"You turned out good."

The other day I got a message. A short, sweet, to the point message.

Unsolicited.

Unexpected.

And, as it turns out, something I had been waiting a lifetime to hear.

"You turned out good."

As simple as that.

And those four little words have made me smile, cry, & ponder so much in the last few days.

It all started innocently enough.

I sent a link to a friend. An old friend. OK, I friend there is a little "history" with. You know, the kind of history that took a young girl's heart a while to get over. Quite a while.

The link showed my kids several years ago during an Irish Dance performance. I shared for St. Patrick's Day, with a simple confession: "I used to be an Irish Dance Mom!" More than a brag link, it was a bit of my past, a bit of, "Oh my, this is what I did each & every St. Pat's for what seemed a lifetime." A bit of, "I sit here tonight, on this St. Patrick's Day, not in a pub with my friends sharing a pint, but at the kitchen island, alone, with the now adult son off on Holiday in Maui & the ever diligent daughter doing a mountain of homework on her course to be Valedictorian." This is what I used to be.

And where am I now; what have I become.

It took a while for a return message. Of course, I just figured the link had been viewed & no comment was warranted. I wasn't expecting a reaction. I was just proud of my kids & their accomplishments.

The following day after work, after a long, grueling day at the job I do not loving what I do, there was a message waiting. Those simple little words.

"You turned out good."

Words that melted my heart. Words that reached out. Words that healed a little scar I had quite forgotten. Words that brought out a moment I thought I had successfully put away in a box & secured in a dark corner.

I remembered what was to be my kids' last performance at an annual St. Patrick's Day Benefit. It would be one of the last times my father ever saw them dance; shortly before they retired & a year before he died. And I remembered coming up behind my father & son sitting at a table together & overhearing the conversation. And I remembered the pain as I heard my father telling my son how proud he was of him...that he was not at all like his mother...me. That he wouldn't waste his life, that he would never amount to nothing like her. Like me. And I remembered watching my son pull back, stand up to his almost 6 foot height & say, "I don't have to listen to this" & walk away.

And I flashed forward to the 12 weeks I waited in the hospital as my father lingered before passing. The 12 weeks I visited, attempted to bring comfort, sat quietly in the corner knitting because it reminded him of his mother & the memory of her "click click clicking" away in his childhood. The time I sat secretly & selfishly waiting for closure; waiting for a bonding moment; waiting for just one snippet of peace in what had been a lifetime of tension. Waiting for a quiet moment of father daughter revelation that would leave a smile.

It never came.

I'm not sure what exactly I was waiting for. Perhaps the inner child in me looking for her daddy to be close; to say "I love you...I am proud of you." Words that never existed in our relationship; a relationship fraught with anger, disappointment, abuse. A relationship that formed a young girl who needed to be strong, who pushed people away, who was afraid to be close to anyone; a young girl who fell head over heels for a time & was clueless as to how to make a relationship work.

A young girl who loved....& lost. A girl who grew up, dealt with the past, moved on, & broke the cycle. A girl, who in coming into her own, managed to raise a couple incredible kids but never realized she was raising herself.

You turned out good.

The words that came from someone who knew me back when I was fractured but didn't know why. From someone who saw the self-destructive behavior, but who never knew the back-story. From someone who has been a quiet observer, only recently seeing who I have become, but who knows where I have been.

And it means the world to me.

Not because I was looking for approval...but because I finally got it. Not because of what I have done, but because of who I am.

Why?

My daughter came out of play practice this evening, after I had seen kids hugging & crying, to tell me that one of our community 12 year olds shot herself in the head today. The kids had early release from school today...most got together with friends & enjoyed a day of reprieve. Not Mandy.

Not only is this SO heartbreaking, when you see her smile, & all the friends that she had, & how much she was loved, but her 16 year old sister committed suicide last July.

God, what is wrong with our families, our communities, our schools, that this is rampant in our society today?

