Happy Birthday to Me!

I arrived.

At my big 6-0.

Intact.

Better than intact.

The feeling of exhilaration washes over me. Energizes my being. Good things are in store.

It is an auspicious birthday. The Eve of Chinese New Year. The year of, well, me!

The 'me' in the sense that I have an exciting agenda that is unfolding. Promising to say the least.

And, I feel good. Invigorated. At peace. Joyful.

My dolphin energy abounds.

I am ready for this, my seventh decade!

Finally comfortable with the woman I have become. My inner strengths. My resilience. My playfulness. My vitality.

Gracefully I smile as I face forward and stroll into the mellow sunshine of my future.

Cheers!

It's almost here!

Today we spent a lovely afternoon at a most delightful table by the sea. Not al fresco. No. That would have been crazy in the twenty degree weather. But close enough to enjoy the sunshine sparkling across a flat winter ocean. Gorgeous.

So there we were. My gorgeous Mom, my darling sister, her husband my dear dear friend and my step-father. The only ones missing were my precious Charlie and my sweet sister Mary who is enjoying the warmest of weather in her home on the other coast.

It was my 60th birthday celebration. A little early due to another impending blizzard. Special. And a day that I'll treasure. Imprinted indelibly. A memory maker. A sliver of rich dark chocolate mousse cake adorned with a raspberry glaze and a dollop of fresh cream. Forks all around. Smiles deep and broad. My loves. My family. My treasures.

I am almost there. Oz. The sparkle and contours of my yellow brick road has beckoned these past twelve plus months. Leading me in a most circuitous route through the magic of revisiting old friendships to the joys of making new ones. From reliving prior relationships, to forging forward. Circumnavigating a few rocks strewn not so casually across my path. Gracefully strolling on. My smile glistening. My eyes a'sparkle. My heart open.

I enter my seventh decade with a stronger sense of self. Proud of the woman I have become along the way. Empowered by my successes. Humbled by the hiccups. Liberated from preconceived notions that fastened me to a predetermined set of expectations. Free to be me.

The runway shortens. Yet my opportunities seem boundless. I look forward with the greatest and most sincere joy to what lies ahead.

Cheers to becoming the me I was destined to become. Cheers to my brilliance in imagining the possibilities. Cheers to adventures and discoveries just around the bend.

I am well on my way. Look out world! And it is not even Groundhog's Day yet. Just think!! More, much more, to come.

Wahoo! Almost happy birthday to me ...

Ballet Shoes

My Mom took my pudgy hand in hers, our fingers laced, as she walked me down the wooden stairs of the stone church in St. Matthews to a large studio awhirl with cotton candy swirls. Mirrors framed the room's perimeter creating silvery-taupe reflections of the polished wooden floor.

An upright piano stood solitary along the back wall. A woman with grey-blue hair tied delicately in a bun tinkled the ivories while little girls in black leotards and pink tights giggled as they twirled and slid gleefully.

My steps were careful. One pink Capezio slipper in front of the other. My tummy filled with butterflies and magic. My first ballet lesson was about to begin. I was three.

Rooted deep within my being is an adoration of all shoes ballet. Not the toe shoes with pink ribbons encircling the turn of an ankle tied in a bow at the curve of a calf. From a prior life perhaps, when pirouetting en pointe was part of my daily regimen in the gaiety of 19th century Parisian courtier.

I simply adore the graceful turn of a skimmer flat. The way it sits on the foot framing its shape, toe cleavage peaking shyly at the curvature of the last.

Through the decades I have always worn some variety of the delicate flat in a multitude of colors. Textures. Embellishments. Accoutrements.

Black patent Capezio (but of course) skimmer flats with mother of pearl buttons accessorized my frilly, hand-smocked 1950s birthday party dresses fanning tutu-like over ruffled crinoline slips.

As a French student abroad in the mid to late 1960s, I purchased a half dozen assortment for 21 francs au Printemps in Paris. $4.20 a pair.

In college I paired the ballet flat with my black velvet bell bottom pants sliding effortlessly across whatever dance floor, or not, I found myself on.

Today, some fifty plus years later, my closet is filled with ballet flats. Mostly all are black: suede, patent, leather, velvet, silk, metallic, lizard. Some adorned with a small bow or a gold doo-dad. Most naked.

I wear them everywhere. Even my bedroom slippers are pink kid Capezio ballet dance shoes sans elastic strap. Replaced, mais bien sûr, when tattered.

Audrey Hepburn chic. Skinny capris and a cigarette holder held limp in an arched wrist. I so enjoy the balance they bring to my gait. A stroll. A glide. Charm. Grace.

I will never apologize for my love of ballet flats. Jamais.

All of life should be so harmonious. Cheers!

BP

Today officially ends the summer of wackos.

Capped. Cemented shut. Gushing no more. The Deep Horizon well. And, me.

Yep. Since spring of this year. BPs loom large. Wreaking havoc with innocence. Casting a pall. Shrouding the light. Science, technology and chemistry run amuk.

BP (British Petroleum): The gulf oil spill gunking up the waters, the shores, sea life for decades to come. Polluting the environment and the economy in catastrophic proportions.

BP (bipolar): Men mucking up my sense of stability. My good natured self. Wreaking havoc with my soul. Their tortured demons spilling into the calm of my sea. My compassionate self swept into their respective storms. One right after the other. Boom. A one-two jab. Sucker punched. Jerked back and fro by my own gullible doing. Their episodes rocking the boat. Capsizing my confidence. My sense of self. My dreams. Another crack in the lens of my once-rosy view.

