what I spend my time on and most importantly how I treat others. The love felt when one is treasured by another should never been taken for granted or even be expected with a sense of entitlement. What is consistently here today may not be here tomorrow and if there is someone you love, treasure them every day as if tomorrow was the end of time.

Sock It To Me

Unlike last year when Winter decided to enter as a flamboyant dancer in a Carnivale parade, this year she has played the coquettish flirt.  I’m not complaining because I enjoy warm weather and become quite sad when the sun skips lowly over the horizon making the days shorter and cooler.  To keep warm during the winter months, I sometimes follow the patches of sun around the floor of my living room with my cat.

No matter how warm the thermostat says my house is during Winter I am perpetually cold.  It doesn’t matter what I decide to wear each day because I end up covering up my outfit with the same ol’ fleece jacket, sometimes a hat but always my trusty slippers are added.  I could probably get by without wearing the fleecey or the hat but there is no chance that socks won’t be on my feet from the earliest part of my day.  Alan can begin a cold day with a white tee-shirt and put his socks on later.  Nate has to be told as we are leaving the house to put on some socks before putting on his shoes.

In our society, if one decides not to wear socks it isn’t against the law.  Although in my lifetime, I have seen some toes that really shouldn’t see the light of day nonetheless be seen by any other human – criminally hideous.  Socks are the underwear for feet.  Could one go without them a.k.a free bird or in this case free toes?  Sure, but I guess it all depends on where an individual is with their comfort level.

It has been in style for women to wear pants with flat shoes and no socks.  When I see pictures of this in catalogs for winter fashion, I roll my eyes at the impracticality of this.  I’d like to meet the five foot nine inch, 100 pound model that wears a flimsy outfit and isn’t shivering from being chilled to the bone while it's 30 degrees outside.  Perhaps numbness sets in and feeling anything isn’t a problem.  My body has some natural insulation (cellulite) on it along with layers upon layers of clothing that mimic the neck to toe coverage of the Victorian era and it still seeks more warmth.  For me, practicality wins over being stylish.  Uh oh!  Does that mean I’m getting old?

Recently as I was running errands I noticed a young woman wearing flats with no socks.  Outside it was barely 20 degrees and the wind was brutal, challenging any humidity in the air to become snow.  Her jutting ankle bones looked as if they need to be hugged by a pair of Uggs or even leg warmers.  I wanted to ask her, “Can you feel your feet?  I have on thick socks with sneakers and can barely feel mine.”  Could you imagine if a stranger walked up to you and asked you about your feet?  Obviously I have and pepper spray came to mind.  With that, I kept my thoughts to myself but shook my head to show outward disdain.

Aside from wearing socks to keep warm, I CANNOT bear to step on crumbs, lint, dirt, etcetera with my bare feet inside my house.  Socks and slippers are precious necessities to protect me from this terrible discomfort.  There was a month where I was without slippers because I wore the soles off my old ones.  This was a tragedy of epic level.  It may correlate as going to a Dunkin’ Donuts and finding out they don’t have any coffee and won’t for a week.  Yes, it was that bad.  On mornings as I would go into the kitchen to start breakfast, my eyes would nervously dart around the floor spying bits of biscuits, dried rice or, please not kitty litter!!!

Recently I joined a Pilates class.  When the instructor said we were going to have to take our socks off, I thought it was the most incredulous statement I had heard this year.  I don’t even take my socks off at home except to shower.  Why would I take them off anywhere else?  Fortunately, I anticipated the no sock command and was able to reconcile myself into doing what she asked by giving myself a pedicure before the class.  While we commenced leg lifts, I admiringly looked at my perfectly painted toes.  I successfully tricked my brain that a little bit of style actually can trump uncomfortable ambient temperatures.