I cannot imagine what went on in the lives of these girls to drive them to this :(

We have lost so many young lives in our community in the last 3 years...to illness, accidents & suicide. Our town is so small, these statistics so great. Our kids have known SO much loss in such a short time...

My heart breaks for these kids....& I don't know how to help...

Here's a little secret...

...I don't always follow the directions.

I mean, I do sometimes, often at the most crucial of times, just not all the time.

This came to mind as I was making a nice cup of chai to sit down & relax with.

First off, chai, being made with black tea, is probably not the ideal thing to relax with. Face it, that tea has a kick. The caffeine alone will quite possibly stimulate me well into the wee hours of the morning. Add a nice rounded teaspoon of Sugar in the Raw, & I am pretty well guaranteed enough energy to get me through the evening.

But I digress.

The real reason I began thinking about following directions is because I was reading the box & realizing I wasn't exactly making my chai properly. The first tip off was step 1: pour boiling water directly over teabag. I was reading this as I was warming a cup of milk in the microwave to sink the teabag into.

Step 2 was to let the bag sit for 3-5 minutes. After I submerged it in my nice warm milk, I had to play with it. Lots. Up & down, sink it with the spoon, up again, a little squeeze, back down. You get the picture.

I got bored about 4 minutes in & figured it was good enough. The milk had taken on a nice proper chai-like color & the aroma wafting out of the mug as I plunked the bag was heavenly.

Let's see, step 3. Remove teabag & add an ounce of milk. Well now, that was just silly, as I already had a full mug of nice, chai-spiced milk.

Step 4: mix in 1 TBS sugar. Hang on just a minute there! A tablespoon? Of sugar? In only 8 oz of milk? Make that a teaspoon, & a scant teaspoon at that.

And here I sit, enjoying my frothy delight, a divine blend of spices in a creamy, slightly sweetened beverage. Not a watered-down, overly sweet version, but one that accurately matched my mood.

Life is like that. Sometimes, if you follow the directions, you don't end up with what you want at all!

But if you follow your instincts, you can create exactly what you need.

Confessions of a Shoeaholic

Hi, my name is Julie, & I buy shoes.

Lots of shoes. And boots. Shoes in all colors, & shapes, & heel sizes.

Well, mainly high heels. Sometimes, really, REALLY high heels.

Shoes & boots & flops...oh my!

In my closet resides the Sexiest Shoes on the Planet collection.

I am not making this up.

The other day, in a bout of retail therapy before I had to go visit my mother, as I stood in the clearance aisle of my favorite shoe store, it hit me.

I may have an itsy, bitsy problem. A size 6.5 problem to be exact.

I thought this as I stood holding a pair of gorgeous, ivory basket-weave, 4 inch spike gladiator booties. I really, truly did not NEED this pair of shoes. Oh, but I wanted them. And at 70% off, I had to have them. They were crying to be mine. Never you mind that I will probably twist an ankle in them on their first outing; nay, I will look absolutely fabulous doing it!

But I also wondered what had brought me to this point. What drove me to find those deep discounts on the shoes that line my closet; the shoes I photograph; the shoes I get teased about; the shoes that all my daughter's friends secretly want to pilfer from their cozy little boxes.

Up until now, I just thought it was the fashion, the thrill of having something a little dangerous & a whole lot wonderful to accessorize an outfit, the sense of victory at finding the perfect shoe. I realized I had never really looked into the depths of my shoe loving heart to find my motives.

When I did, they became painfully clear.

Maybe it was because I knew I was facing yet another friction-filled visit with my mother. Maybe it was because I was returning to my childhood home, just up the street from my grade school, to kick off my shoes in that back hallway like a thousand times before. It is not always comfortable looking back to see where you come from. And it became crystal clear. Why I wear the shoes I do; why I love the shoes I do; why the sexiest shoes on the planet have become a bit of who I am today.

You see, when I was little, I hated shoes.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't hate ALL shoes. In fact, I loved walking through the high end department store (or what I thought was high end so long ago) & gazing at all the beautiful shoes in the women's department, the forbidden shoes, the starlet shoes.