The well that spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico is finally dead. So is the craziness of the summer. The ups. The downs. The all-arounds. Revived dreams. A make-good. Bringing my best self. Real. Honest. Compassionate. Giving. Loving. Trusting.

So today marks the end. Officially.

A permanent cement plug sealed BP's well nearly 2.5 miles below the sea floor, five agonizing months after an explosion sank a drilling rig and led to the worst offshore oil spill in U.S. history.

A tourettes-like rant out of nowhere, unsolicited, uncalled for, undeserved, devalued my values, intellect and belief system plugged my romantic heart, three hope filled months after being reawakened after seventeen years. Get out of the fucking country. What?! OMG. Jolted into reality. Exactly why it all fell apart twice before. [A girl can hope, can't she? Or, be stupidly blinded. Guilty as charged.]

Dead. Both the deep water oil well and the recent resurfacing of my so-called life love.

I dodged a bullet. Again.

The light filters in. Oddly I still feel that there is something great just around the corner. I just know it. Bring it on. This time leave the BPs out of the equation.

La Mama, A Wedding Cake House and A Fellow Lexingtonian

My beautiful mother gracefully slowly swung her long still-coltish legs to step out of the car. I was there to balance her step into the gravel shoulder on Summer Street.

Her deep brown liquid eyes scanned the historic homes and manicured landscape taking in every minute detail. Her face glows. Her smile, her signature smile, spread across her face beaming.

It is a gorgeous September day. One of those clear bright ones where the sky is so blue that the vibrancy of each autumn leaf pops with definite edges. The palette is breathtaking. Vivid reds, rusty orange, lemony yellow.

Quintessential New England brilliantly color-coordinated by Mother Nature herself. The other decorator extraordinaire.

Mom has impeccable taste.

Always has.

Whether it is the warmth of a gracious life reflected in her interior design.

Her bountiful gardens laden with budding bougainvillea vines leafing over trellised porticoes. Or the clematis and wisteria snaking up and over twin pergolas framing her screened veranda overlooking the harbor.

Or, the elegant style of her clothes ... whether jeans or dressy slacks or evening attire. Accessorized perfectly from her over-abundant collections. Scarves tossed casually, perfectly accenting her outfit. Whether Maine

Mom's got it in a way I can only hope to imitate.

Her soft Kentucky drawl breaks my rambling thoughts. She wants to bottle today. Protect and save its ephemeral beauty with her treasures. Those collected over a lifetime. Her eighty-plus years.

A warmth envelopes my being. She is elegant, my Mom. Simply stunning. These days, too, are fleeting. We turn to each other and nod knowingly.

On to our business. Touring the rarely opened Wedding Cake House. Hosted by its eccentric octogenarian owner, Jimmy Barker. A fellow Lexingtonian. A Southern gentleman art dealer of the first order. A character in his own right with homes here on the coast of Maine, in the rolling bluegrass of Kentucky and in swanky Palm Beach.

We purchase the tickets which will benefit local food pantries and stroll the immaculate grounds. Birds sing. A few leaves swirl and fall to the ground. The gentle breeze flutters flower petals in the English urns on either side of the front door. We take a seat on a lovely painted Chinese Chippendale outdoors bench. And wait for the small group to assemble.

Inside the Wedding Cake House we are treated to its fabled historied past. The furnishings are period some. Others fine pieces giving the home an eclectic spirit. Old and new. Like us. Our style. I escort her from one room to the next. Up the narrow winding 18th century staircase built by out of work ship carpenters. Like in my home.

Jimmy Barker himself is there. Cooking for his dinner guests. The lovely walnut trestle table set in a riot of colors. He spins around looking spry for his eighty-something years. He and Mom connect. Stories from earlier times in their old Kentucky home roll excitedly off their tongues. Memories of people long forgotten stream back.

I stand aside and take it all in. Happily. Mom is enraptured. There accents so thick a knife might not cut through. It has been a fun afternoon reminiscing. Visiting old friends in an out-of-context surroundings.

Cheers, darling Mama, with all my love and deep devotion ... and then some! May you live forever.

Legal Eagle or No More (R)egret

I know. I know. We are not supposed to have regrets.

But I do. Two of 'em.

Harbored over the years since my twenties. Both related.

I can do nothing about one of them. Nada. But my son did it for me. So I can live vicariously.

The other? That is another story.

I am about to turn that one on its head. Kablooey. Out of here. Erase that one for all of eternity.

Well kind of.

I have been contemplating the second regret every few years for most of my adult life. Whether employed as a banker, a venture capitalist or entrepreneur ... or not.

Deal doing and contracts are my forte. From the deal side. The business side. I have often imagined how proficient I might have become at negotiating had I accomplished this one thing that I had set out to do in the mid 1970s.

But with rampant inflation (remember President Fords WIN?), high unemployment (double digits ... sound familiar) ... high energy costs strangling the market (compliments of the 1974-OPEC oil embargo) taking the entire Northeast and much of the country into one of the deepest recessions since the Stock Market Crash in '20. Depression economics redux.

I changed direction in media res. Right as I was ready to matriculate with hordes of other recent college graduate Baby Boomers in Bean Town.

Charted a new direction for my undefined career path. Just like that. Blammo!

What, you are wondering (if you are still with me here), is this Steel Magnolia referring to?

I promise you it is not earth shattering. Not in the least. But it did alter the direction of my theretofore strategic dreams. The natural follow-up to a career as a legislator of the highest order leveraging my American Government/Economics degree.

But I couldn't get my arms around it. Nor my head.

The country had been brought to its knees by an unpopular war (sound familiar) birthing the horrid, polarizing derision of public opinion that has entrapped our media, our voices and our citizens today.

