Birthdays - the Real Mother's Day

On this day several years ago, I had a beautiful bouquet of flowers delivered to my mom at Macy's, where she worked in retail sales. When she received the unexpected gift she immediately phoned me, delighted but confused.
"It's your birthday!" she exclaimed."Why are you sending ME flowers?"
Maybe because on this day many moons ago, mom's the one who went through all the work. Starting with labor, her life was newly dedicated to child rearing, counseling, teaching, worrying, investing, praising, sacrificing, reprimanding, developing, nurturing and loving. Always loving. Heck, the very fact that she tolerated my manic, prepubescent "Osmond Brothers" years should have earned the woman a Nobel Peace Prize.
But me? On this day many moons ago, all I did was get born. Pop my wrinkled, cone-shaped head out, wail and go with the flow. Really, how difficult was that? A very passive act, if you think about it.
"I wouldn't be having a birthday if it weren't for you," I replied. "I just wanted to say thanks for giving me such a great life."
A great life, thanks to a great mom. On this day especially, oh, how I miss her.

Showdown at the Coffee Corral

The scene? A Starbucks parking lot at 6:45 am on a damp foggy morning. The players? Me in my Corolla facing a woman in her Explorer. The dilemma? A lone parking space. We had each pulled up to it at the same time, so it was really all about being nice.
Except on this cold-for-California 35-degree morning, I was feeling sleepy, cranky, and anything but nice. Still, I waved for her to take the spot. She didn't move. I waved again and when she didn't acknowledge my gesture, I figured okay, fine, and swung into the space with a clear conscience. There were other, albeit further, spaces for her to choose from, and I didn't have all day hanging around trying to be "nice." Besides, I wanted my damn coffee.
Like I said, cranky.
Inside the shop I was soon lost in my own comatose thoughts and didn't notice that the driver of the Explorer was behind me in line.That is, until a Starbucks clerks said, "Cute shoes!" Since we were the only two customers in the store and I was wearing what my best friend refers to as "those ugly man-shoes" (hey, in my defense they're incredibly comfortable), I knew the compliment wasn't directed towards me. Slyly, I peeked at her shoes.
"Oh my gawd," I gushed before I could stop myself. "Those are the cutest shoes I've ever seen!" Black, hot pink and yellow plaid, they were peep-toe Mary-Jane stilletos on a 3-inch heel. And indeed, the cutest shoes I had ever seen. I'd fall and break my neck before I could even begin to stand upright in a pair of shoes like those, but I could certainly admire them.

"On sale, $10 at Burlington Coat Factory!" she gushed back with delight. "Seriously, can you believe it?"
And as I waited for my venti soy latte and she her grande peppermint mocha, we jabbered about how a good pair of shoes could make even sweatpants look stylish, how much we loved a good sale, and by the way, you should check out Aerosoles because their shoes are comfortable, yet stylish and affordable.
Etcetera, etcetera.By the time our coffees arrived, we were chatting like old friends. As we walked towards the exit, I held the door for her. "After you," I offered. "No," she insisted, "after you!" When she drove off in her Explorer, she gave me one last friendly wave, which I readily returned.
Suddenly I felt a little less cranky and a little more nice, warmed by the unexpected exchange on this damp, foggy morning. And all because of a pair of shoes.

Adios 2010

"New Year's Eve, where auld acquaintences be forgot. Unless, of course, those tests come back positive."

~Jay Leno
Here's hoping for a new and improved year, with all things positive (well, almost all things) in 2011.
Happy New Year, friends!

