M.O.M.: Mind Over Matter

Photo MOM

“…Ay, Juanita, Are you sure you want to use those scissors on your wedding dress?..” The year was 1950 and JC’s* new Latina mother-in-law couldn’t seem to convince her to change her mind. She was dead set on creating the perfect hostess robe. Back then, you dreamed of greeting guests as the movie stars did; in a cross between an evening formal and a bathrobe (realizing that the tent like sleeves were a fire hazard in the kitchen, this creation soon met its demise). A few crooked cuts later, the plan was scrapped in favor of an ice skating outfit and then a handkerchief. After a good laugh together, JC immediately let go of her disappointment and moved on.

Her resiliency, determination and independent spirit came at an early age. Her parents’ divorce had prepared her well. The independent little girl would cheerfully bloom wherever she was planted, whether it was with her eccentric aunt or her doting grandmother.

As a young woman, she would head to the top Manhattan dance clubs, sometimes alone. She had inherited her moxie from her mom, whose advice she would remember when heading home back to New Jersey late at night: always walk near the street, not the buildings. On her 21stbirthday, she met the handsome Latin from Manhattan (my dad) who swept her off her feet, even though her mom did not approve. She rode the ups and downs of all his dreams and schemes as if on a bucking bronco, holding on and never willing to let go.

To this day, JC does not like to be told what to do. When a physical therapist recently suggested a certain exercise three times a day, she nodded attentively and then decided that once was sufficient. When we scold her for not drinking enough water, she listens politely and then continues to hydrate with a few sips from a water fountain. Now it seems that even her doctor has acquiesced and stated that if she has made it so healthy and happy thus far, she should just continue to do whatever she’s been doing.

But, this does not stop the perfectionist in me from trying to bring her over to the dark side and share my passion for organization. She probably does not refer to the Excel spreadsheet I made for her entitled “Travel Checklist” and encased in plastic, but I feel better just knowing it lurks somewhere in her bottom drawer. The last time we traveled together, I asked her where the  blow up travel neck pillow and eye mask I bought her were. Surprised by the question, she answered “…Home…,” as if it was the most logical answer. Both in travel and in life, she prefers the lighter approach.

In honor of Mother’s Day this year, I am going to try to limit my strong desire to rearrange her drawers when I visit (spice and desk will be the hardest). I will not straighten one picture on the wall or strongly suggest anything. In order to keep myself in check, I will institute a homemade  internal warning system (a hard pinch should work). What better gift than the one that keeps on giving?

The mother/daughter relationship can sometimes be a wobbly balance. Keeping in mind the yin and yang of it all, I realize that I need to let her stand on her own two feet and get out of her way, just as she did for me.

Arm in arm with curiosity and spunk, JC confidently continues to go her merry way, skipping through life and reminding me every day how important it is to follow your own path and to dance to your own music.

Happy Mother’s Day!

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

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When Things Don’t Go Swimmingly, Dive In

Photo Swimmingly

Miss Londa had her hands full. A swimming teacher for 15 years, she had seen her share of budding swim team champions and those that, try as they might, just sunk to the bottom of the pool.

Back then, Big A* was an enthusiastic 4-year old student, ready to master each week’s lesson. He’d giggle when I’d call him “Fish Boy” and took to the water immediately. Never having learned to swim, I decided it was a good time for me to join in. It was when Miss Londa asked that I swim across the pool so she could ascertain my ability level that she wondered to herself if it was too late to use her journalism degree to change careers.

Jumping right in and splashing about, I enthusiastically did a version of the dog paddle and dead man’s float that I had personally customized over the years, which left both Miss Londa and Big A stunned. Each week, Big A would progress to the next level and I would be trailing behind, sometimes taking tips from the pre-school age star of the class. With some extra lessons and much practice, I finally graduated.

Years later, I ran into Miss Londa on the street. After joking that we had recognized each other with clothes on, we chuckled about those classes so long ago. She mentioned that, even though I was the worst student ability-wise, she ever had, my enthusiasm and determination had turned me into a swimmer, bolstered her and made her a better teacher. She said goodbye, but not before giving me a hug and thanking me.