There was a glut of students grabbing at anything post graduate to make a living. Young associates were taking showers (I imagine they still do) at work in the glass and steel skyscrapers dotting the horizon on our country's major metropolises.

The practice was so far off that my imagination and creativity and ability to see the forest for the trees might be radically impaired beyond recognition. And that, dear reader, was the deal point. Would have been my Waterloo, so to speak

So I switched gears. At the last moment. Whew!

Okay. Okay. What is this regret that has haunted me for the past thirty-five years?

I cancelled my matriculation at law school. Right before the final drop dead date. At the time, double programs granting professional degrees in both the law and business (the JD/MBA combo ... killer I might add, if you pleased) were not readily offered.

Yes. I have regretted that decision ever since.

In six weeks I matriculate at the same Boston institution of higher learning where I withdrew my place in 1976. Online. A paralegal course leading to certification. Add another arrow to my quiver. And just possibly, a jump-start and new direction to my capabilities and ability to attract new business.

Cheers to my agility and the timeliness of this 'do over' ... and imagining the possibilities.

Underpants

I am always prepared.

It is in my oldest-child nature.

So it should come as no surprise that when confronted with a tornado watch I know what to do, what paraphernalia to have nearby and how to relax (breathe in, breathe out).

You see, I was in a Category 5 tornado. April 3rd, 1974. Around 5 PM. Caught totally unawares. Mom and me and Jason. Freaked me way the hell out. The half mile wide vortex swirling trees, houses, cars and popping electric lines like toothpicks heading my way.

Scared me out of my ever lovin' mind. Swing low, sweet chariot coming for to carry me home. And all. Thought I was a goner. Me and the maids from the apartment complex I was visiting. Huddled in a heap by the elevator doors in the lobby. Knowing that sweet Jesus was headed our way to bring us into the glory. Not me. I'm Jewish. But there's a certain comfort in travelling with a god-fearing crowd.

Over in less than a minute. The sky came tumbling down. But thank the lord not on our heads. Or Mom's and Jason, our epilepsy-afflicted yellow Lab. Him of the golden fleece. Our Gran Torino wagon none the worse for wear. Just some sticks under the tire hubs. Driven in by the raging winds.

So from that point onward ... for around two years ... I always carried a transistor radio and a flashlight in my purse. Just in case. Not too sure how they would help. Or keep me safe, but they were standard fare none-the-less. That and underpants.

Once I went through the phobia clinic at Mass General in Boston I was cured. No longer fearful of white cumulous clouds in a clear blue sky that could turn nastily in a moment's notice into blue-black anvil shaped wall clouds. Now that took some drugs and a bit of Clockwork Orange behavior mod. But it worked.

I even moved proactively to Oklahoma to meet my demons. Tornado Allie, c'est moi!

What does all this have to do with panties? I'll tell you:

The weather radar on television in the New York City area is brillant red. The storms are heating up. Overactive. A tornado watch has alerted the tri-state area of large hail, high winds, microbursts ... and [drum roll] ... a possible tornado.

So I did what any girl in love would do (read: wearing nothing but a gorgeous silk negligee) ...tie a a pair of panties to the spaghetti strap of my gown. To be fully prepared. Just in case the winds should huff and puff and blow the house down and I'd find myself on the lawn bare assed.

And, that's the truth!

Party Like It's 1971

Things happen when I least expect them.

Surprises.

Teensy plastic trinkets wrapped in the crepe paper ribbons of the surprise ball. All for my enjoyment. Proof that I had a friend. Who had a birthday. And a party. And, most importantly, invited me.

The ubiquitous goody bag of 1950s birthday parties. Minute treasures unravelled one at a time. Streams of colorful paper revealing special treats. De rigeur. Our Betty Crocker moms in lock-step. Starched frilly aprons tied perfectly around their 26 inch waists belying childbirth. Pink preludins and martinis.

Flash forward two decades.

Pop culture is whirling frenetically trying to catch up with the mood. Hues of color flashes dimming. Jim Morrison is found dead in bath tub in Paris. Kent State ended the euphoria the year before. Four innocents murdered in cold blood. Their crime? Walking to class. Caught in the cross-fire. America's polarization begins. Flower power and the Woodstock nation's ebullience fades. Sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll slips into a quagmire. The military-industrial complex bullies the world. Tricky Dicky announces a "War on Drugs". It is dusk in the Age of Aquarius.

We have been ridden hard and put away wet. Ambling across that proverbial bridge over troubled waters. Aretha knows best.

It is November 1, 1971. Boston before high tech. Summer of '42 and Love Story romance my imagination. Marvin Gaye urging me to "Get it On". Janis crooning about Bobby McGee. I am primed.

A knock at the door. Placing the spoon on a plate, I wipe my hands on the ever-present dish cloth flung casually over my left shoulder and walk down the winding hallway of my Boston apartment. The one on the second floor a block from Symphony Hall and another from the Fens. The Boston Strangler's turf.

My long chestnut hair drapes gracefully over a billowy pink blouse color coordinated by my Southern self with wide wale cranberry corduroy elephant pants. A gold chain circles my hips. I am barefoot (forever the Kentucky girl). I smell a bit like the spaghetti sauce I am preparing for my ever tardy roommate. Can I pretty please start supper and make sure the wine is chilled. She is hosting a dinner party. I am to be paired with the friend. Probably because we are both Jewish. She wants the handsome one. Both are second year law students.

I open the door. A lightening bolt strikes down. Before me is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. Our eyes lock. The rest of the night floats into morning as I miss my econ midterm. Oops. This is the handsome one. My roommate is pissed.

Trouble with a capital T.