To Kill a Mockingbird's Patience

Living 29 miles from work, my morning drive takes about 45 minutes. Hitting the road at 6:30 am before traffic gets too crazy, I listen to talk radio, sip my Starbucks and plan my day. Awake and alert, my morning drive is actually a pleasant time.
Oh, but the drive home is another story. By 4:30 pm I'm tired, frazzled, and dreading the return journey, which varies between 90 minutes to two hours. Made all the more stressful thanks to the ten billion bottlenecked cars that surround me, chauffeured by imbeciles who think nothing of cutting others off, flipping fingers, running red lights, tailgating and honk-honk-honking if you take more than three seconds to hit the gas pedal when the light turns green.
And all to the lovely serenade of cookie-cutter radio stations playing the same songs over and over. How many times, I've wondered, can one suffer through Under Pressure or Listen to the Music without experiencing the same torturous results as waterboarding?
I didn't want to find out, which is why I decided to try audio books. Maybe listening to a good mystery or an old classic would make the drive home a little more bearable. I'd start with "To Kill a Mockingbird," read by Sissy Spacek as the novel's narrator, Scout. I'd never read the book before nor seen the movie. Finally, I would find out what all the accolades were about.
In no time I was hooked, eagerly anticipating the drive home so I could hear more about 8-year old Scout, her older brother Jem, and their moral father, Atticus Finch; the mysterious Boo Radley, the deranged Bob Ewell and the persecuted Tom Robinson. It was a captivating story indeed, a book worthy of praise. All of a sudden, I didn't mind the manic drivers around me. Go on ahead, I'd wave 'em on through. More time for me to enjoy the book!
Finally, two weeks and almost eleven CDs later, I was nearing the end. I couldn't wait!
It was a pitch black night as Scout and Jem crossed an empty field on their way home. The moon was hidden by clouds and they couldn't see as far as the noses on their faces when suddenly...what was that? The children heard a rustling sound behind them, and then footsteps. Something...or someone...was following them in the dark.
Riveted, I turned up the volume.
"Run Scout, run!" Jem cried and we started running blindly in the dark," Sissy Spacek read. "Then I heard Jem fall and cry out in pain! I fell too, and sooommmmmttthhggggg ggtbbb my leg aaanddddd I scccreamrmmmmm and dddddzzzzzzzzzppphhh...."
What the heck? Was Scout having convulsions? And then I realized....oh gawd, no.
The CD was skipping.
I took it out and saw a scratch. Blew on it. Wiped it. Heck, I was desperate. Tried not to think what cooties might be on the disk and licked it. Dried it, said a prayer and stuck it back in the player. "Ooooouuuuccchhhh I criiiieeeed beeffooooreeee passssnngnnnnggggooouutt...."
Aarrgghh! The CD was obviously shot. To learn how the story ended, I'd have to read the book. Which I wouldn't mind purchasing actually, since I'd already decided to add this wonderful novel to my library. Still, the timing of the scratch couldn't have been worse. How did the story end, I wondered? Was Jem killed? And what about Scout? I'd have to wait to find out. Sigh....
And so, reluctantly, I turned on the radio. And what was playing? But of course.
Under Pressure.

Geek Fashion

Oh, the things you can find when you have six hours to kill in an airport. There I was in Toronto Pearson International Airport, on my return trip home from a fabulous two weeks in Paris. Perusing scarves, magazines, souvenir coffee cups and makeshift hockey paraphernalia when I came upon it...just the coolest thing, ever.

The Sock Monkey cap! I tried it on. Admired myself in the mirror. Oh, tres chic! I had to have it. My 19-year old niece, however, was of another opinion.

"Oh Aunt Elly," she groaned, shaking her head. "You are SO never going to find a date wearing that thing."

As if to punctuate her prediction, at that very moment a nice looking guy walked by the shop and glanced at me in my headgear. When we made eye contact, he rolled his eyes, shook his head and smiled, the universal language for, "Lady, you are SO never going to find a date wearing that thing."

Didn't care and didn't matter. I couldn't wait to make my purchase and bring home my coveted cap. Which I did, and which I now wear every frosty night while walking my dogs.

Love me, love my Sock Monkey cap. And if he doesn't? Well, he's probably not my type anyway.

A Trunk Full of Turkeys and Hearts Made of Gold

So there I was last night, enjoying an impromptu invitation to join friends for dinner at this cozy little Italian bistro near my home. We were all in a pretty joyous mood, laughing, sharing our Thanksgiving plans, and just relishing the deliciousness of friendship embellished with a tasty meal.

