Women of a Certain Age

Fabulous Porches

I don't know about everyone else but I love my front porch. Maybe it's a southern thing, but there's nothing better than kicking back on your porch with a glass of sweet tea and a good book. I could spend many an afternoon that way. Heck, I suppose I do. I think a deck, porch, or patio should be a reflection of your home, something comfortable and inviting so I spent some time perusing some of my favorite magazine sites for inspiration. Thought I'd share a couple of my favorites here in case there's something you might want to try in your own outdoor space.

What I like about this one is the insertion of the red bench as a table. By painting the bench red and choosing red accents through the pillows, candles, and fern pot, they've created a dynamic effect.

Again, notice the accent colors. Plus, the abundance of soft pillows make it a space where I could spend an enjoyable afternoon. 

I've always wanted a pergola. Yes, I seem to be stuck on red today but notice the red letter box hanging on the wall behind the chair. It's all in the details people.

Here's something a little more neutral but notice how using the skirted ottoman as a table gives this outdoor room an indoor feel. Fabulous light fixtures and a textured rug all work well together.

Blue and white happen to be one of my all-time favorite color combinations. It just says "beach", and if I don't ever get my own beach house while I'm living maybe God will give me one in heaven. 

This needs no explanation. You'd have to be dead not to want to spend the afternoon here. And even if I were dead, I'd want to be laid out beneath that umbrella. It's so fabulous. The inside and outside spaces all merge together into one.  (all of the above pics are from the Better Homes & Gardens website)

Now, I'll show you my front porch.

  
After viewing the inspiration pics above, I find my own a little lacking. Don't you think an outdoor rug would look good between the seating area? Maybe a basket beside the rocker and something on the wall behind the chairs? Definitely need a little texture here somewhere.

I do really like the little waterfall Scott built for me this spring in the rock garden below the porch. There's just something about the sound of cascading water that makes you want to fall asleep or run for the bathroom.  

Where is your favorite spot to spend an afternoon?

      

We Remember - VT

One of the things I love about Blacksburg is the Huckleberry walking and bike trail (above) that curves through and around town for almost six miles. Some days I pick up my daughter's dog, Bo, and take him there for a walk. There are a lot of activities going on around campus today to honor the 32 students and faculty killed three years ago but I didn't want to be there. Even now, if I look at pictures of the victims I tear up and I remember too vividly the events of that terrible day. So, I decided to walk the Huckleberry Trail instead, I wanted to be removed from the suffering.

 My daughter was a freshman in 2007 and living on campus, and even though we lived two miles away, she had wanted to experience college life. Her dorm was next door to the dorm where the first two shootings took place. Her roommate met her as she was leaving for class that morning and told her to stay inside there was something going on. I was teaching 8th grade then and all the county schools went into lockdown. We were told on the intercom that there was an incident unfolding in Blacksburg. I somehow knew it was at the university. I turned on the television in my classroom and started calling my daughter's cell phone all at the same time. I tried on grief that day, wearing it for 84 minutes before finally getting through to my daughter and realizing she was okay. No, I cannot imagine how those who lost a child or a loved one handled it. I’ve heard some of the first responders on the scene that day still have trouble sleeping. Unable to erase the images in Norris Hall or forget the cell phones that rang throughout the hallways as parents tried to reach their children.

Yes, this was a good idea I thought, as the dog frolicked in front of me and the wind blew the cherry blossoms all over the trail like fragrant snowflakes. Coming toward me on the path, a good-looking, college-age guy walked alone with his head down. It struck me strange, most of the time you see cyclists, joggers, older couples, college girls in shorts giggling over their iphones, or even dog walkers such as myself. But a young man alone, dressed in a nice pair of shorts and a preppy polo shirt, was rare. As he walked toward me on his side of the trail, he kept his head down. 

Bo strained at his leash and licked the guy’s bare leg as we passed. He looked up, his nose and eyes were red and swollen and it was evident he’d recently been crying.  At first, he looked embarrassed by the evidence of his raw emotions. Some things are hard to resist though and a pint-sized dog with a pink tongue lapping, is one of them.

He smiled at Bo.

I smiled at him.

He smiled at me.