When I look back, I don’t remember thinking that this was something I wasn’t good at. Rather, I saw myself swimming laps alongside Big A and enjoying a new form of exercise. Apparently, my mind saw me perfecting underwater somersaults while my body lagged behind trying to keep up. It’s sink or swim out there; apparently positive thinking jumped in and aquatically speaking, compelled itself to commence swimming drills with or without the participation of my body.

Today, each time I wriggle into my Speedo bathing suit, plug up my ears, stretch the bathing cap over my head and put my nose plug on just right, I feel like both like a stuffed sausage and an Olympic swimmer (truth be told, though I’ve moved on from considering a career as a synchronized swimmer, I haven’t discounted the Senior Olympics as yet).

Water, life: rather than feeling apprehensive and settling for just dipping your toe in, why not take the plunge, dive right in and propel yourself?

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

The Mad Scientist That Lurks Within You

Photo Mad Scientist

I have no talent, I am only passionately curious. Albert Einstein

It began as mental floss; a way of channeling my inquisitiveness into some sort of psychological relaxation to soothe my Type A personality.

It started out simple. Armed with a background in supporting grade school science projects, I was confident that I could test a hunch I had, analyze the data and see if a theory was evident. That’s how my scientific experiments began.

My first hypothesis was the observation that perception would outweigh reality. When Big A* was 11 years old, the fashionable traits he inherited from his mom began to present themselves in the form of snubbing any clothing that was not expensive. My only tool a thin marker, I carefully changed the $19.99 sale price of a pair of Nike sneakers to $79.99. The resulted affection and care I observed spurred me to continue this practice until I could no longer get away with it.

Confident now in my abilities, I set out to seek evidence that even a small, swift personal connection in an urban environment would create a positive reaction. On city streets I would do nothing more than smile at the person passing by me. For the most part, it was exhilarating to observe their countenance change right before my eyes as their face brightened. I then added the variable of a daily practice with mixed results. In Chicago, it resulted in friendships (read “Why a Stranger Isn’t Strange To Me”), but in New York, my subjects simply crossed the street.

Now it was time to take my analysis to the next level. Could natural methods combat anti-aging? Was there an alternative to being nipped, tucked and injected? I conferred with skin care specialists and decided to focus on a face lifting massage. In an effort to stimulate blood and lymph flow, detoxify, firm, lift, fight gravity and glow, I apply avocado oil to my face and follow a daily regimen as instructed by a YouTube video. It might just be my imagination since the trial is still in progress, but I sense beneficial results.

If you’ve ever hesitated, trying to remember a fact or a name, you share my concern. Hoping it to be a result of brain overload, would the polyphenol in pomegranates be the antioxidant superpower I was seeking? After reading about a preliminary 2013 study at UCLA conducted on a small group of older adults with age-related memory complaints, I was intrigued. Resulting in increased verbal memory performance and functional brain activity after one month, drinking eight ounces of pomegranate juice a day was a no-brainer.

Detecting Mr. Wiz’s* skepticism, I decided to perform a side, cause and effect procedure on him. While watching television one evening, I corrected him on the name of an actress. I then recounted her date of birth, birthplace, parents’ names, career history and marriages all in one breath, suggesting it was due to the second day of intake of my new magic elixir. Of course, none of the information was true, but it certainly got his attention.

I must confess, I sometimes find it hard to drink down an entire dose of juice; it’s too sweet for me. Unfortunately, suggestions sent to the company to consider a pretzel flavor have gone unanswered. As research continues, I rationalize the price of this study with the fact that, if all else fails, I could always add vodka to the liquid in question at Happy Hour. Or, I could paint the interesting shaped POM brand bottles and use them as vases, thus resulting in another study: time analysis of learning methodology on non-craft minded individuals.

Overall, my dabble in the scientific has been a win-win; it’s enhanced my sense of wonder, while redirecting my focus, soothing my kinetic energy levels and calming me down. Just remember, there’s a bit of the mad scientist in us all; be the catalyst for your curiosity! And if you do see me walking down the street smiling at you with a shiny, avocado-oiled face and pomegranate juice stains on my shirt, please don’t cross the street.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

 

 

 

The Skinny on Infatuation

Photo Infatuation

I’m never sure how it happens; appeal leads to interest, attraction becomes fascination. In any case, I’m sure family and friends are grateful that, by definition, infatuation is an intense passion that is relatively short-lived.

