My Freshly Pressed Fifteen Minutes

So for five days, my smartphone has almost constantly displayed the little blue WordPress app icon at the top of the home screen. Notification that somebody is either following my blog, liking one of my blog posts and/or leaving a comment.  This is not my normal. This is heady stuff.

This, I realize, is probably as close as I’m going to come to my Warhol Fifteen Minutes of Fame.

I was Freshly Pressed last week.

Am I the only one who feels the guilt of baskets of wrinkled clothes awaiting ironing piling up for weeks on end when I see the phrase “Freshly Pressed”?  I really hope so…  Or – much better thought – about buying a bottle of champagne and making mimosas?  Maybe several bottles.

I got the email last week from one of the WordPress editors.  She said she had selected one of my posts to be Freshly Pressed.  She said many nice things.  Amazingly all without any sort of promise of compensation by me at a later date!  The comment that I liked best was that my writing was “off-kilter in just the best way.”  Welcome to my world…

It feels strange having followers.  I write this blog for myself.   As I told my new bff WordPress editor, for me, it’s enough to just get it “out there”.  I needed a cheaper alternative to psychotherapy.

The fact that it might also be entertaining to some individuals of questionable taste is a serious bonus.

I am not a natural writer.  My grade school, high school and college English grades will support me on this.  Possibly my kindergarden grades as well.  Oh, I did do some writing during the many years I was an IT business analyst for an insurance company.  You can only imagine – if you stay awake long enough – how fascinating my memos and emails to vendors, internal customers and programmers must have been.

For a few anxious moments in the past few days, I worried if I was up to having – gasp – nearly 200 followers.  For many of you, I know this is a modest number.  To me it’s like having 20,000 followers.  A huge number to somebody who didn’t anticipate any.

Will future posts be as delightfully charming and witty?  Will I continue to be able to entertain and amuse my devotees?  That’s sarcasm in case you didn’t recognize it…  Can I maintain being “off-kilter in just the best way”?  Can I live up to the lovely compliments that so many people have offered?  That’s not sarcasm.

Like so much of life, I have to say I have no idea.  As I get older, I’m far more comfortable than I used to be with having more questions than answers.  Actually, it’s almost a relief not to have answers.  It seems to leave more space for possibility.

So I’m just going to continue to reflect on the absurdities of aging in our youth obsessed culture and the increasing madness of a world gone catawhampus.  All in my “off-kilter” way.

Senior citizen gone wild. For fifteen minutes.

Pass the Mardi Gras beads, the mimosas and Campbell Soup!

Confessions of a Former Ubertasker

I used to be productive.  I had a professional job in IT, school-aged, active children, aging parents who needed help, a house and yard, and volunteer positions in my kid’s school, the community and my church.  Oh, and a husband.  All at the same time.  And I got it done. No nanny, no cleaning service, no smartphones or apps to coordinate it all.  But I got it done.

Remember (if you are of a certain age…) the 1970’s commercial for a perfume call Enjoli?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Q0P94wyBYk

Yeah – that’s how I rolled in the 80’s and 90’s.  Jack of all trades, master of none, but in my own way, I was awesome.  I got it done. And, most of the time, in style and with a smile.  Okay – some of the time.

But now something is wrong.  Terribly, horribly, awfully wrong.

My kids are now grown and living successful lives of their own.  My parents passed away in the early 2000’s.  I no longer have a “real” job – I’m on hiatus remember?  The community and school volunteer positions have long been filled by other parents who were themselves in high school when I was volunteering.  I work couple of hours at my new church in my new city each week, but that’s about it.

Based on my past performance of successfully doing six things at once, you’d think that by this point I should have learned three languages, hiked the Appalachian trail twice, gotten another Master’s degree or two (maybe a PhD), started a tech company and become a 50 state marathon runner.  And still had time left over to master the art of the French soufflé and blog five days a week.

But that’s not how things are now.

If my day starts out with three thank you notes to write (so old school…), a prescription receipt to submit to the insurance company, a couple of loads of laundry to do, two bills to pay, blog posts from some of my favorite bloggers to read and a hotel reservation to book, I start stressing.  Too much to do.  And it’s very likely I won’t get it done that day.  Any of it.  I might play on Facebook for a while, answer a few emails, run out for coffee, start a blog post (not finishing it mind you) and buy a new running visor.

Like Scarlett O’Hara said, “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”  Fiddle dee dee…

How could I have fallen so far so fast and become so unproductive?

In the past two months I’ve restarted my little one person business and am working about ten hours a week.  Now I’m having a hard to finding time to go to the grocery store.

Really??

This past weekend I went to a three day conference that started on Friday.  On top of that, I had to run on Saturday morning and go to church Sunday morning to meet a commitment.  By Sunday evening I was saying (to quote Sheldon Cooper on “The Big Bang Theory”), “What fresh hell is this?”