That’s all. Just a smile.

Sometimes, that’s all you can offer. Sometimes, it’s enough. We walked on.

Later, I looked back. He walked with his head up. I’d like to think he was able to appreciate the cherry blossoms and smell the lilacs that bloomed beside the trail. I guess if there’s a lesson to be learned today, it’s that you can’t remove yourself from sorrow, you just have to walk through it.

 

 
 

Reoccurring Golden Girl Dreams

  

I dreamed last night I was a Golden Girl. This is the second time I’ve had a dream in which I’m one of the girls. We were sitting around the kitchen table eating pound cake and talking about Blanche’s dress. I can remember it vividly, bright red and flowing with an embroidered yoke. 

I must be having age issues because these dreams didn’t start until I turned 47 last month and started thinking about moving to Florida.  I don't want to be a Golden Girl, although I have great fun with them in my dreams. We had quite an escapade last night, a full version dream complete with plot. I dream in sit-coms. Does that make me weird?

My daughter turned 22 on Monday and that was salt in this aging wound. I'd like to be young again. Incontinence and mustache waxing do not hold great appeal to me. And I cannot begin to tell you how much time I spend rubbing moisturizers into myself. 

Last week, I touched my daughter's tight neck and cautioned her to never to take it for granted. She jerked away and stayed at arms-length for the rest of the visit for fear I'd want to compare the firmness of other body parts. 

Anyway, back to the Golden Girls. They made aging look so easy. Maybe that's why they're in my dreams, eating, laughing, having fun despite the wrinkles and leakage issues. Of course, most of them are dead now and that's depressing but I do appreciate what they offered women through showing us that fun and friendships can be had at any age.  

 

Writing is Tricky

This is my creative thesis which is also my novel. I find myself stuck. Knee deep in a pile of warm cow-crap stuck. Wow, can you tell I'm an aspiring novelist? I don't know why my brain has stalled. Well, maybe I do. Writing fiction is tricky. I require vast, unbroken slabs of time. Four quiet hours will enable to get something done. Two slabs of times, each two hours long, might add up to the same four hours, but are not nearly as productive as an unbroken four. If I know that I'm going to be interrupted or have to stop and work on a web page, I can't concentrate. I can't get into the story. If I even suspect that I might be interrupted, I can't do anything.

So my freelance design, the fact that I teach Creative Writing two evenings a week, and my Thursday night Hollins class is sucking the life right out of me. Pathetic, I know. But I never claimed to be brilliant.

So I'm going to have to do something that will allow me to do everything. Any suggestions?

The Sunshine State

The family and I took a quick jaunt down to Florida to celebrate my birthday along with my uncle Lowell's birthday. I was born the day he turned 21 years old. I like to think that gives us a certain bond but knowing my uncle the way that I do, I doubt my birth ranked high among  other things that may have happened that night. He appreciates me now though, well, we appreciate each other. Anyway, the sunshine state rained three out of the four days that we were there. I will not hold it against the state though. I have long had a love affair with Florida. Scott and I want to move there but we can't bring ourselves to leave family to go that far. Not yet, but soon maybe. 

You will not believe what $228,000.00 will buy down there. Keep in mind, that same amount of money will get you a ratty townhouse here in Blacksburg that's been inhabited with coeds, meaning the carpet would have to be replaced along with other things. Take a look at this house, one of my favorites that the realtor showed us that day. 

   

This is a model home so the realtor suggested a full price offer might include part of the furniture.

So what should we do?  Sunshine, tropical weather, palm trees, ocean.  Go or stay?   Stay or go? 

I think I really want to go. 

 

Rag Quilt Completion

Yes, Scott and I did finish the rag quilt. I've just been horribly lax in taking the photos to show you. I was waiting on a sunny day because photos do best in natural light and waiting on sunshine around here has been a bit frustrating. How many of you are sick and tired of gray skies? I'm visualizing a lot of raised hands here.

