Swooning

Short People

At birth, I weighed in at 5 pounds, little. Considering my mom smoked until she was pregnant (stopping while pregnant—ahead of her time), my dad smoked nonstop and had daily evening cocktails (note the plural), and my mom gained a total of 15 pounds (as directed by her male doctor, as were all women at the time)…5 pounds should be considered a coup.

I am short. Until a few years ago, I was 5 feet and one half of an inch and aways said there would be a huge party if I reached 5’1″… which at 50 I did. I am now 5’1″ thanks to good posture and my spine no longer being constricted from sitting at a desk all day. I use a standing desk, it has changed my height, back comfort, and my life…I did not have a party.

Most of my life I have been the shortest or the second shortest in every situation. My best buddy Deirdre was shorter, but she moved, then Angela was shorter but we weren’t always in the same class, then Noel was shorter…and that is still the case, she measures in at 4’11”. Noel’s orange Volkswagen Bus had blocks taped to the gas pedal so she could reach it. After writing that sentence, I realize the insanity of that situation. Memories. When you are short you always remember who was shorter.

One of my closest friends growing up was a giant among women, or at least a giant compared to me. Elena. Elena and I could play Barbies…for hours. She also had “The Sunshine Family”. We would have them all hang out together, which is kind of like Peter, Paul, and Mary hanging out at the Playboy Mansion. She had very fit parents, they often noted how tiny I was in front of her, I am not sure she appreciated the comparison, since being tall was not really her fault. Elena was just perfect to me, we could play Careers, Clue, Monopoly for hours. We would explore her very 1975 home, running our fingers over the velvet 3D wallpaper, being very careful not to get caught…her mom didn’t want us to “ruin it”. We took dance together, ballet, tap, and jazz. One year in tap we did the “Dance of the Planets”. I was Pluto, the littlest planet of all, with a solo entrance that I remember to this day. Heel toe, heel toe, all the way in from the wing. All the other planets awaiting so we could flap (or as we say in Queens, fa-lap) ball change together. I was crushed when Pluto’s planetdom was taken away…Pluto will always be a planet to me. Elena moved away when I was around 10. I think Elena and Deirdre moving actually had a big effect on my life, but that is a different story.

I never minded being short until Randy Newman. Currently a fan…his Toy Story songs mean everything to my family, my son has Woody and Buzz dolls on his childhood bed to this day. I used to hate Randy Newman. The song Short People is a script on how to torture short people. Short people got no reason; they got little hands and little eyes; they tell great big lies; they wear platform shoes on their nasty little feet… what the HELL IS WRONG WITH THS MAN??? Standing in height order, waiting for our cue to enter the church in our long white robes…the whole children’s choir singing that demeaning song…on a loop. Me, smiling as they sang, because mom taught us: Do. Not. React. The tall blonde singing while patting my head like a puppy, others using my head as an arm rest…kids being kids, I don’t blame them…I blame Randy stupid Newman.

Song aside, I like being short. I fit into places. People are actually very nice to short humans, especially men, the let’s compare hand size is a common pick up line in a bar, “oh man, look how much bigger my hand is than yours, my hands are huge compared to yours”…blah blah blah, all about them, it never worked. In grocery stores strangers get things down from shelves for me, plane and theater seats are comfortable, climbing on plane armrests to put stuff in the overhead usually ends with someone getting up to help…actually people help in this situation less and less…people are not as nice as they used to be…that’s ok, it all gets done.

The summer I was 16, my childhood friend Elena appeared at the club. She knew who I was right away since I have looked exactly the same since I grew hair at two. Anyway, we hugged, we smiled, we reminisced, and…we were exactly the same height. My giant buddy had just peaked early. There we were, eye to eye, a lesson learned…who you are at 9 is not who you are forever. A good thing to remember as my beautiful nieces and nephews, who I rocked in my arms, tower over me…every single one of them.

The way I see it…

The best part of going to art school is learning that there are ten billion solutions to every problem. Every solution has its pros and cons, some focus on solving the problem at a basic level, others take things a step or two, or twelve, further. Some try and appease the masses, others focus on a select few. Some look lovely at first glance, but are not user friendly…others seem plain, but are extremely well thought out and very user oriented. The best solutions take all of these points in mind.

