Blondies, Gratitude and Gifts

This weekend brought my Mom's annual Halloween party complete with grownups in masks and witches hats, wild children in the haunted treehouse and screeching on the trampoline, along with way too much good food. I put a little extra effort in and edited some BH&G invitations and food labels, decorated my glass iced tea decanter with stick-on gems and a 3D skull sticker, and baked blondies and crumb cake muffins. Enjoyed making things nice and pretending for a few hours that I was Martha Stewart.

Good to see everyone too, although I really prefer a small dinner with a few friends and a chance to dig a little deeper. I'm not so great at small talk. Find myself sitting back and smiling, listening to everyone else but not really contributing too much. Some people are so good at it, telling funny stories, drawing others in, making everyone feel like a light is shining on them. I sat next to a pilot last week on Southwest and he was one of those people. He had the eighty-five year old lady on his left laughing and flirting for much of the flight and managed to chat and joke with me, on his right, as well. All while doing crossword puzzles and sudoko and texting his wife. It's a gift, that ability to connect with strangers. I wish it were something you could learn, but I don't believe it is.

The key, I think, is to appreciate our own good points and reframe it. Maybe I'm not so great at small talk, but I am very good at real conversations with someone who is close to me. You can tell me anything and I'll listen deep and true...I don't shy away from the difficult things. We each have our small gifts.

Sunday night. A good weekend behind us. Monday beckons.

But, first, a little Homeland with Ron. A little bath time for Chloe. Lunches to pack. Faces to wash. An old, loved, dog to hug.

A few moments to sit and write, and think, and be grateful, again, for the small things.

What are you grateful for this Sunday? What are your gifts?

Bloggy Boot Camp | Six Word Memoir

Drop me in a room full of bloggers in Las Vegas and what happens? My geeky, sit in the front row of the class, school girl self comes out and I'm giddily in Beginner's Mind land.

That's right, Bloggy Boot Camp. (Try to get past the name.) My head is stuffed full of learning and ideas and motivation. My business card case is filled with new blogs to check out. I met a couple of amazing women. Plus, I had a bonus day to myself to write and redesign my blog and luxuriate in a super cool bathtub. And shop a bit. And eat lobster pasta. Lucky girl, me.

My favorite part of the bootcamp was the writing workshop, and the best part of that was a little exercise called The Six Word Memoir. The classic example is

     Baby shoes for sale. Never used.

Our three minute exercise was to use this method to describe our blogs; then a few people read theirs out loud. First called on was Elizabeth, all shiny five feet nothing of her clad in a beautiful short black dress, a dazzling statement necklace, a dainty and also LARGE engagement ring, accenting the tiniest wrists I've ever seen. Her six words were a surprise...

     (T)hug Life. Part Hood. Part Good.

Well, then. Exteriors can be deceiving.

All explained later when, as the closing speaker, she led us through her personal journey to illustrate being authentic in your blogging. Working from a little stack of index cards, Elizabeth put her soul right out there in the front of the room. Authentic, honest and, most of all, wicked funny. If you are intrigued by someone who had her daughter at nineteen, married five years ago after knowing her husband for a grand total of eighteen days, who can't go five sentences without swearing, and who got huge bumps in readership from the disparate corners of Gretchen Rubin (The Happiness Project) and Tupac (yes, posthumously,) she blogs at FlourishInProgress.com. I'm not sure that I would have loved her blog without meeting her in person first, but with that talk as introduction, I'm there. This woman's got a heart under her tough girl writing style and sparkly jewelry.

So, back to the six word description. (And, yes, I raised my hand and read mine right after Elizabeth....told you I was geeky.) Here's what I came up with:

     Not a natural Mama. Trying Hard.

and

     Small moments yield meaning. Blog them.

And that pretty much sums it up, I think.

What would your six word memoir be? Share, please!

A Purple Bike and Found Loveliness

A perfect evening for a bike ride. When I was seven I had a purple bike with a banana seat and purple, white and yellow streamers hanging from the handlebars. Loved that bike. It even had a white basket with flowers on it for my stuffed animals. Before Chloe was born I bought myself another purple bike, a grown up one, with a very padded gel seat instead of the banana shaped one. I love this one too. When I ride it, I feel free. Happy and free, even just pedaling around Elk Grove. And I know I'm supposed to wear a helmet, but I don't.

Tonight, I took some photos of my favorite spots along my ride. I usually ride the exact same route...through the neighborhood, across Bond Road at the crosswalk, down the pathway along the creek to Waterman Park. I end up at my favorite street, Laguna Creek Drive, where the houses look like the Bradys could move right in. All low slung and shady. Railroad tracks behind them with the train shaking through fairly often. I ride slowly down that tree lined street, enjoying it. It's my own little bike ride reward.

I can always discover something new on this familiar trek. Tonight, it was two women walking forcefully, travel size cans of mace firmly grasped in their right hands. And a monk. Yes, a young, classic looking monk, robe and all, who smiled at me and said hello. He didn't carry any mace.

