Leopard Print Uggs

I bought them 2 years ago at the David Z website:

http://tinyurl.com/yhdxfkg



I also love these, but NEVER at the same time.

A Stroll Down Lexington Avenue

I had just spent the afternoon at MoMA. Three and a half hours of glorious solitude with Van Gogh and Warhol. I headed over to Lexington Ave to walk the 15 blocks south to my hotel. It was cold, but sunny, and I was enjoying my walk. I had my leopard print uggs on for warmth and comfort, along with a silk scarf and stylin' beige jacket. I thought I looked New York worthy.

A good looking man in a dark overcoat and suitcase strode by me on the left. “You walk like a married woman,” he stated. Then he looked at me, smiled, and kept walking. I stopped. “What does that mean?'

He just laughed.

Explain

List

I haven't posted a list in awhile. This is 25 Things About Me, which was originally a Facebook post, but I really like it.

1. I cannot sing but know I would be an excellent back up singer.
2. When I'm away from my kids, I should miss them more than I do.
3. I spend too much time playing spider solitaire.
4. Sometimes I go to bed with my make up on.
5. I look forward to my kale/celery/broccoli stem/cucumber juice every morning.
6. I need to be less judgmental of socially inept people.
7. What did I do before TiVo?
8. I buy clothes for the life I don't lead.
9. Snow is unappealing to me even when it is fresh, fluffy and beautiful.
10. I am terrified that the cancer will come back.
11. I don't spend that much time thinking about it.
12. I'd like to be a better photographer.
13. The sound of a cocktail shaker brings me joy.
14. I love the feeling you get when you're reading a great book and can't wait to share it.
15. I can eat a bag of Lay's potato chips at one sitting and still want more.
16. Fear of failure can immobilize me.
17. I wish I had a beach house.
18. Having my younger son call me a bad influence only encourages me.
19. I can't be having a mid-life crisis unless I live to be 102.
20. Laughing is my favorite thing to do.
21. Shopping is right up there.
22. I have had to leave the room watching my adult and near-adult children interact, because I was so overwhelmed with the beauty of it all.
23. There is no one who would put up with me like my husband does.
24. Sometimes that annoys me.
25. These boots were made for walking.

Florence

So, one of the major line items in My Life Plan is to travel to Italy every October. So far, so good. I first went 4 years ago, to this cooking school in the small Tuscan village of Montefollonico. I flew into Florence, and spent 2 days there before heading south. I fell in love with Florence: the art, the food, the people. I burst into tears as I rounded the corner in the Accademia and saw the “David.” I wandered around the Duomo, marvelling in its beauty and architecture. I plunked my ass down in the Piazza della Republica, sipped chianti, and watched Italian fashion (the boots! The boots!) pass me by. Since then I've visited Pisa, Rome, Naples, Siena, Venice and many small villages (including the one my grandmother is from) in between. As I planned this most recent trip I wondered if I would still feel the same way about Florence: was it just because it was my first Italian city that I loved it so? Nope!

My second trip to Florence this past October confirmed my first impressions. I love it. And a second trip allowed me to delve a bit deeper. Of course I had to visit the David and the Duomo again. But this time I had a chance to have dinner with a Florentine resident who directed me here. Breathtaking. He also told me about this restaurant, popular with locals, off the beaten track. Can't wait to go back. Do I have to wait until October?

I'm working on it.

Wow! Almost a month!

OK, so I meant to blog whilst traveling; I even brought a little mini notebook with me, with the intention of posting photos and witticisms from Florence and Venice. Guess what? Didn't happen. The mini was annoying to use and I found myself using my time to actually explore the cities. Took photos and made notes but nothing that could be posted right away.

How do travel bloggers do it? Anyone? I fell into bed pretty late every night and was up early every AM.

Now that I am back (Wahhhh) postings to follow.

Mad Men and Me

There are many many reason for my Mad Men obsession. One is the breathtakingly masculine, bourbon swilling, Marlboro smoking, lady killing Don Draper. What is it about him that is so appealing? He doesn't breathe, he exudes. In one scene he is shoving his wife against a wall, in another he is frying hamburgers for his anxious daughter. In one scene he is the mouthpiece of morality, chastising his boss for his foolish behavior, in another he invites a stewardess to his hotel room. Likeable? Not one bit. When he is on screen, I can't take my eyes off him.