The Stay-At-Home Holiday Fashionista

When I got my first office job, I was thrilled that I had ample opportunity to dress Melrose Place style.  I loved wearing suits, tailored clothes and high heeled shoes.  Once I became a stay-at-home mom my fashion sense faded along with my old pair of blue jeans which are now practically white.  Actually the jeans I was wearing for a while were my mom's cast offs.  (Bet you didn't know that, Chris.)

Now that I am finally back at pre-pregnancy weight albeit my shape is not what it used to be, I can now fit into my old clothes comfortably.  My usual look is a plain collarless knit shirt, long or short depending on the season, and a pair of jeans with plain flats or sneakers.  I wear these for practicality, economy and comfort.  That’s my personal mission statement and how I roll.  I don’t see the need to wear the latest style mainly because there is no pressure to dress to impress.  Dry clean only clothing with heels doesn’t work well at the playground or when doing chores around the house.  Most stay-at-home moms know what I’m talking about. (Don’t you?!)  The hair gets put in a ponytail, maybe makeup and a matching top with bottoms and sensible shoes.

It is this mindset that drives my mom and my sister up a wall, especially when I have an event to go to.  I admit that when I open my closet door, there isn’t much in there that is eye catching.  When Alan’s company holiday party approaches, I venture to discount department stores to see what the latest fashion statements are.  This year I had a double whammy – high school reunion and a holiday party.  Oh boy!

My game plan was to visit the discount department stores to see what I could find.  If nothing turned up, begrudgingly off to Macy’s and the mall where I was sure to put a dent in my wallet.  I was pleased when I found the sleeveless sequined shirt in my size right off the bat.  I grabbed it and moved on to find something to put over it as well as other outfit options.  My heart skipped two beats when I saw the portrait collared  fitted jacket. Next to it was a fully sequined dress or tunic.  I grabbed them too along with a pair of leggings.  I felt like I was reliving my childhood playing dress up.  Before going into the fitting rooms a.k.a The Evil Rooms of Stark Truth, I grabbed some heels so I could get an idea of the full dressed up look.

When I put on the sequined tunic, it seemed to be a little too long to put the leggings underneath so just put on the heels and with a deep breath hoped that I could summon the look of Marilyn Monroe, brunette style.  Let’s just say that the dress would have been a definite yes fifteen years ago and leave it at that.  I told this to the woman monitoring the dressing rooms and she sincerely apologized as if my aging was her fault.  I let her take the blame.  The woman in the stall next to me must have been having the same experience I was because I heard a lot of huffing and she was talking to herself saying, “No, no, no.  That’s not right.”

Since the jacket, the sequined shirt and leggings fit and seemed to go well together, I decided to buy those along with a swimmingly shimmery gold shirt as another distant option to go under the jacket.  When I got home, I tried on the ensemble including the sequined shirt and was pleased with how I looked.  When my fashion advisors, Mom and Chris, came over for Thanksgiving, I proudly told them not only did I buy a new outfit for the reunion but I thought it was quite stylish.  This statement quickly snapped them out of their turkey induced tryptophan haze so I quickly went upstairs to change.  The great reveal did not elicit a response I was expecting.  Apparently the sequined shirt was too long and was unacceptably past the bottom of the jacket.  I had done some quick research on this previously and noted in ads that girls wore untucked shirts under blazers.  I was firmly told this was not apples to apples.  The sequined shirt would be fine by itself, no jacket, or wear something else under the jacket.

Disheartened at my attempt to be current with fashion, I mumbled that I had an ugly gold shirt I bought as an option but told them it looked just awful.  They said try it on.  I put it on and their eyes lit up.  I was so dumbfounded by their reaction that I asked them a few times if they were kidding me.  They said no and that this shirt was the correct length.  In my eyes, it was the same length but hey, my eyes are trained for sensible clothing and I was way out of my element here.  Another reason I was hoping the gold shirt wasn’t going to work out was I felt I spent too much money on clothes I was going to wear only a few times ever.  I wanted to return something to ease my conscience and wallet but it didn’t seem to be working out.