When you graduate art school you miss the problem solving, you miss the chase. You miss the magic of showing up to a crit…presenting solutions for the problem at hand. You sit in awe at the mind boggling ideas you never even considered. You miss the back and forth, you miss the discussions, the constructive advice, the energy you get from other creative souls.

My son was feeling this way last summer. He and my husband, two of the most creative people on earth, are constantly talking movies, podcasts, books, plays; they dissect, they explore, they critique. They are creators. After spending a week running a film camp at Fire Island together, our son was heading back to California, he said. Dad, do you want to do a joint project as our Christmas gift to each other this year? Considering my husband hates gift buying, wants for nothing, and loves nothing more than working on projects, this sentence was like a gift from above. They decided to make a chess set, each designing pieces for a common board. The size of the grid was all the information they had to go on…ready, set, create.

Christmas at our house is usually pretty over the top. Too many presents, stockings spilling over, regular gifts not to be confused with Santa gifts, much too much. This past year we decided to take it back a notch…or thirty five. We awoke and went to the living room for present time. Goodies for noshing on the table, cups of warm coffee, the room filled with colorful boxes and twinkling lights. All wearing our Christmas themed llama pajamas, we looked appropriately adorable in our soft and yummy hoodies with ears. It was chill and lovely. Saving the best for last, it was time to open the chess set…what did they create, how did they make it, how would the other react. Truth be told, I saw both solutions before that morning. Olivia and I were in charge of painting the chess board (the graphic designer in me completely loving taping off perfect squares). I knew the beauty in those tiny packages, they did not.

As they opened each chess piece they examined the other, two completely different solutions. One, wood carved into beautiful semi-realistic forms, painted in a representational manner, two toned, deliberate and detailed. The other, also carved wood, but from the mind of a gamesman with mid-century modern taste. Each streamlined piece had holes in it, representing the pieces’ movements…some holes went all the way through, that piece could move as many spaces as it wanted…some holes were just indents, that piece moved only one space. Two different solutions to exactly the same problem. Two minds. Two bits of spectacular. Listening to them talk, watching them appreciate the other…it was pure swoon.

These days we live in aMErica…note the ME in there…always a designer, I tend to turn every word into a logo. First I had it as amerIca, that works too. Anyway, you get the point. We live in the country of me me me…where the solution to problems are not based on fact, or exploration, or the masses…solutions are based on how they benefit the individual wants of those in charge at the moment. There are ways to solve the huge issues in our country right now…a puzzler’s dream. If people would stop only thinking about their needs…and consider all the players…solutions could be found.

Until aMErica becomes America again, we are in big trouble. Kind of like if one of the guys creating the chess set decided they wanted the King to be a cat and thought adding a pig would be cute…all of a sudden the set is all about them…and not about making it work for all.

Chess anyone? Pieces ©Gregory Nemec and Jacob Nemec 2019

Moments to Forget

We are supposed to be together now. We should be in a quaint little cottage in the hills of Los Angeles. Bright and colorful, bohemian, energetic, warm…I loved this Airbnb find, just blocks from my son. I should be organizing our home away from home, unpacking Nannie’s cookies and banana breads and arranging the games we shlepped across the country, because what is a family vacation without game nights. I turn every rental and hotel into a little home, make it ours, making it right. I should be working in my new nook, my office for the week, while my people sleep in. We should be going to Venice Beach, the Getty, or Griffith Observatory in a few hours. I should be hugging my son. We should be exhausted from our travels, creating amazing memories and surviving vacation moments we would rather forget.

Our family has always liked to be on the move…a day trip to Coney Island, a gorge in upstate NY, a house swap with Canadians, a trip to a family farm in South Dakota, we love experiences. Having kids never stopped us, in fact it encouraged us. Driving across a state listening to Arthur the Aardvark sing about his lucky pencil…on a 6 hour loop…with two toddlers, joyous. Our kids were awesome travelers, and we were at our best as a family, except for those moments when we weren’t.

Those moments, filled with tears, exhaustion, arguments, lost items, missed connections, declarations of NEVER doing this again.. those moments we want to forget…oh how I wish we were having those moments this week. How I wish we could be a normal dysfunctional family again. How I wish we could be together no matter how much we annoy one another, how much we yell, how much we declare never again…I miss it all.

