I'm one of those lifelong Chicagoans who has never embraced Chicago winters. In fact, the disdain I have for the approaching season of snow, cold, ice, and slush gets worse every year. So I've decided to be proactive this year. I bought a SAD lamp, expected to come by FedEx next week. I sure hope it works.
But can a SAD lamp cure my fear of driving in slippery new-fallen snow? Can it provide the brilliant color that disappears from yards and entryways when all the summer flowers die? But I have decided not to dwell on these questions and take another positive step: listing all the things I like about winter (and this will take deep thought).
The first item that comes to mind is trivial but important to me: I love winter sweaters. No, not the ones with reindeers frolicking across the bosom or the ones with a Fair Isle pattern across the neckline. (Truthfully, I hate those sweaters.) I just love cashmere, merino wool, even heavy cabled cottons. I love the colors that winter sweaters come in too. Claret, amethyst, teal, and my all-time favorite, black.
Another thing I love about winter? I don't feel obligated to have regular pedicures. One exception: My annual visit to the gynecologist is always in winter, and I vainly make sure I have colorful, non-chipping toenails for that event.
I also like holiday parties, not just for the camaraderie, but also for the opportunity to wear those lovely winter sweaters...
I'm sure there are many more reasons to love winter, but I can't seem to summon them right now. Next post, I planned to talk about what I dislike about winter, but I can't think of a single thing that millions of others haven't said before about the season. So I'm officially off this subject, for now.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Just a simple "thank you"
Allow me to deviate from the theme of this blog to mention an observation I've made over the years. Most—not all—of the women to whom compliments are given cannot simply answer with a "thank you." I include myself in this group. I'm one of the worst offenders, if this is the right word to describe it.
On second thought, there is a sort of charm to this offense. When told, for example, that the boots you're wearing are adorable, you may respond with "These? They're so old, I almost didn't wear them today. I'm not sure they're still in style." Or maybe someone told you, "I love your hair that way" and you replied, "Do you? I'm having such a bad hair day." Haven't you ever said something like "What a cute blouse!" only to hear the complimentee say "But it has a spot on the left side, under the arm"?
Why is it that so many women cannot let praise be praise? Why must we set the record straight lest the complimentor really think we are clueless about that spot or the outmoded fashion of our boots? I don't have the answers myself, so this is a rhetorical question, unless someone wishes to comment and let me know what's going on.
As I said, I believe this behavior might be charming rather than pathologic. After all, don't women—as a rule—often provide much more information than expected? We tend to overexplain. And maybe that's what makes us women. (Yes, there are many exceptions. But I haven't found too many of them in my own observations.)
On second thought, there is a sort of charm to this offense. When told, for example, that the boots you're wearing are adorable, you may respond with "These? They're so old, I almost didn't wear them today. I'm not sure they're still in style." Or maybe someone told you, "I love your hair that way" and you replied, "Do you? I'm having such a bad hair day." Haven't you ever said something like "What a cute blouse!" only to hear the complimentee say "But it has a spot on the left side, under the arm"?
Why is it that so many women cannot let praise be praise? Why must we set the record straight lest the complimentor really think we are clueless about that spot or the outmoded fashion of our boots? I don't have the answers myself, so this is a rhetorical question, unless someone wishes to comment and let me know what's going on.
As I said, I believe this behavior might be charming rather than pathologic. After all, don't women—as a rule—often provide much more information than expected? We tend to overexplain. And maybe that's what makes us women. (Yes, there are many exceptions. But I haven't found too many of them in my own observations.)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A meal maven I'm not
One thing I am not doing as I get older: Getting better at cooking. What I am doing is getting better at cooking without cooking. I can make a pretty impressive salad, complete with pine nuts and four kinds of lettuce. I can artfully arrange pita chips around a swirl of store-bought hummus with a little sprinkle of paprika on it. So I guess it's fair to say that putting out uncooked food is my forte. ("Forte" may be an exaggeration since it takes me three times as long as anyone else to cut up a cucumber.)
It's not that I can't cook at all. I'm now expected to bring a batch of potato kugel muffins to every Passover seder. I guess you would call that my signature dish. But, generally, I'm not confident when having to put food into an oven, watch it, possibly baste it regularly, and then know when it's done—with or without a food thermometer. When it finally comes out of the oven, I can't trust myself to slice it properly. Against the grain? With the grain? And which way is the grain going anyway?
I always thought that when I cut back on working (I'm now down to three days a week) I'd have the time to try new recipes and practice my culinary skills. But that hasn't happened. Besides contributing to mealtime only by making salads, I excel at collecting menus from nearby restaurants like Corner Bakery or Go Roma or the carry-out Szechwan palace down the street.
It's not that I can't cook at all. I'm now expected to bring a batch of potato kugel muffins to every Passover seder. I guess you would call that my signature dish. But, generally, I'm not confident when having to put food into an oven, watch it, possibly baste it regularly, and then know when it's done—with or without a food thermometer. When it finally comes out of the oven, I can't trust myself to slice it properly. Against the grain? With the grain? And which way is the grain going anyway?