How does one go from being ubertasker to being a slug?  I’ve been trying to figure it out…

In the past, was it a matter of just gritting my teeth and mentally forcing myself to go non-stop to get it all done?  It didn’t feel like that at the time.  Because everything seemed so “important” back in the day, does everything now feel trivial in comparison and just not worth very much effort?  Am I finally exhausted after all those years of non-stop activity and drama – a sort of PTSD response?  Did I burned out my adrenals and am now incapable of producing the cortisol my body needs for coping with stress?  Beginnings of dementia maybe?  Oh – I really hope not…  Have I gotten lazy?  Or is it just the simple fact that I was younger, and had more stamina and energy?

I don’t have an answer.  I wish I did.

I bought some bacon a few months ago.  I finally had to put it in the freezer because I just couldn’t get around to “frying it up in a pan.”

Maybe I should see if they are still selling Enjoli…

Ode to My Firstborn: Thank You for Making Me a Mom!

I

It never dawned on us that it might be difficult to conceive a child. We just thought that when we decided it was “time”, we’d stop using birth control and poof… we’d get pregnant.

But in early fall of 1981 our neighbors, who were going for their second child, were having trouble getting pregnant.  Hmmmm – we didn’t feel as if we were quite ready to be parents yet (I mean, who is?) but we felt compelled to “get busy” trying.

Remember when you were young and your parents gave you the stern warning that “it only takes one time?”  They were telling the truth.  It only took one time.

Clearly you were destined to be.

I was commuting weekly for my job to a city that was a hundred miles away from our home.  Long, stupid story, but I would leave on Monday morning and come back home on Friday night, staying at a small apartment during the week.  Not sure why I thought this was a good idea…

One Monday morning, I got up bright and early as usual, made my HUGE thermos of coffee and hit the road.  And that’s when it hit me. I’ve always loved the smell of the coffee, but this particular morning, it was making me sick.  I couldn’t drink any.  At all.

Hmmmm…

Home pregnancy tests made their debut three years before in 1978. They were very different from the immediate results tests available today.  It was a delicate operation that took several hours.  After spending $30 on three tests and getting three positives,  I still couldn’t believe it.

Holy crap!

I bought all the books I could find on “how to be pregnant.”  We looked at the pictures of the fetal development.  We started to call you Peanut.

And I started eating everything in sight.  It wasn’t pretty.  Forty pounds later, my OB didn’t think it was pretty either.  I’ve been trying to lose that baby fat for nearly 32 years now.

You were a busy baby.  You tumbled and rolled and kicked.  I loved every minute.  I sung to you, patted you and dreamed of you.  My heartbeat was your constant lullaby and your gymnastics were my joy.

I was going to be the perfect mother.  I was going to give you a life of emotional security that I didn’t have.  I was going to give you the love that I had lacked.  I was going to care for you as I hadn’t been cared for.  I continued to dream.

At some point about month six, I realized with horror that you couldn’t stay where you were forever.  You had to get out somehow.We dutifully went to childbirth classes where the instructor assured me that the body makes “allowances” for moving a seven pound baby, four pounds of which is head, down through a passage that seemed like it was never meant to have something the size of a football move down.

Yeah, sure…

Ten days before your anticipated arrival date, I felt something odd. Like I sprang a leak.  Ick.  You were getting ready to make your grand entrance!  But it wasn’t time yet…  I hadn’t packed my bag. Dad’s vacation didn’t start for another ten days.  I wasn’t quite ready to be a mom just yet.

In God’s infinite wisdom, God was preparing me for parenthood. The lesson was: your kids don’t always cooperate with your plans. You let us know that from the very start…

I packed my bag, Dad made chocolate chip cookies and we were off to the hospital.  This was going to all work out!  After five or six hours of “unmedicated” labor, I would deliver my firstborn and still get a full night’s sleep.  This is when God’s plan kicked in again…

Fifteen hours of labor later, the doctor decided to give me something to “kick it up a notch.”  Holy cow!  I was exhausted after being up all night and the contractions really started coming fast and furious, and they hurt.  Really hurt.

I gave up.  I couldn’t do the unmedicated thing.  I asked for an epidural.  But right before they administered it, you decided you’d had enough.  It was time to get the party started.  I started pushing. This was not a good thing because there wasn’t a doctor anywhere in sight.  The nurse told me not to push.

Right.

From what I remember, think I basically told her to go to hell.  You say crazy stuff when you have a seven pound football coming out of you.  The nurse started getting ready to deliver you when my handsome OB swept into the room just in time to catch you.

This was the days before doing ultrasound was standard practice so we had no idea if you were going to be a boy or a girl.  We were both breathless (especially me!) as we asked,  “What is it?”  It??  A boy!  I was a mother.

Holy crap again!

That’s when the fun really started.  And that’s when my life really started.  I thought I understood what my life was all about until I held you for the first time.  I didn’t know shit up until that moment. Nothing was ever going to be the same.  I was never going to be the same.  And I haven’t been.  And it’s been a good thing.

Turns out, I wasn’t the perfect mother.  I made lots of mistakes. Sometimes I embarrassed you, made you angry, made you sad, made you cry, criticized you too much, said some harsh things, didn’t understand you.  Everything I swore I would never do to my most precious and beloved son.  For that and the myriad of other times I disappointed you and let you down, I am sorry.  Really sorry.