The picture below was taken in the Badlands, South Dakota. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, it actually feels like you are visiting another planet. Perfection, especially on a glorious sunny day. This was July. It was hot. We had tired kids, hungry kids, and they were done…D…O…N…E…done. Driving we noticed another beautiful landscape, it was one “oh my gosh, let’s get out and look” too many. As Greg and I oohed and ahhhed…the kids climbed out of the car and gave up right there on the rocks, Olivia was literally weeping…and instead of being good parents…we took a selfie.

I have no idea when we will be together again, but when we are, I am sure there will be moments of joy and moments we wish to forget. I am so glad I have this ridiculous blip in time on film, hell on earth, captured forever. Swoon.

The Age Thing

I am not sure how the age thing works.

When I was little my cousins were SO old…now we are the same age. My kids are the oldest of their cousins, the first to hit all milestones…now the “little ones” are taller, hairier, and their voices as deep or deeper, they are equals.

My cousins were teenagers in the 70s…the decade of everything awesome. Long wild hair (on both sexes), puka beads, cut off denim shorts, macrame handbags…drinking cans of beer while eating my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. Walking into the house to chat with anyone who was around, stories of college shenanigans, job interviews, girlfriends, and cars, such glamorous lives. Now, they are people with jobs and mortgages…I have a job, I have a mortgage. We are not glamours or cool, we are the same.

My brother was always my baby brother, only 4 years younger but I kind of helped raise him. On his birthday, I was the assistant. I ran games, filled goodie bags and learned the art of hosting a party from the master…my mom. When my parents played tennis, I was his babysitter They hit the ball, we played cars or Fisher-Price peoples…and I was the boss. When we no longer wanted to join my parents for weekends at Fire Island, I was the “adult” of the house, from 4pm Friday to 6pm Sunday, one pizza and tickets for the club snack bar kept us fed, and my fear of losing the privilege of staying home kept us alive. We covered up any mishaps together and we established a life-long bond. Now…miraculously, he is often “older” than me, I lean on him, he is the voice of reason.

Since living with my mom, not a week goes by without the following words leaving my mouth: “Mom, I am 54 years old, I got this.” Somehow I have become less capable now…than I was at 12. I am back to being her child, and as a mom, it makes perfect sense. My babies are completely formed humans, but they will always be my babies…no matter how spectacular they are, no matter how old they are. My babies.

I don’t really care how old I am, I just assume I am the same age as the people I am with. I might make a Marcia Marcia Marcia or or Mom always said, don’t play ball in the house reference…which will be met with silence…crickets. My pop culture quips mean nothing. The Brady Who? Gilligan’s What? Oh yeah, I am 20 years older than the company I am in. Oh. My. Gosh. I could easily be your mother! Then there are times I gush over the wedding album of a friend, married in the early 1970s…groovy maxi dresses from Macy’s bridal section, yellow daisies galore, long flowing hair and gloriously painted cat eyes, wedding venue decor featuring ivy climbing lattice fences. I marvel what a trendsetter she was…only to realize she was not being quirky, vintage, or hip…she was just doing what was done at the time. My mauve Laura Ashley 90s bridesmaids dresses were her high waisted maxis, her 70s fashion trends outstyling mine by about a million percent. How could she have gotten married when I was 6 since we are currently the same age. Magic.

Age…a time machine. One minute we are older and wiser, the next we are the same age, the next our babies are taking care of us. That…is just so very cool.

Assisting at my brother’s birthday party. 4 years is a lot when you are 13.

A Moment Captured

Have you ever looked at a picture and been transported right back into that very moment. A moment of fear…those rollercoaster ride shots where your kid is completely terrified while you sit next to them smiling; a moment sadness…the shots you took with your terminally ill dad, on the last “celebration” together, eyes filled with a loss you can not even comprehend yet; or a moment of complete love, joy, and perfection. My friend just sent me this photograph and I can not stop looking at it. It expresses our relationship to a tee…complete mutual adoration.

Friendships are complicated. They can be exciting, heartbreaking, wonderful, and even lonely. Etched into our minds, into our beings. Growing up and growing apart, life getting in the way, milestones that don’t compliment each other, it is amazing that they survive. Nothing can un-etch a memory…not college, boyfriends, or different cities. That bond, years can go buy with out interaction then boom…you reconnect like there was no time lost.

