Today is my birthday.  And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old.  Not 52 years young, or 52 years better.  It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television.  Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over.  Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity. Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:

1. Be an optimist.  It’s more efficient.  But Murphy does exist, so if you acknowledge that and prepare yourself, things actually work out.
2. Really bad things can happen to you and you will get over them, but may always struggle to find even a thread of patience with those who insist upon wallowing in self pity.  Try anyway.
3. You can find beauty in just about anything with little or no effort.  People who can’t see it aren’t looking close enough.



4. Be generous with yourself.  It makes no sense to wait around for someone else to do it.
5. Absolutely nothing horrible happens when you leave dishes in the sink at night, or your bed unmade in the morning.
6. Acknowledge and work on your own shortcomings and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to criticize others for theirs.
7. It is more than possible to enjoy your own kids as teenagers.  I’ve done it three times, and wouldn’t trade those years for toddlerhood if you paid me.
8. Life is too short to eat packaged food made with highly processed ingredients.  Learn how to cook with fresh ingredients.  Yes, you have time.  You’re welcome.



9. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly.  A bottle of wine can help.
10. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
11. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
12. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world.  It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
13. Good friends are priceless.
14. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise.  Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
15. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth.  Well, mine is.

So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me!  Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better.  It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.

The Resident Teen Rocker turned 16 while we were in Italy last month. Other than giving him a card that had our family’s required elements of butts, farting, or both, and singing Happy Birthday as horribly as we pridefully aim to, he didn’t have a candle to blow out. Now that I think of it, that’s kind of rude, but I’ll make it up before school begins.

Speaking of school and rudeness, the enormous registration packet came in the mail yesterday, and since he’s the one who retrieves the mail from our box each day, the look on his face told all. You’d have thought he had a bite of a bad frozen burrito. I mentioned that I wasn’t looking forward to him going back to school, either, and pondered the possibilities of running away from home with him to avoid the inevitable. Instead, I told him to get his calendar marked up so he could enjoy what was left of his summer, and start hitting the sack sometime before dawn, or at least make a half-assed attempt.  I still can’t figure out how in hell I raised a kid who dislikes school as intensely as he does.  Not that there isn’t much to dislike, mind you.

Every other summer of his life, the RTR has had an agenda. It hasn’t kept him hopping as much as the MoH would have liked, but that’s because it was organized primarily to keep him occupied while we were at work.  A variety of YMCA Camps, San Diego Zoo Camp, Balboa Park, ID Tech Camp at UCSD, Camp Gramma, you name it, he’s been there.

But not last year. Summer school was supposed to happen but mysteriously never did, so I gave the RTR some projects I thought he might enjoy, and learn from. I know. Deadly. Ironically, he was assigned a project in his art class last semester that required a bit of research and wonder of all wonders!  He remembered the summer work he’d done and was able to make use of it for his presentation. Amazingly resourceful when he wants to be.

Like this past weekend. We finally made it to Ikea to purchase the finishing touches for his bedroom. Not too long ago, we painted his room with colors he chose, the MoH changed all the dull switch plates, and  I put up some new shades. (Of course, the shade pulls are already hanging in shreds leaving one shade unworkable, but it was swell while it lasted.)

After cruising through the showroom maze at Ikea, the RTR chose a double bed, a larger work table, and a chair that looks way too comfortable for the homework that he will definitely have with the schedule he chose (Statistics, Physics, AP American History, AP Studio Art, American Lit, and Woodshop. Yes, that’s right. Woodshop.) He is soooooooo having homework. I’m wincing just thinking about it.

So yes, after the three of us removed the boxes we’d wedged into my mother’s borrowed Escape, we schlepped them into the livingroom to sit. I told the RT it was his job and that if he needed help, he knew where his dad was. I, on the other hand, went to the grocery store.

Bear in mind that for the RT to approach any aspect of this gargantuan task, he had to clean his room. Pigs would fly first. But he’s very creative and found a way to move things around so he could work. You know, have a bit of elbow room and squeeze space allowance for toilet use?

