50-something Moms Blog

If You Can’t Stand the Tile, Stay Out of the Kitchen

I hate my kitchen. Really. And. Truly. It’s the only thing about my house that I genuinely despise.

I live in Silicon Valley, where the price per square foot is ridiculously off the chart in comparison with the rest of the country, so even a small dwelling bears a price tag that would indicate that you must be rich and famous elsewhere.

Like wizened billionaires, my kitchen is unattractive and ugly. It’s small and narrow; two people have to choreograph their moves to stay out of each other’s way. You can’t open the unusually small oven door if you are getting something out of the refrigerator (fortunately, I don’t have this conflict often). Functionally, it does what it’s supposed to. There’s a fridge (actually two since there are six of us), a double oven, and a range top that’s exactly like the one in Graceland. Yep, I can cook like the King. How long has that guy been dead, anyway?

A step in time…

 A week ago, I went to one of those discount shoe places to look for sneakers for my teenage son. What I came home with was something entirely unexpected.

Now, please understand, I am not Imelda Marcos. Quite the opposite, actually. My footwear is not sexy or frivolous and, with the exception of my latest running shoes, does not cause blisters or pain.

Sometimes these types of stores are a great source for brand-name shoes, and other times, it seems like a clearinghouse for shoes that would only fit circus clowns. (And I can say that in moderate safety because I have super wide and rather big feet and even then I still am amazed at the size of the shoes as I mentally scale the huge proportions of the human that would fit inside them.)

You know those stories where the lead character goes to some ordinary place (oh, like a wardrobe, for instance) and then is magically transported elsewhere? Well, that's pretty much what happened amid the neat stacks of New Balances, Candies, and Keds.

If being green is so right, how can this be wrong?

Shh. I have a laundry line in my back yard. As a lover of fresh-smelling clothes, it doesn’t seem like a really radical statement; actually, it seems rather quaint.

For me, it conjures up images of my grandmother, her braids crowning her head, amid fluttering sheets in the sunshine. (Nana also had one of those washers with hand-cranked rollers in the basement, but I don’t find that image quite as charming when put into context of my household laundry for six people.)

Laundry lines have fallen out of favor, and I’m not exactly sure why, especially in this day and age of everyone trumpeting the benefits of being green. OK, I partially get it; nobody wants to see their neighbors’ tighty whities fluttering in the breeze. Or nobody wants their neighbor to see their skimpy animal-print undies under any circumstances. I get that, and boy, do I respect that.

Run for your life

Over the past few years, I’ve noticed runners. In increasing numbers. People who I never imagined taking up running started doing it. Since I tend to either hang out with middle-aged people or kids, I take more notice when it’s the middle-aged ones huffing and puffing down the sidewalks. 

I used to run when I was in college and into my early 30s. I never really liked it, but it was a convenient enough way to get exercise. In my best running days, I didn’t run more than 5 miles on a regular basis. And those days, as my Hershey Kiss shape will tell you, were traded in for long hours in front of a computer screen long ago.

A Coincidental Village

A few weeks ago, I made one of my quasi-regular visits to Curves to work out. I was greeted at the door by one of the owners who told me that the club was closing at the end of the month.

Initially, I was relieved because I hadn’t been going regularly to truly justify paying the monthly fee, but I’ve always been very comfortable knowing it was there for me, just in case I needed it.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I did need it, and I’m not just talking about the aspect of getting a workout on the different machines and moving from one to another in 30-second intervals until I’d finished several circuits around the room.

No, that wasn’t it at all. Curves has a slogan, "Discover a gym where women change their lives - 30 minutes at a time," and this was keenly true of this particular one but not so much as the advertising slogan intended. This Curves was a special place, a place where many women who would not have ordinarily met one another came together and ended up forming a special community.

The magic of the Hobart Shakespeareans

The floor was shaking, bouncing up and down. Really hard.  As the floor moved up and down so vigorously, I wondered how good the building construction was and whether the second floor classroom was about to make a sudden drop onto the first floor.

An earthquake? No. A roaring version of  ‘Loveshack,’ performed by elementary school students, rocking with electric guitars and dancing in wild choreography to lighting that would have made the Fillmore proud…all as part of  William Shakespeare’s ‘As You Like It.’

HUH? Loveshack and Shakespeare?

Christmas Letter angst

About 15 years ago, I was one of those people who sneered at the generic Christmas letter that arrived with holiday cards. What? A basic form letter, one-size-fits-most, to keep in touch with friends? Banish the thought. I felt that my holiday cards were the means to stay in touch with many people, and the last thing I wanted to do was relegate them to some form-letter blandness. So, almost as if I were humming Irving Berlin songs, I wrote personal notes in each and every card I sent. Yes, it was somewhat more time-consuming, but I felt like people would appreciate the personal touch. I know that I appreciated the cards where folks who took the time to write even a small hello over those who only signed cards or tossed in their pre-printed round-up of the year.

A few years later, our twins arrived in late November. Besides having new babies, we launched into the holiday season where the twins wore adorable Santa and Mrs. Clause outfits to parties, and everything was merry and bright. Their big brother was well adjusted to the new siblings and life was good on the homefront. To be honest, I think I might have taken photos of the kids that were slipped into cards that year without much of a note. People would understand, right? I had new babies. I was busy! But it was the first step down the slippery slope...