When the coolest girl in middle school, the most beautiful, the most talented, the most of the most…when she decides that you are the person she wants to be friends with, well, that is just everything. When she is also kind, and funny, and beyond the most generous loving person…that is forever. Seeing this image from her wedding day brought back floods of memories, so much goodness. The moment I saw it I knew it was a forever photo. Swoon.

That’s what I call them…forever photos. I see them on social media often. That one image that represents who that person really is, how that family really relates, or a solid connection between friends. They are keepers, the ones that go to the “favorites folder”, the ones used in the wedding video, 60th birthday keepsake book, or the funeral collage.

In the last 12 months I have emptied many attic spaces. While covered in cobwebs, 20 years worth of dirt, and the tar from the last time we roofed the house, I have cried many times…mostly looking at photographs I unearthed. My kids, so young, so ridiculously fun. Still images turning into home movies in my mind. The Three Little Pigs, an after bath routine, creating panic with naked toddlers smelling oh so delicious. The “big bad wolf” searching for “pigs”, from one badly built house (bed) to the next, huffing and puffing…the little quivering “pigs” squealing with delighted terror under the covers as the wolf approached to do their bit and “blow down” the house. Thank goodness for the brick house, the wolf foiled once again, fun that never grew old*. The crazy thing is, even though we did it night after night, I am not sure I would remember it if we did not have the picture to “watch”.

Beautiful moments, captured forever. Forever is good.

*who on earth does this with toddlers, then expects them to go to sleep?

Empty

My mind is empty and my days are empty…well not really…it just feels that way compared to how full they once were.

I have never understood how people without jobs said they couldn’t volunteer, or read a book, or bake a cake…because they had “no time”. That just seemed ridiculous. That was then.

My mother-in-law is 89, until the pandemic she pretty much ran the church, the blood center, and welcome table at the local hospital…she did all this and her grocery shopping, puzzles with her guy, housekeeping, breakfasts with buddies, and an occasional game of bridge. She used to tell us her schedule and then say (put on your Fargo accent for full effect) “well, you know what they say, if you want something done, ask a busy person.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I have been working since the age of 13… babysitting, women’s and men’s bathing suit sales…men’s was easier, women buying bathing suits tend to be VERY grumpy, the rack of suits thrown at me when I reminded someone they could not return a clearly used (vomit icon here) suit proved that, David’s Cookies…glorious and sticky, a camp counselor, and currently as a graphic designer. A graphic designer, with very little graphic designing to do, yet somehow I convince myself I have no time to write swoons…I am one of those people now.

Yesterday I painted my toenails blue, constructed homemade vegetable rolls, took a long walk, bathed, watched Parks and Recreation, ordered supplies for Greg’s art camp, did some banking for my mom…and felt completely useless and unfulfilled…when you feel useless and unfulfilled it is hard to swoon.

If you ask my kids (or husband), I am sure they would say I am not so easy to live with. I have no no no patience for laziness or self pity. I have no understanding of I can’t or I didn’t have time to. How hard is it to give something a shot, if you fail so be it, maybe it will work out better next time. The world is not going to hand you your success or happiness…take it.

So, after my many days of avoiding swooning, I have decided to take my own annoying advice. I should be writing more often. It is good for my head, good for my soul…and many seem to enjoy the visit into my crazy (thank you for that, it warms my heart).

If one does not have a life that is currently swoon-worthy…one must look back, or ahead…anywhere to avoid stagnation. Sigh, writing to fill the empty. Writing to keep busy. Writing to prove that complaining and waiting…does nothing. Swoon.

Human Canvases

Paints, glitter, alcohol wipes, foam applicators, water dishes, paper towels, hand mirrors, signage, sun screen, hairbands, design sheets, sign up lists. Reminding teenage volunteers that they committed to volunteer…finding replacement volunteers for the kids who “just realized” they will be on vacation. Notifying festival staff about needed tables, tents, and chairs…to arrive at festival to a plot of grass…no tables, chairs, or tents. It all works out, and it is joyous.

Face painting at the Pleasantville Music Festival. Swoon. In 7 glorious hours, we paint hundreds…and hundreds…of body parts.

Human canvases ignoring the perspiration dripping down our faces as we get up close and personal to wipe them down…removing their sunscreen, sweat, and food bits in order to turn them into Spiderman or a walking sugar skull. Butterflies, flaming soccer balls, devils, and flowers…personalities on display. They wait on line, watching the painters, passing on their turn in order to “get” certain artists. They come back for seconds, for retouching, for a new look. Friends get matching designs, making it clear their click is strong. They are listened to, pampered, and doted on. The invasion into their personal space worth it… they are the most special person in the world.