No, I just hated MY shoes.

My ugly, clunky, orthopedic, clown shoes. Shoes, that for budget purposes, were always purchased at least one size too big so I could "grow" into them. Always brown, always lace up, always with a low, chunky heel. How I longed for just one pair of shoes that I wouldn't get laughed at for wearing.

And I didn't even get to shop at the "cool" shoe stores. No, I got to shop with the blue-haired elderly ladies, who pinched my cheeks & told me how thankful I would be when I was older that I wore "sensible" shoes.

It was the seeds of the rebellion; carefully planted, silently nurtured. "All in good time" I kept reminding myself. Someday I would be free of my shackles, someday I would be free of my shame.

I remember my first pair of regular shoes. The podiatrist that had sentenced me to be a shoe outcast by dubbing me "pigeon-toed" retired. The orthopedic shoe store closed. My mother was forced to take me to a bona fide shoe store, where they sold ~gasp~ stylish shoes!

And oh, did I pick out some style! Shoes that would have made Marsha Brady envious! Patchwork suede with a stacked heel beauties that guaranteed a release from the bonds of "nun-shoes". Shoes, that in fine rebellion tradition, clashed horribly with the red, white & blue plaid uniform jumper of my school day.

It was the beginning of obsession.

I began noticing shoes, & taking note of shoe sales, & saving up my babysitting money for shoes I knew my mother would never give me the money to buy. In High School, I was only able to have a few pairs of shoes, carefully selected, well-taken care of.

By college, my love affair with shoes was well underway when a new obsessions took root: boots! Zodiac boots. A "one-pair-a-season" sort of purchase that I selected after careful deliberation. (And, yes, to this day, I STILL have a pair of those boots in my closet.)

As a new mom, I quickly learned that, with a little practice, it was physically possible to carry a child, a diaper bag, 2 bags of groceries AND open a car door in heels, and, key point here, look fabulous doing it.

For me, shoes now represent seasons, and events, and opportunities. My daughter comes along with me shoe shopping. We ooh, & ahh, & model, & dream over shoes. We laugh & talk and hold up shoes we KNOW we would never wear, but oh my aren't they fabulous?! Shoes for my daughter are a pleasure, one of life's little luxuries. She will never know the pain of being laughed at for her footwear.

And that, perhaps, is why I love shoes.

Water Weight Redux

Repost of the entire shower escapade circa 6/27/08:

So, as if I don't struggle with body image enough already, yesterday I broke through the shower enclosure floor.

Yep.

Crack. KaPow. And other assorted Batman expletives.

I had finished the whole "lather, rinse, repeat" cycle & was reaching around the door for my towel when it happened. I stepped down, felt a little bounce, the the floor gave way beneath me!



We have been planning a bathroom remodel for a while. A brand new toilet & sink sit patiently in the solarium. And the slab of black granite that has resided happily under my bed for what, three years, is waiting to be an actual countertop instead of a cat bed.

We built this house 19 years ago & it is beginning to show its age. This has been the year of burly, sweaty, tattooed men meandering about with hammers. No, my husband isn't burly, or tattooed. But he does get sweaty once in a while. We contract out...at least things get done that way. We have a new roof, new gutters, & the windows will be torn from their sashes & replaced this weekend. (I already dread the swarm of mosquitoes amassing battle plans while there are gaping holes in the bedrooms!)

But the shower is different.

Now, in my defense, there had been a hairline crack along the base. Seems the builders cut a few corners. Quite a few. I've been informed that there is supposed to be a support floor underneath the base of a shower insert.

I know, I watch that Home/Garden network channel on cable with the wonder women who install their own travertine flooring! (T-what the heck is travertine anyway?!)



But no, for 19 years, our shower has rested precariously with no support, a disaster in the making.

And, of course, these things only happen to me.

Now, I can see the abandoned son causing this. With his 6 foot, "you can bounce quarters off him" frame. But me? After all those bowls of Special K & the body ball of doom? It was sorta like Godzilla splatting a building. The foot came up. The foot came down. C R A C K!