But now the sun is shining, my shingles are almost gone, and life is good. Scott absolutely loved the way the quilt turned out. He said it was "perfect and he wouldn't change a thing." I could find a few things to improve upon but I do agree that it turned out well for our first one. So well, in fact, we did a second one. The second one I'm going to show you is a baby quilt. I purposely picked out material for a baby quilt so I could sell the quilt in my etsy shop. That was the plan for the first one as well, until Scott decided he loved it more than life itself. So I figured that I was safe with the baby fabric.

Wrong. He won't let this one go either so it is now wrapped in tissue paper and stored in the linen closet until we have our first male grandson. (Hopefully, that will be a good long time.) Anyway they are easy to make and so cute and warm to snuggle up with. Check out the finished product.

Remember, after you sew all the squares together, you have to go back and clip around them at 1/4 inch intervals then wash and dry to get that delightful fuzz effect.

And this last pic is the finished baby-boy quilt.

If you want more detailed instructions on how to make your own, this is the article that got me started. I didn't exactly follow the directions for the pattern but it did give me the basics of how a rag quilt goes together.

Learn How to Make a Rag Quilt

Good luck, and you may or may not want to ask your husband to help. They get too attached.

My Son Won't Let Me Dress Him Anymore

I have handsome men in my family. My husband, when groomed, is gorgeous. And my son was chosen to be Virginia Tech’s “Face of Summer”. He just left out of here for his photo shoot. That’s the reason he got a hair cut yesterday. Well, that and he decided last weekend that he could cut it himself. This was right before my parent’s 50^th Anniversary party.  With his little bowl haircut and dark suit, people mistook him for a Mennonite all evening. Anyway, like I said, Shane is cute. Yet he just left for his photo shoot in a shirt that he outgrew in high school wearing a ball cap that looks like it belongs at a tractor pull.  He never even wears a ball cap.  If only he would still let me dress him. 

 

   

Rashes and Cell Phones

Whenever I feel the need for medical advice, I go to my daughter who is a fourth-year biology student because with what we pay for her tuition, I can’t afford a real doctor. On Saturday, I said, “I think I have shingles. I have a pain in my back like no other.”

 

“Is this like the blood clot you thought you had last month?” she asked.

 

Myself, I think a child should fake concern.

 

“Intense pain,” I reiterated. “Kept me up all night.”

 

She put down her sandwich. “Let me see.”

 

I showed her my back. My son-in-law had to look too in case he missed something interesting. They are so easily entertained. Last month they had me laid back in the recliner with a flashlight in my mouth to see whether or not my gums were receding. They were. I’m falling apart.

 

“No rash,” she announced. “You don’t have shingles.”

 

Now I like to be right about things, so it was a double-edged victory when I woke up this morning with the rash. I looked up shingles on the internet and compared my rash with the photos. Then I grabbed my cell phone, snapped a picture of my nasty back and sent it to my daughter, my son-in-law, my niece, my nephews, and my two sisters. That is the joy of a mass send; everyone can know you’re right at the same time, even the ones who don’t know what the heck you’re talking about. I can imagine their faces when they opened that candid close-up of white skin and raw-looking bumps.

 

I started getting replies right away. One nephew wants to use it as a screensaver and my other nephew thinks I shouldn’t be allowed a cell phone with a camera. My niece was concerned whether or not it was contagious because she’s a redhead and scars easily. My son-in-law is not willing to admit he was wrong and wants a doctor’s opinion. And my daughter will never again dismiss my symptoms so lightly which means I can get a lot of mileage from this down the road. Now if I could just get this pain to go away so I could enjoy this fine feeling of superiority.

 
 

Mr. Romance my Husband is Not

The only rose I received today was from my son-in-law. Bless his heart. My husband is not the flower-bearing sort. We were at Kroger’s yesterday and witnessed man after man carrying out vases of flowers and heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.

“Is Valentine’s Day coming up?” he asked.

You can’t get anything past him. 

“Tomorrow,” I said.

He stopped the cart so fast, I ran into it. 

“You want to pick yourself out something?” he asked.

“No thank you.”

“Not even a card.”

I give him that look. The look that means, if I have to pick it out then it’s not a surprise. It is just me buying myself a Valentine’s card and that’s sad. 

I no longer get upset with him though. I admit in the early years of our marriage this bothered me. I was jealous of friends who received jewelry, long stemmed roses, and handwritten poems declaring unending love.