A dad, so overwhelmed with the full-face butterfly on his child with sensory issues that he drops a 50. in the “donate to the non-profit of the year” bucket. Every year, people are amazed at what we do for free, every year we are more than happy to do it. A dear friend managing the line, redirecting the woman who wants us to paint her heaving and extremely exposed cleavage…to a female artist…instead of my husband or son. The little girl who just wanted a dot. Literally a dot on her hand, a pink dot. The year of the Minion, so so many Minions, each sporting different outfits and eye quantities. The one time I was delivered a kid…instead of Greg (who usually has his own line because he is annoyingly amazing)…to paint the Nintendo logo, years of letterform classes paying off. Score. Watching my art school grad son paint Star Wars creatures on the arm of a bestie from Kindergarten, listening to my daughter convince a less than sober woman she should probably refrain from putting glitter tattoos on her eyelids. The yearly drama of closing off the line, hours later than planned, then allowing kids to paint themselves as we clean up, keeping the masses happy.

Sheer exhaustion from a day painting in the sun, rotating under the tent to avoid direct rays, no food, little water…to avoid the need for breaks. Finally rehydrating, bless the clean staff potties, ice is magical, festival food tastes so good. Catching a second wind.

In front of the stage, covered in paint and glitter, swaying in the arms of my guy, sun going down, a cool breeze…we can finally hear the music. Swoon.

Pleasantville Music Festival…you are missed.

Families

There are families who spend little time together. I found this out when a friend was shocked to hear his girlfriend grew up eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner in her room. Her family just did their own thing. We are not like this, my kids pretty much only slept in their rooms, they were always around and we were always in each others faces and spaces.

There are families who spend every moment planning, outfitting, driving to, practicing for…their kids various sports. Every season, every weekend, hoping and praying for rain so they can have a day off. We were not one of these families either, weekends were spent at museums, playing games, doing projects, chilling at the beach or wandering the city.

There are families who cook together, clean together, do yard work together…completely self-sufficient, not spending a penny on a service they can do themselves. Fix a leaky sink then make a custom ice-cream cake, darn a sock then install the new windows, they got it covered. We are not one of these families, I am in awe of these families.

There are families with weekly rituals. Friday night is movie and pizza night! Hiking and bird watching every Saturday at 6am! Sunday is funday, worship then a church family lunch at the local diner! Not us…at all…we were way too scattered for family rituals, other than holidays which are rituals to the point of insanity.

What kind of family are we…we are a yelling family. We yell, we yell a lot. We yell so much that once our lovely Pastor called “just to say hi” right after a screaming match that I am sure someone called her about. Busted!

We might be yelling BYE I LOVE YOU, YOU GOT THIS, LOVE YOU! or ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND, WHAT MADE YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA, SERIOUSLY? or…worse. Expressions of deep love and deep not so much love, have exactly the same delivery.

The first time Greg visited my family was Thanksgiving sophomore year. It took three trains to get home, no Amtrak on my dad’s dime. We were in art school and beyond exhausted. Studio classes are 6 hours long, preparing for those classes takes days. Anyone who thinks going to art school is a joyride should try to create multiple unique solutions to a problem then be criticized on them for 6 hours straight…it’s no party. We were underfed (no cafeteria on campus), sleep deprived, and in much need of some calm. Ha.

Greg walked into 5,000 square feet of Thanksgiving planning and prep…my family whirling dervishes of excess…too many food choices, too many last minute guests, too many lit cigarettes on various counters, too much “what can I get you”, too many people going in different directions…too much yelling.

One classic moment that weekend was sitting together on the steps in the kitchen while my mom cooked. My 16 year-old brother jumped over us, landed in the center of the kitchen, skateboard in hand, screaming he was going to his girlfriends house. Woosh, he was already out the door when my mom screamed back, “wear a condom.” Welcome to my liberal Queens NY family Mr. Iowa man, get used to it. It was a sitcom and Greg not only got used to it…he loved it. It is also when he started calling us “the yelling family”.

My girlfriend’s home had intercoms between the kitchen and the bedrooms so that they could get each others attention in a civilized manner… we needed no such system, we just projected our voices…born to the stage. Our family could have a full conversation two stories apart (with at least one tv on and some Bowie blasting) and…not miss a word.

