East Coast Style

The other night Ron and I were going to an event. A kind of place where my writer's attire – jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops – wouldn’t be acceptable.

I slipped into a dress, a black shawl/sweater type thing, and a pair of heels.

Then I realized it was freezing outdoors (55 degrees – but go easy on me, I’ve lived in SoCal for ten years).

Something terrible dawned on my shivering little legs. Now that I lived on the east coast, would I have to start wearing . . . Eeek! . . . pantyhose?

Haven’t touched those suckers in eons.

As a kid, my mom used to make me wear them to church. I cheated with knee highs. One Sunday I picked up a single knee high and referred to it in what I thought was its singular form: a panty hoe.

My mom roared with laughter and ever since then, that’s what I’ve called those nylon creatures: the panty hoe.

Even with a zillion goose bumps on my legs, there was no way I was wearing them until I confirmed they were still in style. Sure enough, at the event, I saw one pantyhoe-d leg after another walking by.

Hoo-Boy.

Know what else I saw? A turtleneck.

The reasons to move back west keep piling up.

Bold is Beautiful

Bold is back and it’s beautiful.

Maybe not beautiful, but easier to read. My blog has experienced growing pains the past couple weeks. If you logged the other day, my postings looked like THIS.

I was hunched over my Vaio, obsessing over size, font, and those little tabs that emphasize bold, italics, and underline. Then I grabbed my husband’s hand, pulled him to my side, and pestered him: “Which one looks better? This or this? Huh? Huh?

The whole scenario reminded me of my first blind date.

I was in college, in a little apartment that I shared with three girls, sprucing myself up. One of my roommates was sitting on the bed and I could not decide which pair of earrings to wear. Gold hoops or fake pearls? Acorn studs or dangling fish? Ooo, I know! What about those hand painted hearts my mom gave me for Christmas?

Exasperated, my roommate finally said: “It doesn’t matter!”

She was trying to say that looks only go so far. Love is a matter of the heart, not the earlobe.

I suppose I can translate that lesson here. So I’m just going to pick – bold – and remind myself that blogs are a matter of content, not font.

By the way, do you like the (almost) daily postings or the once a week postings? Because on the one hand . . . oh, nevermind!

Leave It to Oprah

I thought of a brilliant idea for an article: Live to 100. Actually, I stole the idea from an old lady -- a health expert who spoke to my husband's office as a part of their wellness program. She said humans can live to be 120.

I pitched the idea to a magazine. Reject.

Pitched again. Reject.

If you're a writer, you know the drill.

Then I received my October issue of O, The Oprah Magazine in the mail. The topic? Aging.

"Shoot," I said, thumbing through the book. "I should've pitched The Opsters."

I began reading the articles page by page.

"Darn," I said. "Live to 100 would be perfect for this issue."

Then -- near the end of the publication -- I stumbled across an article: Live to 1000.

Clearly I'm not thinking big enough.

Hemingway

I'm blogging more frequently.

Trying to keep my posts shorter -- sometimes I'm so wordy.

Ernest Hemingway used to claim he could write a novel in 6 words. When challenged, he took out a piece of paper.

For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.

Word!

Remember the exclamation that was popular a few years ago: Word!

It’s an affirmation.

Hey, I’m getting married.
Word!

Wanna eat sushi?
Word!

It was more of a guy thing – my brother used to say it.

I’ve been thinking about words a lot lately.

Probably because I’m a writer. Also because I just listened to a "Sticks and Stones" sermon.

The preacher said words can kill a soul. Or bring a person to life.

I have a friend. When I see her (or find one of her e-mails in my in-box, or talk with her on the phone), my heart flies. She never has an unkind word. She’s one of those people who builds others up, yet avoids flattery.

I have another friend with three sons. She’s taught her kids well, especially how to talk. They address adults with respect (hello, sir; hello ma’am). They say yes instead of yeah, no instead of nah. They don’t use slang like, Whatever! or How stupid! or Interesting (what does that mean anyway?).