But I think we had many good times too and there were a lot of things I, miraculously, did right.

With age comes wisdom and now that I’m older, I know I would be a better mom if I had a chance for a do-over.  More patient, more laid back, more fun.  We’d laugh more, do more goofy things, have more adventures, play in the rain.  Time for grandchildren?  Remember, it only takes one time…

Please never, ever doubt this…  I loved you Peanut, right from the start.  And through all the mistakes – both mine and yours – I kept loving you.  Fiercely loving you.  You were then and will always be the shining light of my life.  I have been so incredibly fortunate to be your mother and I am so very proud of you.

I hope that somehow, that’s what you will remember about me when you’re my age.

Happy Mother’s Day to me!

Ode to The Hill, Ted Drewes and Toasted Ravioli

If you ever lived in St Louis, you understand.  If not, I feel a little bit sorry for you…

It’s 9 PM on a Saturday night and I’m into the third day of my four day visit to St. Louis.  At the moment I can’t move.  I’ve eaten too much pasta and had a bit too much wine.  Yet again.

It’s good to be back!

I wasn’t always like this.  I used to be a relatively normal woman with normal appetites and culinary desires.  Maybe a bit of a sweet tooth.  And then we moved to St. Louis.  Paris isn’t the only place that’s a moveable feast…

Seriously?  St. Louis?  Now what state is that in….?  Illinois, Arkansas, Kansas?  You know those midwest cities in those midwest states…  Can’t keep ‘em straight.  Fly over territory.  Who know and who cares?

Big mistake.

St. Louis is one of the best kept secrets in the U.S.  Not only does it have one of the best universities of the nation – Washington University – and free (yes free!) museums and a free zoo and the second largest urban park in the U.S. and amazing old school architecture and a kick ass Mardi Gras celebration and a dedication to their professional baseball team that most cities can only dream of and Clydesdale horses roaming free in the fields at Grants Farm BUT they have some of the best food in the country.

Let me explain…

I moved to St. Louis in 2010 after living in Atlanta for five years.  Big change.  But having grown up in western Pennsylvania and then lived in southern Ohio for nearly thirty years, it felt a bit like coming home.  Medium sized midwestern city with midwestern sensibilities (translation: the mantra is shut up, suck it up, deal with it and don’t give me any crap about it.)  Minimal botox big lips, sun bleached teeth, fake tans and boob jobs.

What I didn’t expect was the food.  The incredibly amazing food. Wondrous food.  And it was all no more than ten to fifteen minutes from our house.  During rush hour.  I gained five pounds in twelve months.

There’s The Hill.  This area was originally settled by Italian immigrants and was, in a much less politically correct world, referred to as Deigo Hill.  Imagine every wonderful Italian restaurant and sandwich place you have ever been to.  Then imagine they are all within a ten square block area.  Then imagine that the prices on the menu are 30% less.  That’s The Hill.  Throw in some totally authentic Italian markets (where the clerks and some of the partrons still speak Italian to each other), Italian bakeries, salumarias, and gelato places and…well…you get the picture.

Then there’s the frozen custard.  Not only is there the famous Ted Drewes on old Route 66, but a bunch of mom and pop places. Fritz’s, Mr. Wizards, Doozles, Silky’s, Spanky’s.  All selling rich, creamy frozen paradise with the option of mixing in nearly a unlimited combination of sauces, candies, fruits and nuts to create a “concrete”.  Think a DQ Blizzard on lots and lots of steroids.

Everything from local bbq and chicken joints to soul food (Oprah made Sweetie Pies famous) to restaurants that serve only locally sourced foods to wonderful microbreweries (in the heart of Budweiser land!) to elegant, formal establishments and everything else in between.  It’s all there and tastes fabulous!

But St. Louis is so modest and unassuming about it’s food.  That’s so Midwestern…  I honestly don’t think the people living there realize how good they have it.  Until they leave.

To natives who had to move away and those of us who were transplants then then yanked out, we know.  We understand.  And we eat when we come back to visit.  Oh yes – we eat.  Fried chicken at Hodak’s, char grilled oysters at The Broadway Oyster Bar, the pasta a Zia’s, toasted ravioli at Lombardo’s, the smoked duck breast at The Shaved Duck, pretzels from Gus’, cupcakes from Sweet Art, pies from Sugaree, and on and on and on…  In a very Pavlovian response, I start salivating when I catch a glimpse of the Gateway Arch from the air or driving in on I-64 through Illinois.

So I only have one more day.  And my list of places to go is far larger than one day’s worth of eating.  Something has to go.  Or maybe not…

I wonder if it’s a coincidence that Tums are made in St. Louis?

[Full disclosure – I wrote the bulk of this on Saturday night, but did some editing today when I was less under the influence of tortellini and Chianti.  Also – just so you don’t think I’m a shill of the Greater St. Louis Restaurant Association – of the food items that are indigenous to St. Louis, I do not like gooey butter cake (too sweet), provel cheese (click the link) and their cracker crust style pizza (no explanation needed.)]