I remember my puff pastry phase as if it were yesterday. Pepperidge Farm provided the blank canvas and I created the masterpieces. The way I lovingly rolled out the dough, then wrapped everything that I could find in it, made some afraid to leave their small pets around me. I gradually moved on, but not before hosting a jovial dinner party that is still talked about in some circles, whereby every course was enveloped in crusty deliciousness. This resulted in copious amounts of wine being consumed, mostly as a defense mechanism in order to facilitate swallowing.

Chef Ina Garten is directly responsible for my fresh parsley stage. She is the queen of finishing each dish with just a touch of lemon, kosher salt or parsley to bring out its hidden flavors. My rationale is that I might have fallen asleep while six back-to-back episodes of “The Barefoot Contessa” played on and into my subconscious. I happily chopped and decorated until I stopped in my tracks one morning, realizing that my garnishing days were numbered after absentmindedly adorning my morning oatmeal.

Grateful for no lingering food allergies, I moved on to footwear. My love of shoes presented itself in a fascination with spectators. Popular in the 1930s, the low-heeled oxford style men’s shoe is known for its contrasting colors on its toe and heel. Wallis Simpson’s spectators, thought of as quite flamboyant at the time, might very well have been the catalyst for Edward VIII to abdicate the English throne. To me, they signified the allure of a time past. My search finally landed me at an Allen Edmonds shoe store, where I treated myself to a pair, to the fascination of their male clientele. To this day, I worry about falling forward when I wear them, as I lean over to appreciate their sculptural lines.

Which brings me to my two latest crushes: spray bottles and vinegar. As we all know, spray bottles were originally invented to fill with holy water and hide by the front door. If you worked quickly, you could mist your child as they entered back into the world, without them ever realizing it. I have no idea where using vinegar came from, other than the fact that I have been eating a lot of salad lately. My collection contains white vinegar and water as a household cleaner, white vinegar and dishwashing liquid as a weed killer and apple cider vinegar to rejuvenate my skin. Now that the bottles are properly labelled and the chaos has subsided, I can settle into a spraying frenzy.

As I flow in and out of these infatuations, I have lasting memories of them all; Scrabble (playing for money finally got my family back on board with board games), polka dots (curiosity into its history led me into an in-depth study of what I have termed “polkadotology”) and flamenco dancing (was being invited by a guitarist to dance on the street in Seville, Spain my 15 minutes of fame?) to name just a few.

Not a movement so powerful as to become a trend and not consuming me into an obsession, an infatuation is a playful fondness that lurks inside us all, if we just take the time to grasp its pudgy, little hand and come out and play.

 

 

 

 

Which Ish is Which?

Photo Ish

These three letters are my gift to you
But, use them wisely whatever you do

Ish was born in merry England of old
The suffix is sly when its meanings unfold

It prays on naivety to get its meaning across
Ish’s gain could very well be your loss

“Insert Sarcasm Here” is its acronym when you text
And while you’re pondering that, let me tell you what’s next

So that rap songs are able to play on the air
A slang was created to edit when they swear

The words are jumbled, making the song now legit
You guessed it, ish is rap lingo for *#!%

And now, the ishs you’ve been waiting for
Keep this one your back pocket and with people you’ll score

It lessens the intensity when added to a word
It’s not really a lie, just an opinion blurred

“…It’s a bit smallish…”, “…She looks youngish…”, you respond with confidence
Knowing full well you’ll never be accused of false pretense

I’ve saved the very best for last
Of this one, I’m a real enthusiast

“I’ll be ready at sixish”, you say with a smile
Your partner’s scratching his/her head wondering all the while

Are we coming or going? Do we even have a date?
Will we be arriving early or be fashionably late?

So, gather your ishs and dole them out where you may
And remember, it’s not what you think, it’s what you say

 

Shout out: to my Sun City posse for their ish inspiration.

When You Zag Rather Than Zig

Photo Zig Zag

It’s not the way it was supposed to happen. It always arrives at the most inopportune time. It’s never invited, it just crashes your party and refuses to leave. It overpowers your thoughts, changes your plans and affects your emotions. It leaves you feeling lost and unguided.

Disappointment can be annoying, crushing or somewhere in between, but when things don’t go our way, how do we really know which direction they were intended? Until that door closes, another one cannot open. Even though it’s frustrating, we have no choice but to patiently wait until the entire scenario plays itself out before we get to see how it ends.