When I returned from the store, he’d made quite a bit of progress and was just beginning to take the big red bunk bed he’s had since his fifth birthday apart. I could get all misty-eyed right now, but won’t.

I heard him call from upstairs, “Mom. There’s a funny looking flat screw thing that has a hole in it with edges…”

Now, I knew this would get his attention, and called up to him about whether he knew where the allen wrenches were tucked in his dad’s trusty tool box. No he couldn’t find them, and yes, I walked up the stairs to show him where they were. I also stayed long enough to gently ask him whether starting with a screw at the bottom of the bed was a good idea, and whether there might be some unexpected happenings as a result of that decision.

“Oh. Heh,” he smiled and chose a top corner screw instead.

The only time he asked for help was when he noticed a screw was stripped. A whack of the hammer from the MoH fixed it, and that cute bed that has so many memories attached to it is now in parts leaning against a wall in the garage waiting for a “Free to the first Caller” Craigslist ad.

Monday morning, the RT and I moved his tiny desk down the stairs — or tried. It fell apart from the stress on an edge while we were resting, and unfortunately, my ankles we on the receiving end of the boards that fell. Hurt doesn’t quite cover it, but we did get the desk to a resting spot.

He put his new desk together, and the chair.

I figure if he wants me to put up the very cool tiny work light with the jointed neck, and the shelves for his army of thousands, he’s going to have to clean up the mess.

But I’ve been reorganizing the cupboards in the kitchen, so between the two of us, it’s anyone’s guess whether we’ll ever see the floor or counters in our house again.

Bets?

The unpleasantness of being in Naples wore off as soon as we were settled on the boat that would take us to Sorrento. Maybe it was the deep blue of the sea, or the cool breeze that refreshed our sweaty bodies.  Or Vesuvius, looming in the distance, reminding us of all those history lessons delivered so long ago and so far from here.  Pompeii…Herculaneum…

But it could also have been the tall, thin as a willow whip blonde that walked up the gangplank with the assistance of the crew right ahead of us who bore an uncanny resemblance to Diana.  The Diana.  Her hair was short, and she was dressed in a leather mini skirt and strapless bodice.  Her four-inch heels drew everyone’s attention, and we waited to see if she could balance herself on the boat as well as she could on cobblestones.  Most of the crew exchanged knowing looks, but one took it upon himself to sit next to her as we made our way across the Bay of Naples.

At first, she had chosen to settle in on the first deck in the cushy seats, but after we’d all dragged our luggage up the tiny stairs and flopped into seats where we’d get a good view in the open air, she emerged upstairs.  And as much as there were only a few passengers, and therefore, many open seats everywhere, she decided to sit in the row directly in front of us.

We must have appeared to have been harmless, or uninterested in young women wearing black leather.

I soon figured out I was on the wrong side of the boat to snap my next 500 photos and moved, with the MoH following.  We kept an eye on the boys and the woman as she sort of avoided, but not with any true energy, making conversation with the forward crew member.  He eventually gave up on her and disappeared downstairs.

At some point in a strong British accent, she turned to the boys, and with a cigarette posed between two fingers, asked if either of them had a light.  You just don’t know how hilarious that is considering that not only does neither smoke, but that they wouldn’t expect anyone to think they did.  Well, that anyone like her would ask anyone like them anything.  Ever.  Their raised eyebrows and quick glance at one another after she turned around told it all.

When we stepped onto the dock in Sorrento, she was already getting into what we thought was her mother’s car, because we realized at some point, that she wasn’t quite 20.  Goodness. Nothing like a bit of intrigue to take one’s mind off travel weary doldrums.

Officially, we were rested and ready to enjoy a small town where streets close to traffic in the evening so everyone can walk and shop, sit in cafes and watch passersby, or eat well into the evening.  We did all of that, and crowded into groups clustered around televisions in bars here and there to watch Roger Federer lose to Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon.  It was like a huge street party.