Tumultuous passion, tender moments. Shared sensibilities. Topsy-turvy. Abandon cast to the wind. In and out of love. Dance like no one is watching. Give until it hurts. Pain is pleasure. N'est-ce pas? Why not?

His demons got the best of us then. Again in 1994. A do-over in 2010?

Careful, girlfriend. Be on guard. Watch out for the sharp bejeweled trinkets. Be skeptical. Remember. Those smooth, satiny pastel ribbons aren't always the confection they seem to be.

But hell, ninety percent of life is showing up. Three just might be the charm. I am a sucker for his gorgeous eyes. Wish me luck!

Cicada Song

Like the Magicicada we emerge every seventeen years or so from deep within our respective lives. Reconnecting after a period of hibernation and personal evolution. Bound together in some spiritual, kinetic manner. Sharing a similar rhythm; and not so impossibly, prior lives. In a not so small sense, we were born again to be together. Forever.

Our mutual cadence is lyrical and melodic. Not interrupted by phrasing and syncopations that bi-bop and scat. The underlying rhapsody returns to the original score. Always. Our mating song coming from many directions at once. United by first love. Surrounded by the billowy gentle innocence of our youth. Souls intertwined. Inexplicably.

Our courtship song, is quiet. Drawing me closer. Lulled, confident and safe. Finally.

Chipping Away At The Peach Pit

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on the rise and fall of my chest. Inhale/expand. Exhale/release. Shanti. Shanti. Sha-anti-iiiiiiii. Namaste.

Bring it in. Feel at one with it. Let it go. Out into the universe. The negativity. Replace it with joy. Inner peace. My head falls forward. Hair dropping to the floor. Swinging gently. Palms flat. Rise up. One vertebra at a time. Rounding back. Shoulders last. Face to the heavens. Smiling. Fingers touching together over my heart.

Lying on the hard wooden floor which cradles my body. A purple bean bag covers my eyes, a rolled cushion supports my knees. The gentle incantations of our instructor brings me comfort. A peaceful bliss. The knot dissipates magically.

Floating free. Out of body and mind I gather the accouterments at the end of our practice. Folding the twin rubber mats which have cushioned my back and supported my weight. Pulling them back to their rightful place along the wall. The feng shui of it all. I carefully replace the strap which supported my outstretched legs on the rod framing the rice paper ink drawings. Carrying the blocks which moments before pillowed my upper sacrum and base of my skull as I lay in repose. Quietude.

Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Descend the narrow wooden stairway to the street. Slowly. One graceful step at a time. Capture the essence of the sacred warrior.

Then in one fell swoop it clinches up. My tummy tightens. My smile melts. Dissolves. One word. One frantic thing on the checklist which has come at me all too fast in a very condensed few days as if there is no tomorrow no reason to wait compelled to tic off every last thing blurring whirring until it is completed no rest for the weary no celebration no nothing just one thing after another and another and another until I seize up. Knotted. In a ball.

Seven days until yoga. Seven. It shouldn't be this hard. Not now. Not ever.

Blowing on the Embers

Several years ago, disappointed by travelling solo, I sent this missive out into the universe. My message in a bottle. Hoping, not so secretly, that the stars would align hurling little ol' me into a once-in-a-lifetime whirlwind. Ripping me from my comfort zone into the white hot intensity of connecting a most singular vitality pulsing with shared energy yet unexplored.

Elusive? Yes. Impossible? Hell no. It just wasn't meant to be. Not then.

Journeys, adventures, discoveries inspire me. I have little baggage, but my suitcases are always packed. Join me!

Raised in Kentucky’s rolling bluegrass, college and career in Boston and NYC, I relocated a few summers ago to coastal Maine, a delightful oasis between visits and travels away.

Multi-faceted with a passion for life and a penchant for travel to hidden gems around the globe, I enjoy spirited discussions, covered bridges, indigo mountains, films, jazz, blues, classic rock and country from my Oklahoma days sliding not too gracefully across the slickest of floors sprinkled with corn meal and soot.

You have lived large and not so; come of age in the psychedelic 60s when all things were possible; matured in the sophisticated city humbled by finding out that they are not; and now appreciate the exhilaration of life off the beaten path - a tapestry of experiences, enriched sensibilities.

Let's walk quietly at dawn or dusk or in night’s velvety dark, discover out-of-the way restaurants and hidden delights, explore tree-lined country paths near and far, dance in cities pulsing with energy, whisper in the shadow of ancient places hiding mysteries of time past. Trips to anywhere or nowhere. Come with me, be my co-traveler, treasured friend, convivant.

Are you my gentle man with utmost integrity and compassion paradoxically matched by a sense of the absurd and a hint of the bad boy? Are you not so jaded as to still be awed by surprises and impassioned by new discoveries? Like me, you want that 'je ne sais quoi' one-on-one. Rock our worlds. Let's shake our unbelieving souls by the roots. Throw traditions to the wind jolting us into that 'aha' moment ... intoxicating, electric, spontaneous, vibrant.

I look forward to our connection, the sound of your laughter, the feel of your arms wrapped around me, sharing your pleasures and knowing what makes you smile ... or not. But first, the spark! Imagine the possibilities. I am.

The spark evident at the onset. Ignited upon receipt of his initial correspondence. Innocent, really. Surprising me delightfully. We have known each other since childhood. Not seen each other in years. A lifetime, really. Several if you count the multiple chapters we have each pursued.

