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.   

Rubbing Elbows and Other Parts with a Witch

I have never been the type of girl that likes to put any product on my face.  I tried to wear makeup in high school because that’s what I thought all teen girls had to do as a rite to womanhood.  During those years, I had the rare fortune of almost never having breakouts or even an occasional zit so it wasn’t truly necessary to wear makeup.  The persistent mask-like feeling of makeup became so agitating that after a few weeks, my pressed powder pancake got archived in a makeup bag with the lipgloss I stole from my mom’s coveted dresser drawer five years earlier.  I still have both products today.

In my late twenties, I read in a magazine article how young looking actresses used natural organic products or only water to clean their faces.  Water was so cheap, a.k.a. free, that it couldn’t possibly work well.  Witch hazel was mentioned so I thought I’d give it a try.  I soaked the cotton ball with the oddly medicinal smelling stuff and applied generously to my face.  There was no tingly sensation to let me know that this stuff was actually working.  After a week or two, I gave it up feeling disappointed that the witch hazel didn’t bewitch me as I had anticipated. 

Recently, my skin has taken an about-face turn.  I should have thoroughly enjoyed all those years when my skin was extremely easy to take care of.  Nowadays the hormones are partying like it’s 1999 and throwing their version of confetti which is very noticeable and revealed in the form of large, red dots on my face.  Ugh!  I tried using teen acne products but it dried out my skin, making it look older.  Not the look I was hoping for.  What’s a girl to do?!

My mom empathized with me and said I should try witch hazel with a few drops of aromatherapy oil.  She had been using it for a while as a toner and it evened out her olive skin beautifully.  Even though I had been there and done that I had to give another try.  For the most noticeable part of my body, I had to exhaust all avenues of skin care.  Within a week, my skin cleared up and seems to be balanced.  I was so thrilled by the results that I looked up witch hazel online and found it also relieves itchy insect bites.  As I’m usually the first course on the mosquito menu, I had ample opportunity to try it out.  With great satisfaction, it took the itch right away.

 I guess those self absorbed actresses were right – witch hazel does work even though it’s heinously inexpensive.  I just had to learn to let the witch work its magic.