*Note: I am not saying I have scaly Godzilla feet. Please don't get that idea. I have been pumicing & Burt's Bees Balming them into pedicured perfection. It is sexy sandal season after all.



It was just fairly embarrassing to have to come down to the kids & say, "Um, you can't use the shower anymore. Ever. I, um, broke it. No, not the water thingy....the, um, floor."

After they figured out what I was saying (& saw the huge, gaping hole), it became apparent that the "early for parties" faux pas is behind us & they have moved on to new territory.

Well, it had to happen.

Over on FB, I finally got contacted by someone I was more than happy NOT being in contact with. And, quite frankly, I'm a little torn in how to handle the situation.

In every life, there are people that come & go. Some touch your life & change you forever. Some share memories at a certain point, then fade into a mist. Some bring a smile at the oddest times.

And some evoke the response of every hair on the back of your neck standing up on end & you find yourself in full on "fight or flight" mode.

Yep, this is one of those latter relationships.

I believe the last contact we had was a phone call that ended with, "Look, I don't have time in my life for you, don't bother calling me."

Ouch.

This after I had just seen her through a sticky divorce, financial troubles, & the death of our close High School friend.

Looking back, that was pretty much how it always worked.

We were friends in High School, me being there when she needed it, getting cold-shouldered when she didn't. She stopped returning my calls when she got pregnant, had an abortion, & was sent down State to live with her Grandma & attend a small college. She called the next summer when she returned to the local campus I was attending & needed to have a friendly face show her around. Two years passed, then she "broke up" with me again because I was dating the brother of her crush & she couldn't stand me being a part of his family. Her words, not mine.

I'm not making this up.

Our paths crossed a few years later & the "friendship" resumed. We did lunch, went shopping, & shared the ups & downs of fledgling adulthood. Until she didn't need me. Again. Which is sad, because at that point, I needed a friend.

When we parted, the abandoned son was 4, the beautiful daughter was not in the picture, & the internet was only a glimmer on the horizon. No one had cell phones, or texting, or "social networking". It was a challenge to keep in contact with your friends, & quite easy to lose contact with everyone else.

Not so today.

As anyone who knows me will attest, I am self-proclaimed Queen of the Search Engine. A proper input here, a random click there, you can pretty much find anyone you are looking for. Or a link that will eventually lead you there. (Yes, I know that's a sentence fragment, but I like how it reads & am leaving it.)

So, when I got a message that read: "I came across you by accident and thought, oh my gosh! What are the odds?" I'm thinking to myself, hmmm, probably a pretty good bet considering I use both my maiden and married names & am linked up to my High School page.

Accident my fanny.

Pair that with the "How are the kids?", note the plural, comment from someone that never knew #2 existed...can we say, FB Stalker?

It was the "When we last spoke" line that really got my dander up. More correctly remembered contextually, it was, "When I last told you I didn't want to speak with you again" memory that made me chuckle.

And all I can think is, "So, what do you need?"

It sounds cold. It sounds harsh. But somewhere in the back of my mind there's a little voice saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." You know what? Fool me three times & I think I'm pretty much branded a sucker.

So, do we go for a fourth?

I suppose I should at least be polite & message back. I can do that. I've done it with a couple other people I have had differences with & been delightfully surprised.

But honestly, I do not want this person actively in my life. I don't want them looking through my photos, & reading my statuses, & seeing what my real friends have to say. I do not want to be part of the drama she brings to every situation.

And I feel a little bad about that.

But not bad enough to open myself up again. And I'm pretty sure I'm ok with that.

Look to the skies.

I remember now why I stopped writing.

And, more importantly, when.

I hadn't stopped entirely. I tried my hand at this "domestic lifestyle" blogging. I threw myself into the recipe blog. And the Great Martini Blog. I was creative with my status messages & random quotes of the day. (Yes, technically written by someone else.)