The day of the reunion I called Mom to confirm what time she was coming over to watch Nate and to tell her that I found a “new” shirt to go under the jacket.  She happened to be out with Chris at a restaurant.  I don’t know how but Chris heard my voice on the phone and said to Mom and loud enough so I could hear, “She just doesn’t want to wear that gold shirt!”  I excitedly explained that this shirt was bright pink and offered a punch of color to the black leggings and jacket.  They weren’t convinced.

When Mom showed up that night, I showed her the altered ensemble.  Her look was the same as Thanksgiving when I showed her the sequined shirt – not good.  This was not the type of confidence boosting I was hoping for an hour before meeting people I haven’t seen in many years.  With great reluctance, I continued getting ready for the night which included wearing the gold shirt.  For color, I wore strappy red shoes which are only meant to be worn for fifteen minutes a day.  The reunion was three hours long.  I still haven’t learned my lesson on going out with appropriate shoes.  In a small twist of irony, no one mentioned how I looked that evening which means I could have worn anything including an “old” outfit and saved money not to mention the comfort factor.

Alan’s company holiday party is a few weeks away from the time of this post.  I’m going to have to get my money’s worth out of the sequined shirt.  For some reason, I just cannot return it even though it is the most nonsensible item in my closet next to my wedding dress.  I’m thinking about reconsidering another babysitter for Nate on that night so I can wear what I like without Mom’s disapproval.   But I do find some humor in Mom and Chris’s strong repugnance of what I consider to be seemingly good fashion choices.  I also find it somewhat amusing that at my age Mom’s opinion as to what I wear still matters great a deal to me.

You Know It's Fall When...

For us in the Northeast this year the weather hasn’t been exactly a reliable source to signal what season we are in.  The chilly spring weather continued well into the summer and then the rains came.  I’m sure I heard someone hammering, taking a cue from old Noah and began building an ark.

In fact, lately it almost seems as if Summer realizes that it missed its opportunity and is now claiming October as its own.  The weather has been nicely warm.  But Autumn has arrived rather graciously and most people are welcoming it with open arms.  The nights are cooler and the showy colors of bright red, orange and even purple leaves are displayed on the tree covered hillsides of the county.   Some neighbors have tastefully decorated their homes with corn stalks, pumpkins and friendly faced scarecrows.

Even with all this beauty and charm around me there is one thing that completes the ushering in of Fall for me – Gronsky’s pumpkin pancakes.   My faithful blog readers know that Gronsky’s makes fantastically awesome home fries but what they do with their pancakes is a recipe just short of manna from Heaven.  One fork full will bring a delightful surprise of sweetness mixed with autumn spices.   Not only are they delicious but the portion size is completely filling for two people with an average appetite.  These bad boys may not pack a wallop on your wallet but I can just about guarantee they're out of the ballpark when it comes to the caloric count.
September 30^th happened to be a Friday this year.  Alan works from home on Fridays which means the family can eat breakfast together.   On this particular day we decided to eat at a restaurant and since Gronsky’s is close to home and is affordable, that’s where we went.  We sat at the table and I was prepared to order my usual when the waitress came up to the table and announced the pumpkin pancakes were beginning today.  Jackpot! 

When my order arrived, the pancake was to the edges of my plate, sprinkled with powdered sugar and topped with a melting dollop of divine spiced butter.  I usually put syrup on my regular pancakes but this was so tasty, especially after smearing that butter thoroughly all over it, that I didn’t want to adulterate my breakfast.  I can tell you that I recently tried it with syrup and was disappointed.  Alan gave me some of his home fries to make up for it and it did.

If you’re in the area, I invite you to give those scrumptious pumpkin pancakes a try.  Don’t wait too long cuz they're here for a limited time only!

The Luck of the Leprechaun

This entry is dedicated to Tara R.