Me. In Maine at the threshold of my meanderings in this my 60th year toward the quest, the gold chalice, of moving beyond my comfort zone. Away from the familiar. Into a brave new world. Envisioning the vast opportunities barely beyond my reach. The lure of travel to exotic and emerging cultures. Of pushing my shirtsleeves over my elbows and immersing myself in the wonders of this expansive world we live in. Shaking things up. My lifestyle. My dreams. Tweaks requisite to be transported from the familiar to the extraordinary.

Him. Possessing life passively. From the outside. Disembodied. Bound unerringly and admirably by loyalty and commitment. Faithful. Settled. Sharing the dreams of his childhood friend adoringly. Vicariously. The intensity of his passion extending outward from the very essence of his being. Inspired, nonetheless, by seeds germinated deep within my being propelling me into the unknown. He understood. Got me. My darling friend. His restlessness born uneasily from an innate lust for life. Intertwined on his DNA. A wilderness explored with great vitality, but left to wither. Memories of adventures.

Us. Telepathic. Our connection. Poignant. Profound. Real. Chaste. Inextricably linked from commonalities of coming of age at a similar time, in the same scholarly community hurled into a future undefined.

We are survivors. Each possessing an immaculate sense of self. The wisdom brought into existence from successfully circumnavigating those rocks that littered our trails. The profound blessings bestowed upon us independently.

There is much to explore with my adored convivant. Infinite possibilities. The spark smolders unrequited. For now. Soon to be ignited into pyrotechnics that will ebb and flow with the rhythm of a partnership. Fanned, fueled, by our constant attention to keeping the embers alive. To altering the playbook. Consummate teammates. Co-conspirators extraordinaire. Our trajectory flourishing brilliant by our mutual devotion.

Cheers to an unexpected, much cherished journey. Igniting again and again. Love burning vibrantly ... forever and a day. Are you out there? The universe beckons.

B & B

The wooden breakfast trays under the bed in the charming yellow guest room might just come in handy. Yesterday they were pulled out and the dust kitties swept away. Lemon Pledge shines up the white oak slats atop pull-out legs. Yellowing packing tape holds them together for the yard sale this summer. Removed quickly with one zip. Like a bandage over freshly pink skin healing. The romance nearly disposed of for a few crinkled dollar bills revealed.

Virgin boudoir accessories. Kind of like me. At least of late. Half a decade or so. Hate to admit it. Bey hey, it's the truth. And you all know I never fib. Well, almost never. But this is the truth. Pinkie swear.

My darling guest will sleep in the very room where the breakfast trays resided for nearly six years. I imagine the sun peeking through the slats of the wooden blinds creating zig-zags of light playfully dancing across his face. His greying hair sparkles in the early morning light. The ceiling fan whirs gently overhead creating a sweet breeze. Cooling his skin. Mohair throws add a layer of comfort to the white trapunto coverlet delicately hand stitched in Portugal by the sea. The scent of coffee brewing on the kitchen counter wafts through the winding floorplan. Through tiny well appointed rooms. Stirring him from slumber. Peacefully. My heart aglow. Warmed by the whisper of one final romance. Universe, are you listening?

Upstairs in my crisp white room solo, I sleep cocooned in the multi-blanketed safety of my home. As sleep reached into the inner crevices of my mind's eye the night before, the moon rose mother-of-pearl in the May skies. A calm. A knowing calm washes over me. Transcends my being. Comforting me in a way I have never known.

To the promise of a new day dawning pink a'blaze with color, lightness and hope. Imagining infinite possibilities. Every single one of them could happen. If only.

Boulder Bridge

So much for getting out of my comfort zone during this fabulous foray toward the big 6-0. That is on moderate hold. But not for long.

Why? You ask.

You know. We all do. Life has a way of getting in the way when you are busy dreaming, making plans and imagining the possibilities.

On hiatus nearly the entire month of April.

First, my hobbled knee put a damper on my spirits. My ability to perambulate. Delightful daily walks curtailed. My mind had no place to go but down. Need the lilt in my step and fresh air in my lungs to keep perspective. Besides, that is when I do my best strategery! Ice packs, Aleve and gentle yoga to the rescue.

Second, it is spring. Along with the vernal equinox and the delicious lilac scented air comes those dreaded weeds. Everywhere. Beds abused by winter's wrath and heavy snow melt needed to be turned, edged, spruced up. Make way for tender shoots of hosta, lilies of the valley, yellow iris and my beloved french parrot tulips. With coffers dangerously low, as you remember ad nauseum, I swung into high gear. Makeshift landscaping tools at the ready. Whipped the grounds [all one-third acre] into summer shape. That laborious task took a few weeks. Wore through two pairs of garden gloves. But it was worth it.

Third, a thin veneer of grimy dust from petro-fired winter-warmth and burning logs had permeated every nook and cranny in my teeny 1800 square foot house. All thirteen rooms. Yes that's right! 13 separate spots in need of thorough-with-a-toothpick cleansing ... bathrooms, foyer, hallway, screen porch, real rooms, et cetera. You get the picture. Sent out a smoke signal to Mr. Clean. Who was conspicuously absent. Where the hell was he this year? Out with the Merry Maids I presume. None were at my beck and call. Sadly. Without the requisite down payment on their new van. So armed with a battery of unopened cleaning supplies commenced erasing every last vestige of winter-grime from hidden surfaces of mop boards, crown molding and, well, under over and around every accessory in my overwhelmed village home.

Mundane work-a-day obstacles littered the path. Ate up an entire month.

The boulders now line the trail. Keeping distractions at bay. The sun is out. My favorite jeans zip and button.

Most alluring: my darling friend is arriving this week to visit Bailey and me chez nous. To play.

Comfort zone be damned!

Sugar Magnolia

Kentucky's on my mind.