Then there is the setting, which is a character on its own: the year 1963. I was 6 in 1963. Watching the scenes involving the Draper family has surprised me by releasing dormant memories. I'm recalling events I thought I forgot. The Drapers go on a picnic in their brand new Cadillac. At the end of the picnic, Don shakes out the blanket; napkins, paper plates, soda bottles spew onto the grass. He rolls up the blanket and off they go. I remember clearly being told to just throw trash out of the car window when I was a child.

Another scene has Sally Draper, maybe 8 years old, driving a car down the road, while being instructed by her grandfather who was seated in the passenger seat. My flashback: sitting on my father's lap and steering the car while he worked the pedals. I hadn't thought about that in years. My parents were divorced and my memories of my father are complicated and not complimentary. Thinking about “driving,” though, I remember us laughing and laughing.

In a recent episode Betty Draper gives birth to her third child. Don drops her at the hospital and is told by the nurse that his work is done; he is relegated to the waiting room while Betty gets wheeled away. She is drugged to the max and wakes up with voila! a new baby boy. Since it is 1963, she remains in the hospital for more than 1 day. Don brings his 2 other children to visit, but kids are not allowed inside so there is a scene in which they stand on the sidewalk, waving up to Betty at the window holding the new baby.

I call my mother. “Did my father take me to the hospital to see you after S. was born? Did I stand down on the sidewalk with him while you stood at the window holding the baby, waving? Was I wearing cowboy boots?” “Yup,” she said. I was 3 years old.

Let the analysis begin.

Morning Cocktail

These are the ingredients for my morning juice. I TRY to do it every morning: sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don't. I especially need the infusion of alkaline today since the weekend consisted of brisket, potato latkes, challah, apple pie. Toss in the fact that 4 invited guests canceled at the last minute, causing great consternation and an excess of delicious, high fat, high fun food. Instead of nine people, there were five.

I have a Breville juicer and my concoction consists of

5 or 6 leaves of kale, including the stalks
2 stalks of celery
1 large cucumber
2 or 3 broccoli stems

Who Does She Think She Is?

I had the wonderful opportunity to view this documentary. at the Maynard Fine Arts Theatre last week. The director, Pamela T. Boll, chronicles the lives of five contemporary female artists. How does being female affect and effect making art? How does motherhood influence your life as an artist? All five of these women felt pressure to choose between other-nurturer and self-nuturer. More than one of them was accused of being selfish for taking care of her own creative, spiritual, and undeniably psychological needs.

These women's stories are alternately inspiring and heartbreaking. Relationships with significant others suffer and fail; the ones that survive seem bedrock solid. It is disturbing that these are challenges that women, in particular artistic women, still face in the 21st century.

I was struck by a couple of moments in the film:

*Allison's mother tearfully supporting her talented daughter's tenacity and dreams despite the obstacles placed in her way. Everyone should have a mother like that.
*Maye's story about the custody battle for her sons brought about due to the time spent on her art.
*The vibrancy of Camille's paintings. This matched the energy and generosity of her personal story. I love Camille.

Please see this movie if you can. It speaks to the creative urge in all of us, whether we consider ourselves artists or not.

Phil

I first saw Phil in the chemo infusion room last spring. I thought he looked kind of familiar, in that way people do when you live in a small town. He caught my eye, gave me a quick nod, then went back to his book while the drugs hopefully worked their magic. You learn etiquette quickly in the chemo room: some of us are talkers and some of us are loners. Phil, like me in the chemo room anyway, was a loner. I pulled out my own book and settled in for my 4 hour infusion. Then Phil's wife walked in.

I hadn't seen her for awhile but knew who she was immediately. We each have a son the same age and a few years ago, she and I commiserated on the bad teacher our boys were stuck with. We spent a year as more-than-acquaintances-not-quite-friends. I ended up pulling my son out of school just before the end of that tumultuous year; they toughed it out. I hadn't spoken to her in about 7 years but would see her from time to time taking a walk on sunny mornings after the school buses had picked up the kids.

She came over and sat with me for bit. I told her my story. She told me Phil's. He's doing great, she said. Treatment's almost over. Good news! I exclaimed. You must be so relieved. Good-bye, good luck. I didn't see either of them after that day.

Phil died last week.

Some days, it is harder to be grateful than others.