But I didn't "write" anymore. Not for about a year.

And yesterday, it all came streaming back.

It's my favorite time of year, astronomically speaking. The Perseid Meteor shower. The time of year when you will find me asleep with my face pressed against the living room window as I sit & wait for just one more streak of light.

It's a magical time.

I know it's nothing more than space debris burning up in our atmosphere.

But I don't look at it that way.

Shooting stars.

Wishes to be made.

Dreams.

Galaxies far, far away.....

And this year, the Perseids reminded me of why I didn't write for ever so long a time.

I was looking for the start date & lunar forecast for this year's display. A lot of my bookmarks still reside on the dinosaur, so I had to do a new search & clicked on the first option.

And went straight to the site that crumpled my spirit.

Last year, at precisely this time, I applied for my dream job. An assistant editor position. At an astronomy mag. That needed someone to keep their website fresh. And write a blog.

It was in the stars!

I don't think I have ever been closer to actually answering the question: what do you want to be when you grow up?

I tweaked the resume, wrote a brilliant cover letter...and waited. And waited. And waited. And checked the posting. And waited some more.

Then I got the call. The call that asked a bit more about me. Then I waited some more, but only for a day this time. And I got the call for "the" interview. The interview of a lifetime.

Long story short (yep, I know, "too late"!), I didn't get the job.

It apparently was NOT in the stars.

And I was crushed. And took it personally.

Since my writing skills were an integral part of the app, I assumed, quite frankly, that I sucked.

I lost confidence in myself. And I stopped writing.

Well, I stopped writing from my heart. I stopped writing anything of substance. I started looking for approval from a new audience; readers that liked my cooking, decorating & photography. Not my wit, my humor...my soul.

A little part of me had died. I didn't feel "good enough" to write anymore. I really didn't feel good enough for anything anymore. I stopped knitting and creating jewelry pieces too.

I threw myself into the mundane.

For a long time.

Gradually, the muse returned. I think her ego was bruised as well & it took her awhile to want to inspire me.

And when I looked at that website yesterday I had a fresh outlook on things and realized maybe, just maybe, it wasn't such a "dream job" after all.

Hindsight is amazing...when you take time to "see" it.

And things do work out for the best.

Or what we can presume is the best.

And, life goes on.

The Importance of Play

It's Monday.

Again.

And I haven't had enough weekend.

Again.

Don't get me wrong. I found time to relax, & go to a movie, & spend time with friends, & enjoy a nice glass of wine, & talk about good books I have read...& talk about good books that I haven't read. I designed some jewelry, made creme brulee, & listened to the rain. (Listened to a LOT of rain!) I lit a candle & watched it burn.

I also managed to get a mountain of laundry done, restock the empty fridge, get the house neat & tidy, & cook up some wonderful meals.

But I want more.

More weekend.

More down time.

More play.

I love to play.

I'm good at it. And, quite frankly, I don't think some people make enough time for it. I'm not talking playing cards...or Monopoly...or 20 questions...or Scrabble online. I mean Play. With a capital "P".

It involves laughter. Lots of laughter.

It requires you to let yourself go a little. Or a lot. To let your hair down, to forget about responsibilities that normally weigh you down, to not worry about what that person over there that you don't know anyway thinks.

I love to play. Or did I say that already?! *wink*

I love to look at things in a light-hearted way, to find humor in things that others might miss. Sometimes, I sit back & wonder about people that look so solemn all the time. I even worry a bit about people who never laugh out loud. It's not good to be so serious.

I love to play. (Yes, I'm establishing a pattern here.)

I love to throw out a line & see who takes the bait, to see who's paying attention, & who is looking at things sideways like I am. To see who is willing to spend some time being "frivolous".

I love to play.

Sometimes I worry that people will think I lack depth. (I can have a Dark Side, if you want me too....) I can be plenty sensible & mature when I need to be. But it is much more fun to whimsical. It just is.

I love to play.

I love to sing. Out loud. In public. As I walk through stores, or along the beach...or through the office. And I love it when people join in.