In a walled garden setting lined with lemon trees and dotted with impatiens, we enjoyed pasta, seafood, lovely wine, and dessert at ‘o Parrucchiano “La Favorita,” a restaurant housed in an old building and credited with inventing cannoli.  Who knew?  The wait staff was ridiculously tolerant of our horrible attempts at Italian, and the setting a perfect place to relax after an extremely long day.  Even the cat that wandered through the tables and brushed against our legs added to the perfect evening. And yes, I fed the cat. Incorrigible.

I now know that Sorrento was my favorite place on our vacation.  We never took the bus to Positano or Amalfi, nor did we take one of the ferries we constanly saw headed to the island of Capri.  But I have no regrets because we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what was right in front of us:  balmy weather, delicious food, hospitable people, the Hotel del Mare, and a clear, warm sea to swim in.

Although everyone seems crazed to spend time in Venice or Tuscany when they travel to Italy, Sorrento is a place to be considered.  I know I’d go back so I could stroll through the quiet streets without an agenda of any kind and let time take its course, but maybe in the Fall, when others are back to work, and the idea of other places to go and things to see don’t exist.

Yes, I’d go back to Sorrento.

I’m sitting on a sea blue tiled sundeck on the top floor of the Hotel del Mare in Marina Grande which is a tiny village near Sorrento, Italy.  It can be reached by car, or by walking down the winding steps from Sorrento that are wedged between tall buildings and lead through the ancient gate.  Laundry hangs from windows, shutters are thrown open, and curtains are ruffling in the ocean breeze.

It’s late, but the sky is still a lovely blue, and I know that up the hill, “the stroll” hasn’t quite begun on the streets that will close to the incessant motor scooters, and vendors are spreading out their offerings of limoncello, and pottery, scarves, and hats.  Restauranteurs are handing out flyers of their menus, hoping that passersby will consider coming back for an evening meal.

Amazing.

The sun has finally dipped behind the cliff that rises sharply above our little hotel, giving us relief from the sun which has been so relentless.  Across the bay, Vesuvius is still shrouded in the haze that has kept it hidden since we’ve arrived, but that hasn’t stopped me from wondering what it must have been like more than 2,000 years ago to have one’s life so rudely interrupted.

For us, Sorrento has been the ice pack one might apply to sore muscles.  Rome was so hot, and so enormous, so amazing, we had to have walked at least to Africa and back while we were there.  Exhaustion was impending.  Okay, so maybe a few more things caused that which I’ll tell later.  But now, it’s all about sitting on this deck, detecting the hint of something — anything with garlic —  waft up from the restaurants below, listening to the little church of the something having to do with virgins bell ring every fifteen minutes, and gazing at people on the road high above on the cliff staring down over the rail, most likely wondering how they might get down to this lovely place instead of where they are.

We swam today.  Nothing could have been more perfect than dipping into the warm water to wash off the persistent sweat that will not have any effect on the numbers my scale reports to me at the end of this vacation.  But no matter.  The water was a calm, deep teal, and so buoyant.  Or maybe that was my Reubenesqueness keeping me afloat.  Who knows?  But the last time I was in the Mediterranean was when I was 12 and my family was living in Spain.  I don’t remember it being this lovely, ever.  I also don’t remember anyone having to pay to swim.  I’ll spare you the pain of what our wanting to rid ourselves from heat and humidity cost us.  You’d only consider us idiots.  And that’s okay, because we know it was completely worth it.  Ahhhhh…..

My head is full.  There are so many sights and sounds, tastes, and aromas, I’m not sure where I can keep them all.  I love this place.

We’re off to Florence tomorrow.  I’ll miss this little place by the ocean that seems so different than the ocean I live very near to.  But vacations are like that, aren’t they?

Ciao, bella.

You thought you were rid of me didn’t you? At least it appears that you may have been considering I’ve not written since…I can’t even remember. I’ve been in food land. Go figure that after being involved in my cyber baking group for more than a year now, I had hosting responsibilities this past month. That means surfing through eight million Danish Braids, which is what myself and my co-host, Ben, chose for all those Daring type Baker people to experiment with. Hosting also involves visiting every single blog. Um, so that would be 20 pages of blogs split between the two of us to the tune of five hundred blogs each. Whoa.