Over here? Me? Guilty!

I’m a messy talker. I fling around criticism and judgments more often than I care to admit. My words can be careless and casual.

But I’ve been thinking, aren’t I called to a higher task, especially as a writer.

Words have so much power. The arrangement of those 26 alphabet letters? Life or death.

So – what if I think a horrible, terrible thought? Do I share that on the page? After all, I write personal essay and memoir.

If I’m working on a piece, and I want to be truthful, do I admit I screamed the S-word? Or is it my responsibility to find another way to describe the scene – a way that’s still real, but doesn’t include the trash talk?

This new career is pushing me in ways I never imagined. I love the challenge.

Word!

Nature's Gold

Walking the dog, the air cool, the sunlight streaming, I come to a SCREECHING halt. Eeerrrt!

“Look!” I point to the sapling in front of our townhouse. It’s broken. It’s sick. Oh, no – it’s dying of some sort of foliage disease. The dog sniffs a sticky, brown spot on the sidewalk, but I can’t take my eyes off the tree. Most of the tree is a shiny healthy green, but one entire branch is full of leaves that are a funky, spotted color.

I step closer and lift to my tip-toes. The leaves burn fiery orange.

The sapling isn’t poisoned with a fungus, it’s beautiful.

Ten years since I’ve seen autumn.
Ten years.
Living in California all that time, I thought I remembered September.

* * *

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower,
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn turns into day.
Nothing gold can stay.
--Robert Frost

On a completely unrelated topic -- check out my first Ask a Blogger column here: MaHC.

Wee-Wee or Get Off the Pot?

Sorry for the wimpy title. This blog is rated G; I haven’t yet learned to swear in my writing (though I’m not so bad in person). I realized I used the word “damn” last posting, but that was a direct quote. Once I used the f-word in an article, but that article is still sitting in an “inventory pile” (editor’s words – not too encouraging, eh?), so it isn’t in print yet.

I’m stalling.

Dilemma of the day is whether I should wee-wee or get off the pot.

Keep my law license or let it go?

Fork over the dough for state bar membership, attend the continuing education seminars, or relieve myself (pun intended) of the burden and just focus on writing?

My brain is stuffed with so many "What Ifs?" they’re falling out my ears.

What if you don’t make it as a writer? What if Ron gets leukemia tomorrow and you need to earn fast money? What if no one takes you seriously without a little plastic card and those three letters: Esq.?

There’s an easy solution. I can opt for “inactive” membership and, down the road, pick up right where I left off if I’m so inclined. But I don’t know . . . it’s so hard to let go.

Right now I’m hanging out on the pot, book in hand, not accomplishing much of anything (other than discovering that Abigail Thomas is a good writer). Hmm . . . I’m going to read a few more pages. After all, I don’t have to decide until January.

* * *

Speaking of troubles on the pot, check out this blog posting if you have a chance. It's a hoot: http://suburbanturmoil.blogspot.com/

What Do Owls Eat?

5:00am

BA! BAN-A! BA! BA! BA!

My alarm clock. It plays a little song.

I slide out of the soft sheets. In the bathroom, I wash my face, put in contacts, brush my teeth.

By 5:15am I’m out the door.

The freeway is packed. Starbucks is buzzing. The path along the Potomac is full of runners, jogging in the dark and the pouring rain.

What species are you people and what planet do you come from?

I know – you are my husband. And my mom and dad. You are my writing friend, my book club friend, and my law school friend. Actually, come to think of it, most people I know are morning people.

Not me.

But this week is different. I pledged to be an early bird for five days. Anyone can do anything for five days, right? I saw a woman sculling along the Potomac a few weeks ago and thought: “Wow, she looks so peaceful. So graceful. So pretty and relaxed. I want to be her!”

To learn to scull, I was told I had to be at the boathouse before sun-up. So here I am. I stand, shivering, dripping, and yawning. I feel grimy and cranky and the water smells like rotten fish. I think: “There is nothing pretty about this picture.”