It had been a tough summer.  I envy the moms who make motherhood look so effortless and carefree.  I can’t say I’m having that experience.  I love my son with all my heart but the past three or so years have been the toughest of my life.  Part of the problem is Nate’s developing brain is constantly looking for input, mostly from me, which I have little energy to supply.  I could have him leave me alone by allowing him to watch hours of TV but I don’t want that either.  I bought activity books which resulted in reading, writing and solving math problems earlier than the school’s curriculum.  The social aspect of school has helped a bit but his cerebral need is perpetual.  If that’s too wordy, try this:

Tired mom who doesn’t want to play for several hours
+
Denying son of electronics games and TV =
Son’s infinite possibilities to annoy mom

I’m not sure if that can be a mathematical equation with “infinite” in there but then again, I was never good at math.  What I do know is that the eye twitch I’ve been experiencing since August is still there but it has eased since I discovered a wonderfully easy technique that entertains Nate and changes his behavior while at the same time not using too much of my energy. 

Nate loves to write notes on 2x2 sticky pads.  Many times they say “I love you” on them.  I find these notes all around the house: the refrigerator, my nightstand and of course on the floor.  One day I saw he had written something new.  It was a note to the leprechaun asking him for all his money.  When I read this a cha-ching sound went off in my head.  If money is the motivator, why not use it? 

With a great sense of renewed hope for my mental well-being, I secretly authored a note as the leprechaun.  Here’s what it said:

To Nate,
You did not say “please”!  To get my money, you must be a good boy and keep your promises.
The Leprechaun

It should be known that just 8 hours before this, Nate adamantly stated that the promise he made to listen to his parents meant nothing.  

When Nate found the leprechaun’s note, he was ecstatic.  With the note grasped in both his hands and eyes wide with anticipation, he read it out loud to Alan and me.  He was encouraged that the leprechaun said he could actually get some money but I don’t think he fully realized what it was going to take.  It took a few days and a few notes from the leprechaun saying he was watching and was sad by the bad behavior he saw.  The leprechaun’s advice was very close to what Mom and Dad have been saying all along.  Within a week, Nate’s behavior had changed quite dramatically and for the better.  He’s five years old – I’m not looking for perfection just an attitude adjustment so I could wake up in the morning and not wish I had stayed in bed with the covers over my head.

I admit I enjoy seeing Nate run to the table with high expectation of finding more notes.  After all, he began keeping correspondence and was eagerly waiting to read the answers to his questions.  In my eyes, this translated as Nate was finally listening to me.  The first week, Nate was looking every couple of hours.  I explained that the leprechaun only comes when no one is around.  I found that leaving notes twice a day seems to maintain the peace and happiness that Alan and I so desperately want in our household. 

Nate has been so well behaved that the leprechaun has even left a small treasure from his pot o’ gold – a quarter.  This event has been epic in Nate’s young life so he has enthusiastically told many people about his fortunate experience including librarians, grocery store cashiers and the mail carrier.  He has told some of his classmates who seem cynical about it but fortunately, this hasn’t shaken Nate’s belief that the leprechaun truly exists.

Like most stages in Nate’s life, eventually he will grow out of it.  I hope it is something he just loses interest in (while still keeping good behavior) and doesn't find out that the leprechaun’s advice and treasure was only as far away as his loving mother. 

The Country Tourist Goes To NYC

Alan and I celebrated our eighth year of wedded bliss by taking a jaunt to New York City.  As we traveled towards the city, nostalgia swept us back to the days when we were dating and often times would go into Manhattan on a whim for dinner or simply walk around exploring.  The fog of remembering those lofty, romantic times lifted quickly as we were abruptly brought back to the reality of being stuck in a major traffic jam on the Pulaski Skyway.  It turned out to be a half hour time delay at the Holland Tunnel.  With a bit of frustration, I looked out my window for something interesting.  We previously talked about visiting the Museum of Modern Art but now we didn’t have to go because there was an abundance of skillfully crafted graffiti art exploring all the colors of the rainbow and varieties of shapes.   In my neck of the woods, graffiti is monochromatic bird poo stylized in different splat formations on a car – usually my windshield. 