And always, there's Boujou. Our neighborhood mascot. This gorgeous dane hangs out in front of his house, never venturing beyond the sidewalk. He watches everyone go by, calmly, and perks up when certain comely female dogs walk by. He used to lust quite happily after Gracie. Everyone loves this gentle guy.

Another found treasure...the espalliered apple tree. I adore how it started out all perfectly coiffed and corralled and now it's growing outside the lines.

A slice of Miami. Our neighborhood being a bit schizophrenic in its housing styles, a traditional farmhouse stands next door to this beauty.

Just a shady corner of impatients and birch trees. Some years the flowers burst from the bed; this year they are a bit tame.

Therese's birdhouse tree. Gotta smile. I used to bring Chloe to sit on the sidewalk in front of this tree when she was a baby and nothing would calm her. I'm not sure that she cared about watching the birds at the big feeder here, but it certainly soothed her strung out mama.

Ah, Auntie Annie. Our one white goose in a sea of messy Canadians. She used to have a mate, before he met a sad demise at the hand of a car, only white feathers left behind for me to recreate the crime scene from. For several weeks she called for him at sunset from the middle of the lake; it was heartbreaking. But soon she crowned herself the maiden aunt of the neighborhood and now she attaches herself to goose couples and their goslings. A fierce one, Annie. Don't come near when the babies are around; she's been known to peck humans. Right in the crotch. Ouch. Lots of goslings grow into geese here, thanks to her.

A favorite little spot along the creek. Can't you picture being ten, and hanging out here all day?

An oak tree, a picnic table, shade, the creek behind. Sit for a spell.

This new bridge replaced an old rickety one a few years back. I know it's much more fashionable to like the old one, but this one is so inviting, I can't resist her. 

I love that this sign exists. I love that people really do still ride their horses here. I'm not sure if they dismount before crossing the bridge though. Did you know that before cars, horse "pollution" was a huge problem, with major battles over what to do about it? Apparently the manure was thick and deep and, I imagine, quite fragrant. And then Henry Ford came along and that problem went away.

Houses feel like people to me. This one seems like she has quite a few stories she could share.

And I always imagine the witch from Hansel and Gretel might live here. The plastic flowers in the plants make me think not...I don't believe witches do plastic.

Right here, the train is plug your ears loud. But at night, when I'm in bed, it's a lovely rumble.

Hope you had a wonderful Wednesday.

Cast Kids, Saint Laurent and a Brand New Book

This is what some of today's happiness looked like...

Cast Images' kids in the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.

So excited for Caitlin. In Paris with a Saint Laurent exclusive. Our girl is launched.

And then, to top it all off, home, making dinner, reading a brand new book by the pool (ah, the feel of opening to that first page), taking a walk with Therese, a few moments to write while I listen to Chloe in the other room narrating her gymnastics moves.

A lovely day. Grab those moments when they land.

Blogger Perks and Paparazzi Chases

Sacramento Bloggers Mixer at the beautiful Le Rivage Hotel last night. Put on some skinny jeans (a little tighter than last time I wore them!) and a cute scarf. Ended up in my trusty flat boots figuring that painful feet weren't going to help me on my mission to be outgoing. Got there a touch early because I read a great tip that I was trying out: every large party starts out as a small one. Arriving first gives you a chance to meet a few other early birds and it doesn't feel as overwhelming as walking into a big group of people you don't know. Very useful hint. And a festive cocktail doesn't hurt either.

Gorgeous hotel. I love the location right on the river and we were lucky to be outside on the patio facing the iceberg roses and the water. Le Rivage hosted the party...my first blogger perk! So I'm paying it forward with this post and a little high five for them. Everyone was very welcoming, it was a beautiful evening and we even had a special drink, "The Writer's Block," to ward off evil spirits. Yummy appetizer spread and a tour of the Presidential Suite with celeb guest stories as a bonus (Prince, Britney Spears, Natalie Cole.) The idea of paparazzi chasing Britney to the foot of the hotel driveway and being stopped short there by their one security guy was the best image of the night. Did you even know there were paparazzi in Sacramento?

Bloggers, all.

Eats

Mostly though, it was wonderful to be in a group of people with a similar passion and reason for being there. I met quite a few friendly bloggers and look forward to getting together again to share stories and tips. We're all hungry for community. And cocktails.

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The Post Where She Tries Desperately Not To Lose It.

I thought my days of hormonal swings were past but apparently not...everything seems difficult and annoying in a familiar sort of way. Myself most of all. I'm feeling like a complete failure as a mother (no patience at all), my house looks like a hurricane hit it (probably no different than it ever is) and I've definitely gained ten pounds (not.)

WHAT'S UP??

Failsafe solution that always helps a little in DIRE situations like this...a quick list of things that have gone right. (Sort of a cousin to my habit of writing things down on my to do list after I've done them just so I can cross them off. Yeah, I know, you don't need to say it.)

Harvested the basil and made pesto, now nicely stacked in my (cleaned out today) freezer.

Planted new basil and trimmed back the yard. Hosed it all down and it looked fresh and clean for a few minutes anyway.