When we got pregnant Greg very calmly asked “can we not be a yelling family”.

Well, that hasn’t worked out so well for him. We can be loud…while declaring our love and our unpleasantries. I am kind of over it, I plead, let’s stop…but I created it, so I am learning to walk away, don’t fan the flames.

Every spring, windows open, I think…this must either be very entertaining or worrisome for the neighbors. It’s all good. We are who we are, and at least we eat dinner together. Small wins. Swoon.

Celebrating 75 years of my dad, a few months before he passed away. Screaming and silly faces, ’cause…why not.

Holiday Freedom

When I was little celebrating the 4th of July was either full on or just a day. Full on meant waking up for town races, basketball throws, swim and diving competitions. The pool was open to everyone, so it was extra crowded and beyond loud. There was a bbq where we ate hamburgers grilled by the dads and soggy corn drenched in “butter” while waiting for the ceremony of ribbons from the morning’s events. At night we headed to Memorial Field for fireworks…which would be banned these days since we were literally sitting under the fireworks…scooting if embers got too close to our bare legs. The next morning at the crack of dawn, still in the clothing and bug spray from the night before…we would return to hunt for unlit explosives… glory days. Just another day holidays meant waking up at Fire Island and maybe seeing fireworks on the bay, having watermelon and burgers, the volleyball court in red, white, and blue streamers, but no real festivities.

I love any reason to celebrate, to prepare, to dress up, so I like the 4th to be big. I like memories. I don’t want just another day…ever. A few of my 4th of July memories…

Fainting in Philadelphia at Penn’s Landing while at pre-college summer session, my first time living alone, on a walk down to the water sans food and beverages…and money…I passed out from heat exhaustion. Life lesson learned. When mom isn’t there, prepare for yourself. * Being on a very brief pause with Greg and going on a date to see the NYC fireworks, running as fast as we could to the water, a homeless man looked at us and screamed over and over you look ridiculous together, he was 6.4, me 5 feet. The “Team Greg” homeless man was spot on; it lasted a week. * Having little kids and sharing the holiday with our NY besties, matching shirts, ice pops and lawn games, photoshoot fun. Letting the kids do sparklers after a long tiring day at the pool, exhausted waiting for dark. Running through grass with glowing spitting sticks of fire. Screaming, screaming, screaming, oh my gosh, why are they screaming? Oh my gosh, they dropped the “finished” sparklers…then were stepping on them…while barefoot. Spectacular parenting moment. Sigh. * Family reunions in South Dakota, Iowa, Upstate NY, Virginia. * Watching the East River fireworks on raised portion of the FDR with my gorgeous pregnant sister-in-law. * Fireworks and parades at the Mall in DC. * Being invited to a boat trip on the Hudson, around the Statue of Liberty experiencing the fireworks from the water. * Having a “moment” with a dear friend lost on 9/11, forever the joker, he pulled a stunt on me as I was touching his name at the memorial. A cherished story for another time. * Backyard picnics, upstate fairs, Fire Island dinners… we have turned the 4th into a fun experience again and again. Glorious.

I am learning to expect nothing and be grateful for all the goodness that presents itself. It is impossible to live life as we did. We do not go to stores. We need to plan way ahead for any celebration. We make due and we are thankful for whatever happens…because we can afford food, pay our mortgage, and we are healthy. Done. Everything else is extra.

This 4th we had a normal day, this and that, daily chores, some Schitt’s Creek. I baked two pies, laundry, a walk. We were invited to a friend’s for a social distance/mask wearing viewing of Hamilton on a screen in their backyard. Bring your own chairs, food, drink, and bug spray. Sit 10 feet apart from others not from your household. They get it, so we went. And that is where the memory occurred.

During Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down), the neighbor’s “kids” put on a full on a firework display. Bursting high in the trees above the screen as we watch the battle for independence. On the screen, young men in their twenties, fighting the war and willing to give up their lives…for the freedom we celebrate each July 4th. Next-door, twenty somethings, unaware they were aiding in the theatrical presentation on screen…setting off expensive explosives, and screaming F*CK YES! at each successful launch. It was hysterical and there is no way you could plan that moment.

I live, I learn, I appreciate, and hopefully I grow. Here is to the next chapter of freedom…to wait and see what happens, to not plan ahead, to bake pies with the fruit on hand, to being ok with making due. Happy Freedom.