Pro / Con List

Subject: Having J Home Full Time Starting This Fall

With homage to Rory Gilmore, queen of the Pro/Con list



PRO:

I'll have someone to watch trash TV with: Kardashians, Project Runway, Top Chef, endless Gilmore Girls reruns

She laughs at my stupid jokes

I laugh at her stupid jokes

She will honestly tell me if my outfit sucks

We can practice our karaoke act nonstop

I can worry about her in person


CON:

Her room remains disgustingly dirty with no end in sight

She loves to bake and there are always brownies, cookies, or cupcakes around

She swipes my stuff like lens solution, mascara, conditioner, and vodka but never replaces any of it

She comes home at all hours of the night and leaves all the lights on

I can worry about her in person

Summer Reading

I never really understood the concept of “summer” or “beach” reading. It's supposed to be lighter, fluffier, take a little less brain power to get through the pages. But, isn't summer when we have more time to read? My schedule, anyway, tends to be a bit looser. I can read on the deck, at the beach, in the airplane, waiting at the airport, on the ferry, in the hammock (if I had one). I can catch up on the stuff I didn't have time to read during the winter when Mondays are for this and Wednesdays are for that and both this and that require extensive driving time with me behind the wheel.

Over the past few years, I have read Grapes of Wrath, Anna Karenina, and The Time Traveler's Wife all over the summer. All meaty and heavy and long. It seems to make more sense to me to read more serious stuff over the summer because when you emerge it's, well, summer. Blue skies shining on me. Nothing but blue skies. I can reflect on the meaning of life and love and literature without slitting my wrists because it is 4 degrees outside and blustery and I have to get in the car and drive somewhere. Instead, Anna throws herself under the train and yes it is tragic and beautiful but man, this peach is delicious and I get to go out to pick up groceries in the Miata with the top down. All in the same afternoon.

I just finished Richard Russo's new book, That Old Cape Magic. I like Russo's writing a lot and this one doesn't disappoint. It tackles all the biggies: love, marriage, childhood, death. Some of the scenes are sidesplittingly funny, yet you feel a bit guilty for laughing because the situations are not that funny to the characters. I love that.

Gotta figure out what's next in the reading queue.

Time Suck

I hate passing up opportunities to waste time and here's a good one. First kid introduced me to this. It has all kinds of fun quizzes and challenges you can take, which help with the delusion that you're not REALLY squandering your life away, you're learning. Screw the laundry and the weeding of the garden. Delay the workout.

First kid informed me that he now knows 82% of world capitals. Impressive. He also devoted a fair amount of time this summer to solving this blast from the near past. His best time is 4 minutes.

I've taught him well.

Instant Gratification

I finally broke down and bought an Amazon Kindle. Yeah, I know.

When I first heard about it, I wasn't interested at all. I spend enough time in front of screens, I thought. I like that new book smell too much, I thought. Serious readers and writers need stacks and stacks of hardcover books on shelves, under shelves, under beds, piled on the floor, I thought. Then, I held one.

So pretty and shiny.

It's only 1/3” thick and weighs next to nothing. I'm not good at estimating weight so I'm going with it's pretty light. It holds over 1,000 books. That's a lot. You can download newspapers and magazines, too. I began to imagine getting on an airplane with just the Kindle, instead of half a dozen paperbacks and magazines. More room in the carry-on for regulation-size lip gloss and moisturizers. No more toting around huge clunky European or Caribbean guide books – voila: it's all on the Kindle! I began to imagine tossing the Kindle into my bag while assuming the role of chauffeur for Third Kid so I'll always always always have something to read while waiting for him to finish his classes or driving lessons or whatever.

Best of all: my desire and longing for instant gratification would be fulfilled. Interested in the new Richard Russo? I can have it in under a minute! Kinda bored with Three Cups of Tea? I can switch to the latest issue of The New Yorker! I can have what I want when I want it? Sign me up and ship it overnight, please.

I love it.

Learners Permit

You'd think it would get easier with the third kid, but it doesn't.

I've learned a lot (mostly through mistakes) in my attempts to raise 3 healthy, happy, eventually independent children. With the oldest, I breast fed for 12 months, carried around a food mill to grind carrots for baby food, had plug protectors and toilet seat locks, rocked him to sleep every night, limited TV watching to Sesame Street only. With child number two, I breast fed for 6 months, tried to remember to pack the Gerbers, yelled “stay away from the outlets” when she became interested, gave her a pacifier at night and allowed the Disney Channel. By the time child number three rolled around, reality ruled. He had a bottle at 3 months and was lucky I remembered to feed him at all. I made sure the toilet bowl was clean before he splashed in it. A gate was put on his bedroom door so that if he didn't go to sleep right away at least he stayed in his room. “Thomas the Tank Engine” was on non-stop.