Lots of reasons. Last Saturday's Run for the Roses. A most darling friend. Springtime. Promises of good things to come. Sugar magnolia blossoms. I am smiling inside.

My mind drifts back to the sweet smell of azaleas and honeysuckle wafting through my open bedroom window. Starched organdy curtains fluttering from the gentle breeze. Already limp from the humid air. I am lying on my bed. In my childhood home. Safe. Hopeful. Gazing out the window onto leafy trees lining the circular drive. Not quite ready to start my day. The smell of bacon spattering in the cast iron skillet on the island stove in the kitchen. Dogs barking while the neighborhood boys play softball in the Bertoli's front yard.

Bailey nudges me into the present and our overdue morning walk. Together we go out the front door onto the sidewalk. She sniffing the fresh mown lawn tail wagging. Me eager to explore what is just around the corner.

To imagining the possibilities!

Cinco de Mayo(naise)

I was inside my fridge earlier today. Not wondering what to feed my growling, diet deprived tummy. Au contraire. I was wiping the shelves. The ones on the door. Making them sparkle. Which I do not do often enough.

Goodness they get so grungy. Sticky. Collect things that shouldn't be inside an ice box. Like Bailey's hair which is everywhere floating.

The bottoms of jars ... mustards, jams, pickles, maraschino cherries with the stems ... stuck like glue. Needed to pry up a few with a wet, warm sponge. Phooey.

Anyhoo, I noticed I have three, count 'em, three different jars of Hellmann's taking up room: fat free, light and my absolute hand's down fave ... Real. I tossed the fat free. It most assuredly does not bring out the best in anything.

Mayonnaise. Delicious condiment of tuna salad sandwiches, deviled eggs, on cottage cheese (per my darling bluegrass friend and I trust him implicitly so he must be right) ... or, with peanut butter on Ritz.

My wonderful childhood pal, Valerie, and I, 8 year old wannabe chefs, concocted this delicacy when I moved into her Cherokee Park neighborhood. Standing on tippy-toes to reach the third shelf in the Raleigh Tavern red pantry with a wall that curved because it backed up to the winding front hall staircase, we'd teeter until the box fell into one of our waiting hands. The tin of Nabisco Saltines rusted from damp southern summers right next to the familiar red box of those buttery flavored crackers. The ones that could make mock apple pie. Not that this baker extraordinaire ever tackled that 1950s modern ersatz dessert.

Today marks the unlikely victory of the Mexican Army over the French. And the French love their mayonnaise. After all they invented it over 250 years ago. Without the Duc de Richelieu we might not have tuna salad. Or cole slaw. Or a proper BLT.

General Louis-Francois-Armand du Plessy, the duc de Richelieu soi-même, led his troops onto the island of Minorca in June 1756, taking it from the British. To celebrate, the duke's personal chef created a feast — and a new sauce.

Emulsified oil, egg yolks, vinegar with a hint of lemon. Perfect dunk for a greasy paper cornu spilling over with hot salty pommes frites. As a delicious alternative to Dijon with sliced cold chicken. Blended in a mortar and pestle with fresh minced garlic. A savory dip for crudités. The slimmest of tender fresh out of the garden asparagus. Olives. A French luncheon on the seaside of lobsters and Pinot Gris incomplete without rich, homemade mayonnaise. Capers tossed casually for garnish.

Lobster without butter? I prefer lemons. Mais sûr.

So with this celebration of a most minor holiday across the Americas, I am a teensy bit surprised that salsa has not replaced it as the condiment of choice in the North American kitchen.

Oh wait. Maybe it has. Just not in this house. And never, not ever Miracle Whip!

Here's to centuries of European countries vying for power ... and to a condiment superbe!

Tart Musings

One thing that is certain.

Unequivocal.

The next choice I make, and the next one, and the next one, must be expansive.

Enhancing.

Enriching.

My life journey is that important to me. It should be.

The more outside my comfort zone the better.

The more I can learn the better.

The more I can evolve the better.

My adaptability and ability to connect afford me well.

Redefining my life goals in synchronization with the me whose spirit I have recaptured. Critical.

My confidence and self esteem and energies refocused on the greater good. The greater me.

I cannot, simply must not, shrink.

But will reach outside my sphere for the stars. They are finally within reach.

Comfort zone be damned.

Cheers to the next fork in the road!

Lemon Slices

Peeling the rind from this thick-skinned lemon reveals a few more slices of this steel magnolia than you may or may not (or want to) know. But add me to your beverage of choice, squeeze me over fresh greens or grate me into a light summer mousse for a bit of zest! Refreshing. Promise.

1. I have visited 46 states (North Dakota, Montana, Oregon and Hawaii are still on my list), five continents (here I come South America! not so sure, Antarctica), both Iceland and Greenland and crossed most of the world's oceans. I am scheduling a fast jaunt via Amtrak from the Twin Cities across those three states in the Lower 48 I am missing. And plan to hula in Hawaii on a forthcoming trip to southeast Asia. Argentina has been a destination for most of the past five years. A milonga in Buenos Aires awaits. The frozen southern nether reaches are not in my scope quite yet. Although I did see some dwarf penguins in South Africa near the Cape of Good Hope. So you never know!

2. In my next life (I know I am coming back and that is another story), I'll be a hoofer (chorus girl, not race horse) on Broadway. Being 'on the boards' is in my soul. Something tells me in a prior life I was an ill-fated ballerina in 19th century France, or a courtesan. Not too sure. The musicality, talent and the grace has eluded me in this carnation ... but not in my dreams!

3. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved. I senselessly harbored the deepest feelings for a gentle man who could never commit. Despite nearly thirty years of hapless and countless near hookups traversing the country from the Colorado Rockies to the megalopolis on the East Coast. Life goes on.