We decided to park at the Newport Mall in Jersey City and take the train in rather than endure traffic.  The old memories washed over me as we bought tickets at the Path train station.  Actually what washed over me was the inescapable sour smell of stale air mixed with urine floating up from the guts of the underground station platform.  It was quite a contrast to the sweet smell of freshly mowed grass and wildflowers in bloom in the fresh country air I am now used to.  While we waited for the next train to arrive, I peered down at the rails and engaged in one of my favorite urban past times of finding mice and rats scurrying around rubbish.  As more people filed in talking with each other or fiddling with a handheld electronic device, the flat screens located throughout the platform area caught my eye.   No one else seemed to notice them.  While I stood there staring, mouth agape, wondering how in the world these things haven’t gotten stolen; the crowded train to Christopher Street pulled up.


I entered the car and grabbed the nearest stability bar to hold onto.  Standing over a guy playing a soccer game on his tablet, I became engrossed as if watching a real game.  Was what I was doing considered rude or invading someone else’s privacy?  What are the etiquette rules about these situations?  The fact that I didn’t have an electronic device that was actively engaging my attention made me feel out of place and outdated since my phone only does calls and texting.  I’m also not used to standing over people while trying to get from Point A to Point B.

At least I didn’t stand out fashion wise, I thought to myself.  I especially wore my patent leather, three inch heeled sexy shoes, a departure from my usual worn out ones, so I could walk around confidently and to look nice for Alan.  I should have gone with the more humble approach.  Women everywhere had on simple flip flops, probably bought from an expensive boutique but simple, not to mention enviously comfortable looking.  We had more than an hour for our restaurant reservation so we had plenty of time to walk around.  With each step, my mood boosting shoes began to lose their confidence building power and reversed into little chambers of torture.  Within fifteen minutes I was sporting agonizing blisters, making me walk like a Chinese woman who has had her feet bound into “golden lilies”.   I wondered why I chose to ignore the number one rule of visiting any city – wear comfortable footwear. 

It was at this point of my frustration when I tried to salvage the romance of the evening by remembering I had brought the GPS with me.  With a flood of relief and a low cackling laugh, I spied an empty bench in front of a closed tea shop.  As we sat, I eagerly searched for a nearby steak restaurant.  I was relieved there was one less than a mile away.  I tried convincing my brain that I could walk a mile with searing pain.  Unfortunately, the GPS was more like a cruel maze game.  It seemed to reposition our destination further away every time we thought we were getting closer to it.  Fortunately, I brought an old fashioned paper street map.  We stood there on the corner, pointing and looking confused and in my mind’s eye - complete tourists.  How embarrassing!

Alan’s phone rang and we both knew it was the restaurant telling us our table was ready a whole half hour early.  I gave Alan a look similar to that of a football coach gives to his quarterback in the fourth quarter of a tied score playoff game, one and half minutes left, third down.  Run and get that table!  Going through all this pain would be for nothing if we didn’t get that table.  He looked at me reluctantly as he weighed leaving me behind, barely being able to walk versus having to deal with my huge disappointment that we missed eating at a terrific restaurant.  Food won and he ran in hot pursuit.

Now alone, I had to pull off looking like I knew where I was, where I was going and feeling great while doing it.  That’s how I interpret the average city dweller and felt I had to put on airs to blend in.  The best thing I had going for me was I was in the Village and didn’t have to worry about men heckling me.  So using my antiquated paper map, I located where I was and saw where I had to go.  Fifteen minutes later I walked into the crowded restaurant where people were laughing while I was wiping the sweat of pain from my brow. 

As I walked to him, Alan gave me a sympathetic look like I was just hit by car and had dragged myself away from danger to safety.  I smiled, gave him a kiss and said, “Happy anniversary and thank you!”  I put away the pretense of who I wasn’t, a sophisticated city dweller, and happily accepted who I am: wife, mother and jane-of-all-things.