The end is usually a new beginning. A love lost that steers us toward our true partner. A career change that sparks our creativity. A move that lands us where we belong. Tears that make us appreciate every smile. Maladies that help us to celebrate life.

I am always in awe of the sheer strength and determination of the human spirit. There’s something inside us that gives us an internal hug just when we need it the most. It’s like the throb you feel when a wound starts to heal. It’s your body letting you know that it’s being attended to and before long, it seems as if it had never happened.

Whether you believe that you are being guided by a higher power or by the universe, we can all agree that a little fortitude, hutzpah and moxie will go a long way in reminding us that sometimes we need to go left when things don’t go right and that zag doesn’t always follow zig.

 

Do I Need More Pippi in My Longstocking?

Photo Pippi Longstocking

Our only similarity is that we were both born with red hair. From the first time I met her, she was my idol. She is fiercely independent, unconventional, playful and unpredictable. Her pigtails fly in the wind, her grin widens and her freckled face flushes, as she races from one adventure to the next with her best friends: her horse, her monkey and the two children that live next door to her at her home, Villa Villekula.

Pippi Longstocking (full name Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Longstocking) is the figment of the imagination of Swedish author Astrid Lindgren. Recuperating from an illness, Astrid’s daughter asked her mom for a story and named the main character Pippi. Initially rejected by publishers, the books have since been translated into 76 languages and made into television shows and movies.

As a little girl reading the books, my eyes would widen and my heart would race; how exciting to be so free! Little did I know that my personality had already evolved, as observed by JC*. She quickly realized that, rather than inheriting her easygoing nature, my tendencies for perfection and order were thanks to my dad.

She knew she had her hands full, but guided me along with such patience. By the time she received the call that I was in the nurse’s office by second period on my first day of junior high, she was resigned to the fact that I was a bit different from other children. Apparently, I did not see the humor in being handed one of the first computerized class schedules, having only a few minutes to arrive before the bell rang and being mistakenly assigned to the boy’s bathroom for second period.

In my efforts to be a bit more spontaneous, I have actually made some major strides:

  • I visited a model home and did not rearrange anything (I’m not sure if this counts, since Mr. Wiz* was holding my hand, tightly).
  • I polished my fingernails a completely different color than my toenails.
  • On a whim, I changed my grocery shopping day from Friday to Thursday.
  • I double snoozed my alarm.
  • I impulsively ate four Triscuits with lunch, rather than my usual three and did not worry about biting cracker number four precisely on its horizontal markings.
  • I went on a trip without any pre-planning, waking up each day and deciding on my next Wait a minute that was a friend of mine that did that, not me!

Oh to be a bit eccentric! What fun it would be to make paper airplanes out of my to do lists with my avant-garde pals. Regrettably, I am only able to participate as a spectator, realizing that the only flow I am able to go with is if it has first been documented on an Excel spreadsheet.

At first, I thought that living vicariously through others was unfortunate. Then I realized that family and friends are as fascinated with my quirks as I am with theirs. They loosen me up, I keep them on track and together, we walk through life one unique step at a time.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

 

 

 

Tell Your Worries to Take a Hike (Literally)

Photo Take a Hike

Mud; that’s all I remember about my first hiking experience. It was not a pleasant one (read “Coming Clean on a Dirty Little Secret: My First Hike Fiasco”). That’s the beauty of being a late bloomer; being just a tad behind the curve allows me the opportunity to watch and learn from others.

Years later, when Mr. Wiz* invited me to join him on the Camino, I had a decision to make. Do I stay behind, afraid to try something out of my comfort zone? Or, do I join him on this adventure and walk 500 miles through Spain? After some research, I decided that if pilgrims had been walking the Way of Saint James to the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela (where tradition has it that his remains are buried) since medieval times, this was something not to miss.

I still remember the day the REI salesperson tied me into my first pair of hiking boots. As I stood at the top of that mountain, I felt positively giddy; no matter that it was the four-foot plastic mountain in the middle of the shoe department.

Walking for 33 days changes you; with nothing to be concerned about except your immediate surroundings, life slows down. It’s amazing what can go on while your feet are moving. Spending hours watching them maneuver rocky paths cleans out all those cobwebs in your brain. Sharing stories and feelings with someone you’ve just met exhilarates you. Walking in silence is meditation in motion.