4. My number one secret pleasure is _______. Hey, if I made it known in this public forum with all to know, then it wouldn't be mine to hide guiltily.

5. I miss my Grandma Alice more than you'd ever imagine. Sadly, I am living her life sans the glamour.

6. Country western music is so much better in the southwest. I loved two-stepping backwards across a floor covered in sawdust and cornmeal. Sliding in my tan suede cowgirl boots in Oklahoma cowboy bars. Yee-haw!

7. My iced tea is brewed fresh daily from Earl Grey, Constant Comment and orange pekoe. I love it sweetened with Sweet and Low, garnished with oranges ... but never (and I mean not ever) sliced lemons. That lemonade-iced tea concoction favored at country clubs and golf courses would never pass my lips. Nor can I tolerate lemon slices in water, TaB, diet coke. Lemons are for salmon, lobster, Dover sole, asparagus. Now you know. Limes on the other hand add zip to cola!

Cheers ... to peeling back a bit more from this pithy citrus and punching up the flavor a notch or two!

Carnival Gypsy

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Step right up! See the amazing chestnut haired gypsy pivot on the edge. Watch her stand precariously close to the abyss. All for one shiny quarter. Roll back pricing to when things went awry. A veritable bargain. The 1980s price of a bag of M&Ms.

C'mon in. What are you waiting for? The show is beginning. See the stunning woman behind the curtain teeter and catch her balance. Watch the marvel of a zig-zag career unfold before your very eyes. See the effects of a crooked journey lived between two parallel lines. Arcing this way and that. Jagged. Will she tumble? Fall into the money pit swarming with slithering monsters? Wobble? Vacillate? Or, be fortunate? Regain her composure. Pirouette gracefully and find her way.

No? Not scary enough? It is to her. But hey! For an extra nickel she'll take a spin on the wheel of fortune. Don't miss the most nerve-wracking show on this slice of earth. Her fate in her own hands. One shot. All or nothing. Can she do it? Reverse this nasty trend? Either way this is the greatest act on the midway. Be entertained. Amused. Watch her take yet another risk.

Okay. Okay. I am not a freak on the midway of life. Not yet. The carnival barker safely at bay for the time being. But it's not totally out of the realm of possibility. A slight divot here. A bit of a waver there. The scales of justice not quite level. It can go either way.

But hey ... my addled brain cannot absorb much more see-sawing. So, I am doing what any insightful woman on the edge would do. I am consulting the cards.

Nope. Not a trip to the closest casino. That would be Foxwoods in Connecticut. Nor a jaunt to Atlantic City for a romp along the cheesy navy blue Boardwalk, past seedy yellowing Marvin Gardens and gritty pale Ventnor Avenue. No peeking at the Goren Bridge For Beginners and accompanying deck, dogeared not by me but my Mom who thinks it would be another arrow in my quiver. Another skill to add to my already overflowing CV. And most definitely not the worn out pinochle deck of my grandfather's I have in the mildewing cardboard carton stored somewhere in the dark, damp dungeon that is my basement.

Have you deduced which cards? A few of you have it figured out. I have consulted them before, hesitatingly. That is why you are my friends. You get it ... and for the most part me. So without further ado ... drum roll please ... the card of the day (she says trembling omniscient with both fear and eager anticipation): The Wheel of Fortune. Da-da!

Yes, faithful readers, the wheel of fortune has begun to turn in my favor. Giving me a needed boost. My projects can now enjoy great success. Soon I will be reaping benefits. Yay. I can handle that news. A cycle is continuing and its not the spin cycle on my aging GE washer. The interpretation goes on: "Success. Unexpected luck. Happiness. Something new is emerging and will bring new and exciting energy. Opportunity. Have faith in what is happening at the moment. Divine forces at work to bring good fortune into your life. Trust in the cycle of life. Possible new money on the way."

Nouveau riche? Hell, that would be fine with me. Coins are good things. I might even flip one tomorrow.

Cheers! Let the games begin ...

Ocracoke

Oh well. I was in the process of musing about slices of lemons. Those bittersweet vignettes that randomly overtake the day-to-day-workaday world to bring a bit of saccharine, sunshine or a sour taste into our lives. But the writing gods had other plans for my 'pen'.

B. Miller, the renowned author of dark fiction, mentioned in her blog this morning where she'd rather be spending her time today instead of where she is going to be (B's Blog) and transported me silkily back to the early spring of 1971 on a windy beach in the sparsely populated Outer Banks of North Carolina.

The Cape Hatteras National Seashore to be exact. Our sought-after, secret destination after nearly 20 hours of driving through the night in sleet and winter mess along the eastern seaboard from colleges in the rarefied northeast. Sallie, Bob, Bruce, Mickey, David and I had set up camp deep in the wind-whipped sea grass covered dunes. Out of the line of sight from muscular, red-necked North Carolina troopers on patrol just hankering to put an abrupt end to the shenanigans of six upper middle class, weekend hippies from north of the Mason-Dixon line, the intelligentsia (the boys in their final year at Dartmouth) ... effete intellectual snobs as just described by Spiro Agnew our illustrious veep on the White House lawn. Gheesh.

We set up our mini-tent city, one brand new canopied LL Bean canvas yurt-like home for each couple. A fourth for our kitchen/mess hall. I sat quietly over on a far away dune contemplating nearly a week without a place for my toilette which I now realized would most likely be behind the sand mound I was leaning against. This rustic experience sounded like a fine idea before we left. Romantic evenings under the stars. Psychedelic-fueled survivor games that had more to do with us being the last humans on earth than who was getting voted off the island. All now totally foreign to this never-get-dirt-under-my-fingernails, much less sand in the hoo-hoo, girl who avoided Dad's fishing/camping jaunts to Bernheim Forest at all costs.