I’ve read a page and a half so far.

But I’d rather do that than yet again try to purchase a Roma Pass or train tickets to save us some time. It isn’t that I haven’t tried four times already. For some reason, I can easily move things along until it’s time to pay. At that point, on each website, it states the page is no longer available. Frustrating.  They must not want my suffering U.S. dollars.

So I’m hovering here, with one eye on foodland, and the other on making sure we’ve got all that we need before we’re off to Italy tomorrow.

It doesn’t taste too horribly, although the RTR would disagree.

I have Chick to thank for the lead on Jen Lancaster’s writing. She’s completely hilarious. And Ann Patchett? Well, if you’ve read Bel Canto, you’d understand. When I saw the little pencils and their freshly sharpened points just screaming to be used I breathed life back into my dormant office supply fetish, I picked them up and chose a small notebook to write in as well.  You know — the old fashioned way. With a writing instrument?  Since I’ll be sans iMac for what seems to be forever, perhaps I’ll actually remember what it feels like to write in a notebook again. Maybe have a story or two to tell when we return.

Do you have any idea how decadent my feet feel in these shoes? Sure they look like some kind of warped cross between something an eco-friendly ballerina and a tree-hugging terrorist would wear, but still.  I’ve got some strappy black sandals to got out to a few dinners in, but after suffering from blisters within a day of landing in the UK on our vacation two years ago, I take shoes very seriously.  Oops!  I almost forgot — the “Keens” are actually Merrells…I’m such a rotten consumer…

I think this just about covers everything. Except now I’m worried about the pillows. And sheets. What if there aren’t any in the two rentals?  Um…I probably should have thought of this earlier? Maybe we do need the kitchen sink.

And I’ve got pistachio gelato whirling in the ice cream maker right now…

Since there are about 4 or 5 people who still read this blog, I’m trying to post something to add to your day while we’re gone. You know, in case you miss me.  Or not.

In the meantime, I hope your weather is perfect, that you treat yourself to excellent food, and that you dream lovely dreams.

Ciao, bella!

I know the rest of the world seems to believe that Memorial Day is the kick off for summer, but somehow, the whole idea of that particular holiday kicking off anything has never quite sat right with me.

Call me a party poopah, but there’s something way wrong about all those furniture sales, and car sales, and well, just any sale to get people up and out to slap them back into a consumer spending stupor.  On Memorial Day?  Okay, so the sales do help with all the purchasing that goes on for school promotions, and graduations, and weddings, you know, in case someone needs a futon or something.  OMG, Dubyah!  What in hell would we have done without your economic stimulus check?

It’s all nonsense, because today is our favorite day of the year.  Party, anyone?

The Summer Solstice is officially at 7:59 EDT.

And it is the perfect time to celebrate the beginning of summer and all that comes with it.  Things like heat, and humidity, stinking trash cans, more flies, and pets that scratch endlessly for fleas evening parties, warm ocean swims, and lazy afternoons in the shade with a good book.  Okay, so the ocean isn’t exactly ever warm here, unless you consider the not quite 62 degrees F that it is today, warm.

For years, we’ve looked to this day to make our way to a hill or a shore, gawk at the horizon, sip a beverage, and enjoy the sky show.  Well, if there is one.  You have to be a freaking optimist to want to engage in this ancient pagan ritual around here because there’s always a chance that we’ll be socked in and any possibility of seeing anything blue in the sky is slim to none with slim on a fast train out of town.

But optimists we are.

And when I look at that horizon tonight, clouds or no clouds, I know that I will be thinking more about what lies ahead instead of what has passed.  I know that I will wonder about it with anticipation, and not dread, or fear.  I know that I will feel opportunity and possibility, because that’s who I am. I will also feel good fortune because my home’s not flooded. Or my sons in Iraq. Or my family unhealthy.

Somehow, this day has always felt like the real beginning of a new year.  Not  January 1st.