I always thought that when I cut back on working (I'm now down to three days a week) I'd have the time to try new recipes and practice my culinary skills. But that hasn't happened. Besides contributing to mealtime only by making salads, I excel at collecting menus from nearby restaurants like Corner Bakery or Go Roma or the carry-out Szechwan palace down the street.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Who am I becoming?
Years ago, I’d watch certain actions by my mother with amusement and a tinge of disdain. Become obsessive about collecting coupons? Not me. Not ever. Amass a pile of shopping bags and plastic totes—just in case they’re someday needed? Nope. Too messy. Too old-ladyish. Spend the day after hosting a family dinner complaining of exhaustion and turning down invitations to go out? I couldn’t see myself letting a little cleaning, cooking, and serving get the best of me.
But that was then. Little by little these days, I see my mother creep into my persona. For example, we hosted a small family holiday celebration last night. My husband did much of the cooking, although I ran up and down the aisles of two supermarkets during the day, dusted, and dragged out the heavy dining room table pads and retrieved the better china. But I also got down on the floor several times to play and commune with my preschool grandsons, each time groaning my way to an upright position. Then came today. I feel as if I’ve been in a triathlon without any training. I ache everywhere, and all I want to do is sleep or eat leftovers.
Am I collecting coupons? Yes, I cut them from the Sunday paper flyers religiously. I also, nine times out of ten, forget to use them. So in that respect, I’m not my mother. In fact, she would berate me for paying full price while a 50-cents-off coupon languishes inside my purse.
And the shopping bags? I have them, in a dark corner of our master closet. You never know when you have something to tote…
But it isn’t just my mother’s habits wending their way into my psyche. Decades ago, I found my paternal grandmother’s frequent meal of cottage cheese topped with canned fruit a little sad and definitely a symbol of old age. But recently I developed a taste for this combination—if only as a snack.
I’m not going to fight this though. I am what I am, or rather, I am what I’ve become and will continue to become. This process has given me a new appreciation for the older generation. I’m sure my mother and grandmother and anyone else whose habits I’ve adopted would love to hear me say that … if only they were still around.
But that was then. Little by little these days, I see my mother creep into my persona. For example, we hosted a small family holiday celebration last night. My husband did much of the cooking, although I ran up and down the aisles of two supermarkets during the day, dusted, and dragged out the heavy dining room table pads and retrieved the better china. But I also got down on the floor several times to play and commune with my preschool grandsons, each time groaning my way to an upright position. Then came today. I feel as if I’ve been in a triathlon without any training. I ache everywhere, and all I want to do is sleep or eat leftovers.
Am I collecting coupons? Yes, I cut them from the Sunday paper flyers religiously. I also, nine times out of ten, forget to use them. So in that respect, I’m not my mother. In fact, she would berate me for paying full price while a 50-cents-off coupon languishes inside my purse.
And the shopping bags? I have them, in a dark corner of our master closet. You never know when you have something to tote…
But it isn’t just my mother’s habits wending their way into my psyche. Decades ago, I found my paternal grandmother’s frequent meal of cottage cheese topped with canned fruit a little sad and definitely a symbol of old age. But recently I developed a taste for this combination—if only as a snack.
I’m not going to fight this though. I am what I am, or rather, I am what I’ve become and will continue to become. This process has given me a new appreciation for the older generation. I’m sure my mother and grandmother and anyone else whose habits I’ve adopted would love to hear me say that … if only they were still around.
Friday, September 18, 2009
I couldn't have done it myself
Not having found any new facial flaws in the last 48 hours, I’m forced to find something else to gripe about. Nobody ever told me that, in my sixties, I would start to have difficulty clasping bracelets, opening jars, and tearing the protective paper seal off a carton of hummus. I'm fortunate to have a husband who, a few years my junior, can still do these things--most of the time.
I'm also unlucky enough to have reached this stage of life at the same time that manufacturers are making sure no product can be tampered with (even by its legal owner). It's some solace, though, that even twenty-somethings have trouble with the hard plastic clamshell that can't be opened without a butcher knife, if that.
I'm also unlucky enough to have reached this stage of life at the same time that manufacturers are making sure no product can be tampered with (even by its legal owner). It's some solace, though, that even twenty-somethings have trouble with the hard plastic clamshell that can't be opened without a butcher knife, if that.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Beauty, where art thou?
It's a lose-lose situation: I use a lighted magnifying mirror because I need one. I'm still nearsighted (although getting more farsighted each year), and the mirror over my bathroom sink is too far away to allow me to put on eyeliner that actually lands at the top of my lashes. But peering into such a magnified view of my face, I discover daily atrocities. For example--and as long as I'm on the subject of eyelashes, where did my long, curly, thick lashes go? When did they get so thin and uninteresting?
And I can't seem to find my lips anywhere. Yes, they're still there, sort of, beneath my nostrils. But they're so...undefined. They're just there, looking neither lucious nor youthful. (Well, what did I expect at this age?)
And I can't seem to find my lips anywhere. Yes, they're still there, sort of, beneath my nostrils. But they're so...undefined. They're just there, looking neither lucious nor youthful. (Well, what did I expect at this age?)
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