However, my three friends were just a tad more giddy than the occasion might warrant. In fact, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that they were bordering on being deliriously happy. Okay, so yeah, I'm a ton o' fun to be around, but really folks, you're making me blush.

Then I learned the reason behind their high spirits.

On Tuesday, the trio went to Safeway and purchased 16 turkeys. Then, after learning just how many turkeys can be squeezed in one 4-door sedan, they delivered the fowl goods to Second Harvest Food Bank in San Jose. Thanks to my friends, more than 100 homeless people will enjoy a traditional turkey dinner today.

But that's not all.

Then, my friends rolled up their sleeves and devoted all of Wednesday to baking cookies. A lot of cookies. Chocolate chip. Peanut butter. Oatmeal raisin, White chocolate macadamia, toffee bars, Christmas spritz cookies, Ginger snaps and brownies. When they were cooked (both the cookies and the chefs), they consolidated the sweet treats in little baggies, tied each one with a cheery custom-made "Happy Holiday" greeting tag, and made another delivery: this one to Open Heart Soup Kitchen in Pleasanton.

On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm especially grateful to know people like these three, who helped deliver Thanksgiving to the less fortunate. Or people like my other friend, who remembered our four-legged friends with her generous jaw-dropping donation to an animal rescue shelter.

I don't think it's bragging to say that my friends make the world a better place. They certainly make my world better.

Making every day, indeed, a day for giving thanks.

Am I Forgetting Something?

Certain memories are burned in my brain, and one biggie is the first time I ever saw the Eiffel Tower.

It was late November, 2006 and I was visiting my good friends, Deb and Richard, who were spending a month in the City of Lights on business. One foggy evening we were in a cab driving to something that I'm sure involved cheese and wine, and I was peering out the window trying to absorb as much as I could in spite of the fog. Suddenly, voila! There it was. Emerging from the mist, right in front of me, was that iconic symbol of Paris ablaze in twinkling lights. It truly took my breath away.

And it was just as awesome the second time I saw it this past September. In fact, my best friend, Pam, and I were at the Eiffel Tower and one of 2000 people evacuated when a bomb threat was phoned in. Another memory definitely etched in my brain.

So last week I'm flipping through an old photo album circa 1992, perusing pictures of my various travels: there I am climbing Chichen Itza in Cancun, Mexico; slinging back a Guinness in Cork, Ireland; plugging my ears next to Big Ben in London, England; posing on the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France; hiking a muddy trail in Quito, Ecuador and floating on a gondola in Venice, Ita....

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up.

I took a double-take, not quite believing my eyes. But sure enough, there it was. Or rather, there I was, wearing post-1980s quarterback shoulder pads and big hair, posing next to the Eiffel Tower. On the Eiffel Tower. Underneath the Eiffel Tower. Near the Eiffel Tower.

I had obviously seen the freakin' Eiffel Tower.

And not for the first time in 2006 as I thought, but in 1992. And yet, I have no memory of it whatsoever. Nada, zip, zilch. None. It's not like I had experienced a temporary coma or was slipped a roofie. I distinctly remember that day trip from the cruise I was on: strolling cobblestone streets, drinking coffee in an outdoor cafe, checking out designer stores and bakery shops, absorbing the city's amazing ambiance.

But that big pointy thing with the twinkling lights? Hmmm, seems to have slipped my mind.

This makes me wonder: what else might I be forgetting?

Did I forget about getting married or having kids ? I've always wanted to try bungee-jumping, but heck, maybe I already have. The idea of me as a flaming redhead has intrigued me, but for all I know, been there, done that. And I like the idea behind Mormon polygamy, with one husband sharing several sister-wives (you take him tonight, sis. I feel like soaking in a candle-lit tub with a glass of wine), but it could be that I already have a dozen sister-wives packed away somewhere. Wondering why their sister-wife with the flaming red hair has skipped her turn at Friday night dinners for the past ten years.

Maybe she's spent this time doing memorable things, like bungee-jumping off the Eiffel Tower. Not that she'll remember.