The instructor puts us in simulators on the land. Tomorrow will be our BIG day: permission to take gigantic yellow boats with big yellow oars in the water – boats that scream BEGINNER!

Tomorrow? Four more days of this?

BA! BAN-A! B—

I hit the off button and roll over, burying myself deep within the warm, soft sheets. No worm for me. My days – er, I mean my day – of being a morning person? Over!

Miracle of Life

Ron and I are contemplating parenthood.

I said if I was going to give birth (potentially), I wanted to know ahead of time exactly what was in store.

We rented The Miracle of Life.

After watching gushing liquid, blood, and a baby covered in white goo emerge from a woman’s vagina, the first thing that popped into my mind was the line from Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts hunts down the snobby sales associate: “Big mistake. Big. HUGE.”

Meaning, it was a BIG mistake to rent that movie. Ignorance is bliss.

Ron chimed in too:

Ron: That (big pause) was gross.

Jenny: Ewww!

Ron: The thing that came out of that woman looked like a, a, a person.

Jenny: It was a person.

Ron: Yeah, but it looked like a person capable of talking. I half-expected the baby to say, “Whew, it was hot in there.” Or, “Whew it was crowded in there.”

We made a pact. If I ever do get pregnant and Ron witnesses that icky event – oops, sorry, the “miracle of life” – he is not allowed say, “That (big pause) was gross.” Instead, he’s only allowed to say, “That was beautiful.” (And my "Ewww" must turn to "Aww.")

He practiced his line, but his voice jumps two octaves when he lies. Hmm . . . good thing we’re still in the contemplation phase.

Late Summer Reading

My Yogi Incognito article is finally on line (click on the First Person Pieces & Features box and scroll down). So are my written reviews of The Overachievers (book) and The Secret (movie). More scrolling required.

If you’ve been grocery shopping recently and asked yourself: “Self? Do grass-fed labels truly mean grass-fed?” – then check out my article Your Ass is Grass. Again, scroll.

Last but not least, log on the Mad as Hell Club September 20th to see my very first Ask a Blogger column (I’m still collecting questions on blogging if you have any).

Okay, okay. Maybe these aren’t exactly the page-turning summer reads available at your local bookstore – but hey, a budding writer has gotta start somewhere!

P.S. Has my switch to bold font made blog reading easier on the eyes or does it seem like I'm YELLING?

P.P.S. A few readers have asked about the Annapolis race. Since I'm on the topic of updates, here goes: the race was fun (though tiring). I did wear the Running for Writers t-shirt and was even interviewed by a local reporter about it. But she didn't quote me in her article the next day. I was SO bummed.

A Heavenly Party

Question: is it too early to play Christmas songs?

Wait! Before you boo and throw tomatoes, please know that I can’t stand seeing Christmas displays before Halloween either (though I’m cool with the pre-Thanksgiving decorations).

Here’s the deal: Ron’s at a football game with the guys, so I’m thinking I might throw myself a party.

A heavenly party.

It’s cold and rainy, I’ve been up since 5am, and I have the entire evening to myself -- which means my grand plan is to take a hot bath, put on cozy pajamas, and cuddle on the couch with my dog and a stack of magazines.

Did you hear that Callie? You can jump on the furniture tonight (Woof, she says).

Anyway, I was also going to throw in some tunes. But my pile of CDs is slim pickings—I’m not a “music” person – except for the Christmas music, which I looooove.

Take your pick:
Nat King Cole crooning The Christmas Song?
Bing Crosby and Little Drummer Boy?
Amy Grant’s Breath of Heaven?
Ella Fitzgerald singing The First Noel?
Luciano Pavarotti belting O Holy Night?

Ooooo, I’ve got it – how about Handel’s Messiah?

I can pretend I’m in the mood for classical. Or choir music. Or London theatre. Deep down, I will be the only one who knows my mood is stirring up images of white snow, the Nativity, and evergreens.