With all this sun gonna come up tomorrowness in me, I often wonder how I missed out on getting a bit of perkiness from whomever was passing it out when I was put on this planet, because perky I am definitely not, nor will I ever be.

So cheers to you on this longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.  Turn your eyes to the sky,  grab some palm fronds, light a bon fire, and watch the sun come up over your horizon.  Maybe do a little dance.

Or do it our way, and watch the sun set tonight instead.

Think about possibilities and tomorrows.

Take action and participate in Candle Night and “take it slow.”

This is my first entry for Sky Watch, an idea started by Tom Wigley of Wiggers World. I spend so much time looking at the sky, I knew it was the place for me to be. Take some time and look at all the photographs the skywatchers collect each week.

In fact, join in.

I think this is the longest I haven’t written since beginning this place I miss so much when I don’t write. And the only legitimate explanation I have for not writing may not make much sense to most.

I can remember living in a dreary apartment when I was finishing my degree. It was brown. Regardless of how much I enjoy that particular color at this point in my life, somehow, brown then seemed dreary. And it was. It was a means to an end, and I tolerated it because I had to.

Well, I’ve been having trouble tolerating the orange. I know brown isn’t orange, but still. Surely you must have an inkling of an idea of why this is a problem. Let’s just say my house isn’t in order. Or my blog, in this case. It makes me sad.

I actually like the layout. I really do. But I spent quite a bit of time on thinking about changing out the orange and switching the font, and all that sort of thing, and when I looked in my files, I saw strange things.

Can someone please tell me why, oh, why do designers have to subject the rest of us to their particular style of code? I understand creative license, and all, but man.

I can figure it all out. Really I can. I just don’t want to. I want to download a theme, plug in my widgets, make minor adjustments, maybe have some fun designing a header or two, and then think about writing. Because that’s the whole point of a blog, isn’t it?

So in fewer words, I’m working on this theme, but not since Thursday, which was days and days ago.

I guess I just become disgusted, and avoid the problem. And that causes yet another problem because I truly enjoy being here and taking the time to spread my particular style of propaganda. Except I haven’t.

But today was lovely. While I wasn’t writing here amongst the orange and wire looking thingies in the header, I was enjoying Mother’s Day with my mother and menfolk. We cruised through our farmer’s market, and then put our name in a few eateries until we found one where the wait was only 15 minutes. Good thing it was a place we’ve enjoyed before.

Have you ever had a breakfast salad? This one had poached eggs on spinach, sauteed mushrooms, tomatoes, goat cheese, and a light vinaigarette. Simply delicious. The pomegranate mimosa was a nice touch, too. It was very pleasant.

A walk along the shoreline was a perfect way to relax afterwards, worrying the entire time that the huge fuschia my mother bought at the farmer’s market wasn’t succumbing to the heat in my trunk while we were oogling over the clear water and nearly waveless ocean. Amazingly beautiful.

We never did quite figure out what the Pink Panther was, though. Clearly, they got curb space early, and had time to get their layout taken care of, shells placed round the palms, bejeweled pylons protecting their Weber and all. Sorry I didn’t get a shot of the pink ostrich feathered umbrella. It was a sight to behold.

And when we got home, we tore apart my patio, trying to whip it back into shape long enough to enjoy the summer season before I convince the MoH that it has to be redone. Seriously. Hell will freeze over first. I promise. But I can dream, right?

My big boys arrived, separately, and it was a nice end to a lovely day. My middle son brought plants he’d worked on in one of his classes — some from cuttings and some from seed. Nice. The older one sort of slinked in through the side, surprising us all, smiling, and knowing that we’d smile back, enjoying his company even though there are always lots of worries to be put aside whenever we see him.

The MoH gave me a gift certificate to a camera store so I can choose a new camera. It looks like I get to graduate from my point-and-shoot and I’m giddy with being able to choose the perfect camera. Okay, so the perfect camera for me. Now.

And that’s just about perfect.

Thanks for checking in on me. I do appreciate you and do have you in my mind daily.

It’s actually quite amazing how much you’re all there.

Really.