But sitting in the passenger seat while your kid drives with a Learners Permit doesn't get easier with the third one; it is still Ultimate Torture. My foot constantly slams on the imaginary brake pedal. I dig my fingers into the seat each time he makes a left turn. I scream “mailbox mailbox mailbox” as he hugs the side of the winding country road. Just like I did with the first two kids. When I take a step back and think about Third's driving, it is actually quite good. Earlier this week, he merged onto a highway, changed lanes, make a difficult left turn and negotiated a traffic-packed rotary. Quite confidently, at that. And despite the fact that his lunatic mother was hyperventilating in the passenger seat.

His older siblings warned him: Don't drive with mom. She'll make you crazy. Dad's better at this. The reality of the situation is that mom's schedule has more flexibility than dad's and the only way to learn how to drive is to do it.

We go out on the road again today. My martini better be ready upon my return.

The Upside of Not Going to Puerto Rico This September

I was planning to go to San Juan this September with friends; we had to postpone due to the very real possibility of a fantastic job offer for Paul. Here's the positive spin in list form, of course.



I can stop doing a fucking extra 100 crunches a day.

It helps create positive thinking that Paul will get the new, fabulous job.

We will save money by not buying a new bauble for Craig.

We will save money by not buying gallons of margaritas for me.

We will save money by not buying gallons of sunscreen for Paul.

I will save money by postponing the always pleasant bikini wax.

Truman and Jackson will be happy you are home.

We can scream “My va-jay-jay hurts” whenever we want – we don't need no stinking zipline.

It's better that I don't run into Armando in my current state of mind.

We will figure out another way to glow in the dark that doesn't include Vieques. I've got ideas.

The Line for the Bathroom

I was in San Francisco visiting with friends last week; on Saturday, we spent a glorious day at the Farmers' Market. We wandered for a couple of hours testing olive oil and eggplant and peaches. We wondered at the freshness of the melon and the olives, and the friendliness of the farmers. The sun was shining and our east coast selves seethed with envy at this abundance. The snacking make us hungry; so we sought out lunch.

I finished my roasted tomato soup and needed to visit the ladies room. As I approached, I was dismayed at the line. Again? A long line at the bathroom? It was gorgeous and sunny out and I did not want to be in a line in the dank interior. No choice, though. I took my place and noticed the woman in front of me.

She was wearing a familiar shirt: American Cancer Society Relay for Life. Purple print on white. “I was in the Relay earlier this year,” I told her. “This is my first Relay as a survivor,” she said. “Me too,” I told her. Our eyes locked and that indescribable moment happened; it's happened to me before. I know what you are going through and you know what I am going through. Relief, and the need to talk. I then found out that the Relay was occurring there and then in San Francisco. She was taking a quick bathroom break. When you're going through chemotherapy, a bathroom line is a joy. It's real life.

I never found out her name. We acknowledged the beauty of the day. We each have 2 sons and 1 daughter. Isn't every day we are here magnificent? We walked out of the bathroom together.

“What's your name,” she asked. I told her. “With a 'Ch?' I will light a luminaria in your honor.” The sobbing begins; it happens often. I'm still not used to it.

A long bathroom line can be a good thing.

San Francisco

I am leaving on a trip to San Francisco with friends this week. I've just started thinking about what to pack: Can I do it all in a carry-on (answer: no, not with my lotions and potions and general liquid requirements), how many electronics cords do I need (ipod charger, camera charger, cell phone charger, kindle charger), how many pairs of glasses (regular eyeglasses, prescription sunglasses, regular sunglasses, sport sunglasses, reading glasses), and oh god the shoes (for airplane, for walking, for running, for nightime).

I'm also remembering the last and only time I visited San Francisco. It was 11 years ago and we flew into the city on our way to a long weekend in Sonoma County. That time in Sonoma was the first time I ever thought I could live somewhere other than the Boston environs. (That thought has changed dramatically over the past few years. But that's a whole different post for a future time.) It was late September and the northern California nights are what I remember most. One night, we attended a barrel tasting at the Rodney Strong wine vineyard. The sky was not quite black even at 10 PM; layers of blue mingled with the nightime stars. Our host, hoping to sell us oodles of cases, took us away from the barrels and the people and up among the vines themselves. We plucked grapes and popped them into our mouths reveling in the way the juices flowed down our chins. I had a white top on and didn't care one bit when cabernet-colored stains dotted the front, right around 2 of the buttons. We didn't buy oodles of cases but we bought a few.

We only spent a few hours in the city itself on our way home; we drove up and down some hills, parked with great difficulty near Fisherman's Wharf, took some photos of cable cars and called it a day. I'm glad to be going back.