* * *

And the Glo-oooo-oooo-oooRY!
And the glory of the Lord shall be Re-ve-ee-aled!

See what you’re missing?

Pop Open the Bubbly

It's time to celebrate. Ron - who's 45 years old - finally owns his first home. I guess it's a first for me too since the only other real estate I've owned was a condo. Our down payment was wired to the title company an hour ago.

Poof!

Money's gone. In it's place: this gorgeous, private writer's retreat in Colorado. It's a second home (we're still renting here in Maryland and apparently will be for awhile now), but the retreat holds so much hope: a place Ron and I will enjoy romantic getaways, a place where I will pen my first book, a place to celebrate with our families over holidays and summers. And, best of all, a place we hope that others (you?) will use as a retreat. It's not furnished yet. We have a long "To Do" list and awhile to go before it'll be available - but the purchase process is finito!

Tonight, to celebrate, we're going to a candlelight yoga class. Then I'm concocting a spinach salad with dried cranberries (Ron's fav), pine nuts, goat cheese, bow tie pasta, and balsamic vinaigrette. Maybe we'll be super crazy and heat up vegetable soup too. But best of all, Ron says he's coming home with a bottle of Schramsberg champagne.

Bottom's up!

Saint Michaels, My Saving Grace

This weekend Ron and I celebrated our three year wedding anniversary.

Three years.

That sounds so cute.

We chose to spend a few days at the beach (oops sorry, the “eastern seashore”).

Ernesto decided to come too.

When we arrived in St. Michaels at 8pm, we couldn’t see anything. Ernesto had knocked out a transformer and the entire town was without power. We finally found the Inn. We also found out that this wasn’t any old Inn – much to the amusement of the bellman, parts of The Wedding Crashers was filmed there.

We walked around the creaking, historic building with candles saying, “Hey, it’s like we live in the olden days!” We sipped red wine at the restaurant where the chef was offering a “limited and creative” menu based on the fact that he was mostly using a grill. We snuggled under the blankets in our attic bedroom listening to the wind and the rain as we drifted off to sleep. The lights exploded on at 4am.

For the next couple days, we enjoyed a drizzly, lazy, weekend full of fresh pumpkin bread from the Farmers’ Market, old t.v. movies, back massages, and an extra peppery Bloody Mary as we watched sailboats meander around the peninsula (the sun finally peaked out).

One afternoon at high tea . . .

Time Out: I feel compelled to clarify that (a) Ron had a beer the day we watched boats (not a Bloody Mary like me); and (b) I had to BEG him to take me to high tea.

Anyway, the day at tea, another couple announced they were celebrating their wedding anniversary too. They were staying in the neighboring room and put us to shame with their headboard banging . . . five times in less than 24-hours . . . but I digress. What I’m trying to say is that I had a wonderful weekend in Maryland.

Can you believe those words just fell out of my mouth and onto the page?

To fill in a few details – my husband and I moved to Maryland at the beginning of the summer. I was a wee bit wishy-washy about uprooting and moving across country to say the least. But I love Ron, he wanted this new job, and California is an expensive place for a freelance writer’s budget, so I said I’d give the east coast a try.

As soon as we crossed the border I hated it.

Blue crabs made me cringe (I barfed my guts out after eating a spiny lobster on our honeymoon and haven’t touched crustaceans since).

I couldn’t stand the summer humidity.

I didn’t even like the name of our street (I found this very profound. I mean, shouldn’t saying the name of your street make you feel happy?)

But after this past weekend, a part of me – let me interject here to clarify that the phrase “part of me” means an itty bitty, teeny tiny, teensy, weensy part of me – fell in love with Maryland.

This “part of me” is so small I can’t even see it.
But I can feel it.

Nine more months until I’ve crossed the threshold and lived here one year. A lot can happen in nine months. I think maybe a new life was conceived this weekend at St. Michaels . . . and I’m not referring to the potential activity in the womb of the woman next door.