The sounds of rustling leaves, rushing water or a bird singing, the feeling that comes from taking a big deep breath on a cool day and that wonderful ache you feel from pushing your body just a little bit more; this is Mother Nature’s way of putting her arms around you.

Too much wild life can take its toll. Let’s try to balance the party animal in us all with some tranquility. Being down to earth rewards us with the mental, spiritual and physical aspects of life that we might have missed out on, had we not stopped to smell the roses.

So, when all else fails, get out there and walk! Worries and stress are no match for flora and fauna. Uncomplicate those complications, hop over those hurdles, break down those barriers; it’s amazing how solutions can miraculously appear if you just let your feet lead the way and take one step at a time.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

Classified Information: Our Family’s Secret Language

Photo Classified

It all started while watching one of those late night black and white movies. A woman had plastic surgery after an accident. After a bout with amnesia, she finally returned to her family, but they were never really sure if it was her. This led to the creation of our family’s secret handshake. These days when one of us does or says something out of character, we use it in a humorous way as if to say “…Is it really you?..”

When Big A* was a little boy, I told him to remember “…It’s what you hear…” If I was not there to pick him up after school, he was not to leave with anyone unless they said the word “oreja” (the Spanish word for “ear”). When he was a teen, he knew he could always whisper our code word “despacio” (Spanish for “slowly”) when he wanted me to take it down a notch in front of his friends.

Throughout the years, Mr. Wiz* and I have unwittingly developed an entire communication system. Through facial expressions and eye movements, we can express ourselves in a clandestine manner, even in a crowded room. We can complement each other, ask if that’s what we’re really going to wear, agree to leave early or stay late, accept or decline an invitation on the spot or suggest that we not tell that story again.

Of course, all covert operations have their glitches. Once at an auction, my sudden sneeze was misinterpreted as a signal to hold up our paddle. Luckily, we were out-bid and the Picasso never joined our art collection. Likewise, innocent tapping of fingers on a table could be misconstrued as an emergency Morse Code message.

This combined with some made up words and an alpha/numeric system that my dad taught me as a little girl (whereby numbers 1 through 10 are replaced by letters) makes for techniques that rival CIA intelligence operations.

Though we have been approached and asked that we share this complex, intricate methodology with operatives around the world, we have decided to keep it between us as just another way for our little family to huddle together in our private club and smile as we celebrate what makes us unique.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

Questioning the Quirky

Photo Questioning th Quirky

Designer toast for breakfast anyone?

Once in a while, I like to take the time to let my mind wander and wonder about all those little things that most pay no attention to. As guilty pleasures go, it’s also very cathartic; the cobwebs seem to disappear from the corners of my brain. It’s the equivalent of swishing mouthwash and that refreshing minty taste you’re left with. Here are my some of my most recent ponderings:

-Why do we sing “Rock a Bye Baby” to infants when we know perfectly well our soothing voices will soon croon the last stanza that inevitably leads to a 911 call?

-A popular new business has sprung up where you create a DIY project while enjoying cocktails. If I didn’t have any artistic ability before I entered, how will libations help my creations?

-Why do airline seats recline if reclining them can lead to airplane rage (similar to road rage, but without the foot pedals and steering wheel)?

-Has anyone actually been arrested for removing the tag off their mattress? If so, are they assigned to a special area of prison, along with the anglers who purchased the fish they entered in the bass fishing competition (a real thing)?

-Did Dr. Seuss have anything to do with the naming of Pflugerville, Texas? Every time I pass the sign for the exit on the highway, I smile to myself and wonder: are the Pflugers in Pflugerville all filled with glee to realize their town is a source of Seuss imagery?

-Does toast that pops out of a $650 Dolce and Gabbana toaster taste any better? Rumor has it that the toaster’s heating coils will not accept a slice of plain, white bread. Hurry to Neiman Marcus (aka “Needless Markup”) while supplies last and do plan to name drop: “…Sorry I’m late, but I had to polish my $650 Dolce and Gabbana toaster with mink oil…”

Sometimes it’s not a bad idea to take the road less traveled, stop and smell the roses, give your mind a well-deserved rest and not be too quick to disregard the quirky.