Years after the burns on the feet healed.

Make a Great Day

I have a dear friend who is a giver, a healer, and a master trained chef…a lovely combination in a friend. After day one of the 39 mile breast cancer walk she nursed our completely disgusting feet. Bandaging up my missing left heel, in her deep and delicious Trinidadian accent, she said, Kat, you can do this, think of how good you will feel tomorrow when you are done. Did you try that in a Trinidadian accent…smooth right? So when Nicole…who never asks anything of anyone…asked me to sign up with her for the Tony Robbins some inspirational tagline here “free” unless you want to be a VIP event…I could not say no.

I have never really understood the appeal of this large headed screaming man.

After getting past the perky blonde asking me to “get pumped for Tony”, turning the volume wayyyyyyy down, ignoring how many times he told us his net worth, and his alluding that the virus wasn’t that bad (!)….I gotta give credit where credit is due…this guy gets it. He is a powerhouse of energy… positive…uplifiting…kind of annoying but there is no way to stop watching…energy. Stop looking back, make it happen, write your own story, negativity is not the way, if you think you can, you can. I am in swoon with his message.

I truly believe he has the recipe for success. Have an idea? Make it happen. If it fails, brush off and try again, and again, and again. Scrappy people succeed.

On a walk the other day I saw a wall covered in green plants growing out of the stone. It reminded me of a time when we made something happen. We wanted to show our kids that the world was a big place. We decided England would be a fun and approachable choice…but impossible in our economic situation…until I watched a morning tv segment on house swapping.

I set up my swap account, took super cute pictures of our house…so styled that my children did not recognize it was the house they lived in…and I waited for an online response. I was like a single woman of a certain age with retouched photos on a dating site. Miserable. Finally I got the nerve to reach out to a homeowner in London. What. An. Ass. He told me all about his spectacular home, his upper crust self, and picked and prodded over my not close enough to the city, low class house. With this exchange I became very aware that if I ever need to resort to finding a new partner through a dating site…I will grow old alone. I tossed uptight English dude and decided to just wait for someone to appreciate our little quirky home. And someone did.

We flew to England using miles (18 years of saving). England via Germany…32 hours of travel…for free. We stayed in a beautiful quirky little home in Brighton…for free. On hearing the plan my mom said when in England you MUST go to France. Well, that was impossible, until she gave us money for train fare and a night in Paris. Asking only that we please get ice cream on Ile Saint-Louis, in honor of my dad. Deal. By staying in a very loved (old and rundown) hotel, on a less than charming street, in a room with literally no floor space (we walked on beds), where Jacob could have easily rolled out the window while he slept…we squeezed another night out of the gift…budgeting perfection.

In England we saw castles, rocky beaches, torture devices, and museums. We visited Camden, emerging from the tube into a brawl between foot-high mohawk sporting punks. Olivia did chalk drawings with street artists, and we hiked white cliffs. We mastered the Underground, and drove around and around in roundabouts. The refrigerators and washing machines tiny, no ac, less waste, we lived as they did, and it was perfect. Our swap family were our English counterparts, he was tall and thin, she short and full, our kids had the same obscure toys and were reading the same book series, we had each left the same CD in our respective CD players. Swoon.

People told us we must have a least a week in Paris so we packed each day tight. A memorable one went like this…walked past Notre Dame to Sainte-Chapelle (to experience the glory of the most beautiful blue in the world), walked to the Louvre for “the best of” which is a lengthy task when with Greg, moved on to the Musee de l’Orangerie, crossed the Seine to experience the eclectic goodness of the Musee d’Orsay, then down to the Eiffel Tower. We were on the long line to climb to the top, almost 5pm, being entertained by a group of teenage Scottish Boy Scouts, when Jacob quietly asked… um, are we going to eat today? Parental neglect at its best. Off Greg went to get street food to be consumed on line while waiting for our Eiffel Tower views of the city at the golden hour. Finding the metros were closed, we walked and walked looking for a bus back to the Latin Quarter…coming across the most beautiful green building…our first…the walls made of plants. Spectacular and appreciated, even when beyond exhausted, a forever memory. We had…Made a Great Day.

As my very pumped and spirited friend Tony says, write the story you want to live…or something like that…maybe he does deserve his billions.