But here I was. Camping on a deserted national treasure. A felony for the trespassing. Death by shooting squad for the sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll. Deep swallow. Transform my squeamish nature. Voila. I could get into this. Five days of roughing it in the treasure filled sands with my 6 foot, blond, incredibly smart and talented boyfriend. No cell phones (hey this was 1971 for god sakes). No cameras. No nothing. No links to home. Or civilization. Pirates! My gold hoops and lime green bandanna perfectly in style a major tip off that I was more costume driven than most campers. It was all in the outfit.

Several days into our Hatteras adventure we piled into the back of the orange VW bus with the brown and yellow gingham curtains fluttering at the windows made lovingly for Bob by Sallie (they are still together after four decades ... wow ... I should have glommed on to her techniques as David is nowhere to be found ... but that is another story) for our first official outing. We carefully camouflaged our humble abodes. Put out the fire and buried it under the deep sand. Packed our gear into the tents. Swallowed synthetic mushrooms. And pointed our van south. To the island of Ocracoke floating off the tip of the cape. Separated from the land mass by hurricanes past. Attracting real pirates in the nearly unnavigable waters. Reportedly Blackbeard met his death here in the early 1700s. A storied, fabled, magical place. Twinkling in the spring sunshine. Sparkles dancing off the waters.

By the time we boarded the ferry our minds were abuzz with lightshows as preMTV videos scanned across our minds' eyes. Bob was playing his mouth harp while Bruce accompanied him on an old Martin acoustic. Sallie swirled. Her Indian print skirt floating gaily around her slender legs. We were blissed. In more ways than one. Swaying to the familiar rock and roll beat of folkadelic songsters.

Our island sojourn was amazing. Spanish moss drooped from the trees in the historic village of colonial homes and gas lamps. The wide sandy white beach flat and pristine. Too early in the season, there were few residents and no other tourists. We had the island mostly to ourselves and played merrily. Catching the last ferry back to the mainland, we stopped along the way to shower and freshen up and grab a bite to eat at the diner along the way.

We arrived back at our camp site sated, relaxed ... and WOW totally surprised. Our site was surrounded by what looked like an entire squadron of military personnel. Going through our things were a dozen of the meanest looking state troopers this side of Fort Bragg. They had spotted us from the air. A routine fly-over. Get the hell outta here. And we did. Tore down the tents and scurried as fast as our heart-thumping, psychedelic deflating minds would allow. Thank the lord we had taken the 'contraband' and left no trace behind.

Driving up the highway we had our very own motorcycle escort. Four uniformed troopers. Plus a NC Highway Patrol car leading the way. Headlights on. Blue lights flashing. Bubbas on parade along Route 12. Past Nags Head. Past Kitty Hawk where the first airplane took flight. Turn north at US Route 158 and head within the speed limit of course straight toward Virginia and the state line. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. With the strictest of orders never, and they meant do not ever, come back to the illustrious state of North Carolina.

I have visited the state often in the years since. It is one of my favorites. The ocean, the mountains, good southern cooking and gracious hospitality. Invested in an emerging tech venture. Financed two UHF television stations. Had a financial services consulting client in Morehead City. Visit Raleigh and my cousins every few years. But I always look over my shoulder ... just in case.

Cheers to getting out of good ol' boy North Carolina with nary a warning ... and not needing a passport or to meet stringent homeland security officers on re-entry!

He'll Be Comin' Around the Mountain ...

Charlie is popping home for less than 12 hours for the quickest of visits. The reason? Writers on a New England Stage: Michael Lewis. Renowned author of Liar's Poker, Moneyball, and most recently (and the reason for his book tour) The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine.

This highly regarded expose, a wildly popular character-rich and darkly humorous account of how the U.S. economy “was driven over the cliff” by a collection of professionals entrenched in the financial world, exposing today’s world of high finance – and financial collapse. Wall Street of the 1980s redux. 1929, too. In fact greed gobbled up fortunes in the tulipmania craze in mid-17th century Holland. Will they ever learn? Doubtful. IBers run amok. It'll happen again and again.

Now I am unsure why this trip is necessary. Charlie attends Harvard. Cambridge, or at the very least Boston, is home to curious intellectuals and authors hawking their wares. In fact, he is a member of Hasty Pudding who attracts celebs relentlessly. I'd have thought he'd be fêted there. Or parodied.

But I am a happy Mama. Very. It has been months since he was last at home. The dust bunnies under his maple chest of drawers next to his idled cello in its forest green hard plastic case were floating around unnoticed until I whooshed them into the Dust Buster yesterday. My prodigal son returns. But I am not complaining. Opposite. I am thrilled. Delighted. Readying the house and the fridge. Paninis and a red cabbage confetti slaw après theatre.

In less than an hour I leave for the train station to fetch him from a two hour trip up the rails from North Station. Even Bailey knows something exciting is happening. Her tail wags furiously at the mere mention of his name. This time next year Charlie will have been living in Hong Kong for some time. College and boarding school in Massachusetts along with the ubiquitous commuter fast train a distant memory.

An evening out tonight followed by a late night supper in our charming home. The summery weather warm enough to dine al fresco. A special taste treat awaits in my new red enameled sandwich grill. Gruyere and ham and a fresh Dijon. Mmmmm. Nums! And a sip of bubbly ... just because.

Cheers to the tracks bringing my darling son home ... if only for the briefest of visits.