Shopping List for a 21st Birthday Barbecue

60 hamburger patties
20 gardenburger patties
80 rolls
10 pounds of yukon gold potatoes
1 jar hellman's mayonnaise
1 large bottle Ken's Italian Dressing
2 bunches of parsley
1 extra microphone for the Karaoke machine
½ keg of beer
2 gallon bottles of Bombay Gin
6 liters of tonic water
10 limes
6 liters of Coke
6 liters of Sprite
25 shot glasses
120 plastic cups, various colors
100 red napkins
20 dill pickles
6 bags Lays potato chips
6 bags ptretzels
2 bags Hershey's kisses
250 twinkle lights
100 blue and red cupcakes
A freezer full of ice
1 bottle pink nail polish
4 bags marshmallows
10 oversized Hershey bars
4 boxes graham crackers
firewood for the firepit
1 secure container for car keys

A List for Monique

Things Monique Needs to Know Now That She is Fifty


1.Don't show this to Donna.

2.Talking to yourself has always been normal; now answering yourself is.

3.You will never, ever be carded again.

4.It is fine to use a man's nose hair trimmer.

5.You have to start having dinner at 5:00. It's the law.

6.In a pinch, you can use your breasts in place of a swiffer mop.

7.You can never, ever wear a halter top again. (see #6)

8.Swearing is more fun than ever.

9.Think you didn't give a shit before? Now, you won't give a shit x 50.

10.The monthly meeting really is in Paris. See you on the 5th.

More on piccole tazze.

It's the idea that the small everyday stuff is what keeps you going. The stuff that slips by and disappears like a puff of smoke if you're not paying attention. It's the phone call from a friend just to say hi, stopping to notice the way the sky looks just before the thunderstorm, the random conversation you have with the lady in the pick up truck while putting gas in the car, the compliment on the earrings. Piccole Tazze. Small cups.

We tend to focus on the big mugs, I think. Waiting for stuff to happen. Can't wait til Thanksgiving, the trip out West, the big birthday. This stuff is good, too, especially the trip part and I want to write a lot about that but if we expend all our energy on the BIG stuff we miss real life. And how many times have you felt post-vacation, post-holiday, post-mug let down?

Piccole tazze, by their nature, never let you down.

I think he'll be OK

When my oldest child left for college, I wandered around his empty room sobbing. He was in a special program for freshmen which sent him off to London for his first semester. His dad drove him to JFK; I stayed home. I knew I couldn't say goodbye to him in the airport without becoming a blubbery mess. As I wandered, I wondered: Had I done enough to prepare him to cope in the world? The life of a college student is not exactly the “real world,” I know that. But he would be off my radar, with an ocean between us. At the time, he was a private person and emails and phone calls were rare. He tried to reassure me that he was fine and if he needed anything he would let me know. I backed off, but I didn't like it.
By late September, his bedroom was transformed. By extension, so was I. Closets were cleaned and cleared and rugs were shampooed. I started collecting paint chips to replace the decade old Little Boy Blue walls. In my mind, I rearranged and replaced furniture. Lists of CDs and books were made: What can be tossed? What should be saved? I didn't want to do too much too soon as I knew he would be home in December and I didn't want him to feel displaced, but I enjoyed just standing in the doorway, admiring the clean and non-adolescent smell.
As part of my transformation, I stopped automatically choosing his favorite foods while at the grocery store. No more Sesame Blue Tortilla Chips and hot salsa for the cart. Back in late August, right after he left, the sight of Amy's Cheese and Bean Enchiladas in the frozen food case would cause my eyes to tear up. I was able to cruise by the glass case display without even a glance by mid-Fall. I began to appreciate that there were no more fights over who could take the car on a weekend night. He always claimed he had first dibs because he was the oldest; this argument didn't fly with either his younger sister or me. Now, use of the car was just between my daughter and me so there was only one kid to argue with. Progress.
In November, the family flew to London for Thanksgiving weekend. He looked different: new haircut, rough beard. He confidently showed us around the city while navigating the Tube and he introduced us to new friends. He chose the restaurants for dinner. Our daughter spent a couple of nights in his dorm, showing us a glimmer of life with two kids out of the house. We found out later that the girls in the dorm wanted to take his younger sister out to clubs at night; big brother wouldn't let them. At the end of our visit I wasn't saddened by the separation – quite the opposite. I was delighted at the confident, self-assured young man who seemed to transform after a mere three months away from home.
A funny thing happens when you know your child is happy and healthy and out of the house, more or less on his own. You begin to enjoy it. You begin to get used to the relative quiet, the lower grocery bills, the smaller pile of laundry. You don't have to wait up at night until you hear the garage door open and close. You begin to realize that no news is good news. You even may begin to think your job is done.