Grocery shopped and planned the week's meals. Made bruschetta with Mom's tomatoes and my basil and oregano, along with garlic green beans for dinner. Definitely got the freezer cleaned out. Let's not think about the garbage can full of rotting, wasted food...yeah, definitely need to move past that thought.

Had a date night with Ron last night while Chloe had fun at a slumber party birthday. Nice last minute surprise. Macaroni Grill, with a coupon and a gift card (score!); got a cute pair of shoes at TJ Maxx; watched Arbitrage on our big TV. Cheaper than a movie and no annoying people slurping soda and chewing popcorn way too loudly. No movie theatre chili dog smells or cel phone conversations. All good. 

Does watching the first seven episodes of the first year of Homeland count as an accomplishment? I think it does today.

Took a walk with Therese; took Chloe to my Mom's for a few minutes to visit and do gymnastics moves on the trampoline. Got Chloe's hair washed, conditioned, combed out and braided. Did the laundry and PUT IT AWAY. Bought Mom a birthday gift and cards. Refrained from yelling at either my daughter or my husband today although I did have my moments of rather bitchy impatience when Chloe hurt her foot (on her shoe???) on the way home from Mom's. Only a few moments though, so that counts as a definite accomplishment.

Sat in my gazebo and read a book. Had lunch at Dos Coyotes and read the News and Review. Spent very little time on FB (literally, two minutes) for the whole weekend.  Bought a new toenail clipper. Hey, I'm grasping at straws here.

Mostly, I've kept my wits about me by hanging on with my fingernails. I'm here, in my jammies, face washed, kid bathed, taking a few minutes to write, finally. Trying not to beat myself up for not living up to my own expectations. Trying to just be in the moment and have it be enough. Because this is it, this moment, this day, this weekend, this life. This is it.

Sometimes, You Can Go Back.

Sometimes, you can go back.

I spent part of my day reading Joan Didion's Blue Nights, a hauntingly gorgeous book written about her daughter, Quintana Roo. Q died very young, not long after a sentiment filled wedding, and only a short time after Joan Didion's book The Year of Magical Thinking, about the year after her husband's death, was published. A prose poem, this book. All of motherhood there. The dark side of motherhood, the side that is born as soon as your baby is. The fear, unspoken, of your child dying before you do. This book is all about how you cannot go back. The horrible feeling of not appreciating the moments of your life while you are living them. And then, when they are gone, how painful the memories are, and yet, those memories are all that is left of the beloved child. Tears, yes, but, oh, so much beauty. I am such a fan.

I recently heard an NPR interview with Joan Didion and was struck so strongly with how different her speaking voice is from her written voice. In books, her words flow. She is eloquent and poetic, heartfelt and magical. On the radio she was quiet and hesitant and very shy with her words. The interview made me feel at peace. Here is someone I so admire, someone whose words I literally drown in, and she, too, isn't eloquent with the spoken word. It felt like a blessing.

So my morning was all about not going back. But my afternoon, ah, just the opposite.

I've always been a dancer. Better in my imaginings than in reality, surely, but it's always been there, along with my long legs and my arched feet and my freckled arms. I recently read a feature in Oprah's magazine on finding joy; one of those where you finish sentences with whatever first pops into your mind. I am happiest when...I am most at home in my body when... And there it was, again, dance.

Before Chloe came I was taking class regularly. Frustrated often with my lack of skill and being ten years older than most everyone in class with me, but there, still. I remember being six months pregnant, curled over in stretch class, and laughing that I'd need to take a short break because my belly was just getting too much in the way. Ah, the innocence.

Ten years later. No dance classes. I tried once when Chloe was three, went twice, but the scheduling was just too much. Whatever time I had away from her, I really needed to be at the agency. So my jazz shoes stayed in the drawer and the dancing was only in my imagination.

But today, finally, I returned. Friday I took myself to Capezio and was fitted for a new pair of jazz shoes. Groupon in hand I went right from there to Step One and took stretch class. Kim still teaches, the same teacher I loved ten years ago. The class was filled with older women, Kim's stretches had mellowed, it felt lovely. After three hours on the phone with Quickbooks tech support in India I had left work with my shoulders glued to my ears. But when I walked out of stretch, I felt reborn. Like you are supposed to feel after a good massage (which maybe I could experience if I didn't hate being touched by strangers!)

So, today, jazz. New shoes laced on, ponytail fixed. And there was Keith, another teacher I know from years ago. Keith of the lyrical movement, Keith who makes dance class seem like one unending beautiful dance instead of warmup, technique, combination. He, too, is older. He, too, seems to have mellowed a bit. But not entirely.

I was in class for three hours. Yep. Three. Three hours of bliss. Three hours of that old, remembered feeling of being at one with my body. Of focusing on what it can DO instead of what it looks like. Of looking in the mirror and seeing the dancer looking back at me, all long neck and lines and pointed feet. And it didn't matter that I fell out of my turns, that my body was clearly older. All that mattered is that I was dancing again. Sweating and reaching and living right there, in that exact moment. Right there.

For those three hours, I was home.

And the best part is that I am old enough to know it.