I love to play.

And I've noticed it is usually the kids who play along with me. They join in on the singing. And the random picture taking. And the laughing at the foibles of human nature (behind other people's backs even).

I get stares from adults. The ones who have grown up. The ones who have forgotten how to laugh and enjoy the little things. They frown at me & don't find my playfulness at all funny.

They...are fuddy duddies.

And I don't like to play with them.

But I do love to play!

The Sounds of Silence

I love "quiet".

It's actually quite complex when you really take the time to sit still & listen.

It is!

When we first moved to the middle of nowhere ever so many years ago, I couldn't even sleep at night...the quiet was just SO loud! I was used to the city. Before we moved, I had a constant cacophony of trains, planes & automobiles, not to mention fire engines, etc! Noisy, mechanical, man-made things.

Then, we moved to the country. Not really, I mean, we didn't "buy the farm". Rather, we settled on a nice subdivision that USED to be a farm. To be honest, we do pass cows on a daily basis, but we have strict "No Livestock" rules here.

However, it is rural, I'll give you that. Once, when my best friend from High School drove out from the city to visit, she got so totally lost after an hour of looking that she threw her hands in the air, shouted, "Good lord, NO ONE lives out here" & went home. (Ah, the days before cell phones!)

But I love it.

Now.

At first, I couldn't get to sleep. It was SO still. And quiet. And dark.

I would lie in bed, snuggled up beneath a comforter & a cat, & listen. Did you know your ears can actually hurt a little when you strain them to hear? Eventually, I would fall asleep, after tossing & turning. But it didn't come easily. It's funny how you miss the noise.

It really didn't take me that long to adjust to the quiet though. And before you know it, I was hearing things.

No, not little voices :P

Crickets.

Coyotes.

Great Horned Owls.

Rain on the skylight.

And I began to appreciate the quiet. And I learned to listen to it.

Winter came, as winters do, & we got snow. Lots of it.

I love how quiet it is after a snowfall now. Sometimes, there is nothing more amazing than that stillness, as the snow glistens like diamonds strewn about in the sunlight and you hear...nothing. It's like a cloak wrapped about you. It makes me feel safe...the "snow quiet" does.

Then Spring came. And I learned to listen then too.

As the birds came back, I heard new songs. I will never forget my first meadowlark! (Well, after I grabbed the bird book & figured out what it was.) When I was little, we always looked for the first robin. Now, I know Spring is definitely coming when I hear the rattling call of the Sandhill Cranes; and the twee of the chickadees as they nest; & the morning song of the cardinal.

And Spring blossomed into Summer. With new stillness.

I renewed my love for star-gazing. Having grown up in the city, with the urban island of light, I was struck by the quiet beauty of the wide open skies. I can stand for hours & just watch the stars go by. If you listen...you can hear the meteor showers. I don't mean they actually produce an audible cosmic "shoop". It's just a feeling. But it's there.

Then Autumn fell. With a new lesson.

A symphony of colors surrounded me. As the leaves left the safety of their branches, you could hear them as they danced on the wind. You could hear them as they crunched underfoot. My favorite time of year.

And I sit here this morning, as the house comes to life & a thunderstorm rolls through, enjoying my coffee, some candlelight...and the quiet.

Some things are just SO obvious!

I really, really, really need to go see "Julie & Julia"!

If there has been one movie lately that was made just for me, this would be the one.

For quite obvious reasons.

My name....is Julie :)

I got called "Julia" for an entire year of grade school by a slightly deranged nun.

I grew up watching Julia Child on PBS. And loved it when Robin Williams imitated her..."and a little MORE sherry...."

I blog...

I cook...

I blog about cooking...

I create...

I make a huge mess when I cook...sometimes. "There's stuff all over the floor" has been heard more than once around here.

I am planning to write a cookbook. And get rejected by publishers. Lots of them.

I'm extremely competitive.

I like butter :)

And I love, love, love Stanley Tucci!

'Nuf said.