They are now divorced.

Sometime after our tenth year of marriage, I realized I’d rather him show his love in a number of ways throughout the year rather than dutifully picking out a card that I’d chuck in the trash two days later.

Because for Scott ...

love is … standing another six hours and cutting out my second quilt this winter. After he finished and was no longer walking upright, my sister arrived needing help with measurements and cutting. He straightened his shoulders and continued to work with her until bedtime.   (This was yesterday.)

love is … telling me I look better without any make-up and meaning it.

love is … spending his Saturday morning’s grocery shopping so I won’t have to lift heavy bags.

love is … pretending to be surprised when the checkbook won’t balance.

love is … being mad at the kids at the same time as me, on principal alone, because it’s rare that he’s ever truly upset with the kids.

love is … knowing each one of the Desperate Housewives by name even though I can't name one Ultimate Fighter.

love is … giving me the heating pad even though he’s the one that’s been out in the cold all day.

love is … getting out of a warm bed to check the house one winter night because I was certain I heard reindeer on the roof. (Yes, it was Christmas and it turned out to be squirrels.)

love is … forgiving me for the time I had stool-softeners in the Tylenol bottle and he took them for a week without knowing why his stomach was staying so upset.

love is … not being able to sleep when I have indigestion for fear that I’ll die during the night from a heart attack and he’ll be left alone with the kids.

love is … experiencing morning sickness and labor pains both times I was pregnant.

love is … genuinely believing that I can do anything and never trying to stop me from trying.

love is … taking my hand when we cross the street, pretending my snoring isn’t that loud, and treating me like I’m someone special when I know most days I barely eke out average.

Happy Valentines Day!  Go hug someone you love for the little things that no one else sees.

 

 

 

 

It’s Not a Snow Day If You Have to Put On a Bra

I have a clear definition of a true snow day. It’s a day when they’re predicting a horrendous amount of snow.  It’s a day when you don’t have to worry about anyone knocking on your door because only fools would brave the bad weather. It’s a day when dressing should be optional, as well as brushing your hair and flossing.

When I woke up this morning and saw the snow, I smiled. No errands, no appointments, no responsibilities. I visualized a day in my flannel pajama bottoms and sweatshirt, reading the books I have stacked beside the couch and working on my thesis. I did not plan on dressing, especially the dreaded bra.

The first glitch in my plan was when Scott received a call that they wouldn’t be working today because the biggest snow of the season was bearing down on us. Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but having a man home unexpectedly can ruin the best of your plans; especially a man who is used to being outside and busy. I didn’t even have a quilt for him to cut out this time. By ten a.m., he was actually prancing the floor.

“Do you have anywhere you need to go?” he asked.

I looked over the rim of my reading glasses. “I’m good,” I said. I had braved the masses at Krogers yesterday so I wouldn’t have to make a milk or wine run today.

“Nowhere,” he insisted, looking hopeful. “I’d like to see what the roads are like and I do have four-wheel drive.” The man is proud of his F350.

I looked outside. Visibility was nil due to the blizzard raging outside our window. “I’m pretty sure,” I responded.

But he is a determined soul and he eventually weasels it out of me. I do need a package mailed from the post office. He decides it would be wise to go now before the roads got any worse. What did that mean for me?

Bra.

I thought about it though because I would be wearing a heavy coat and no one could possibly tell whether or not I was wearing a bra. But then with the road conditions, there was the risk of an accident and I didn’t want them whispering about me in the emergency room. “A woman her age really should be wearing a bra.”

On goes the bra.

Upon our safe return home, off comes the bra. There was a time, and not so long ago, when I could go without a bra. When the boys were still up there and going braless was considered sexy rather than eye-averting.

By mid-afternoon, Scott is prancing once again. He really is worse than a child or a dog. “We could bring all the kids up here and sled,” he suggested.  

“Maybe later,” I said. I’m enjoying the peace and the relative quiet.

To make a long story short, by four p.m., I’m in the kitchen making a chocolate cake because my nephew loves chocolate and chili with hamburger because my daughter won’t eat my chicken and white bean chili. Scott takes off with an empty truck and comes back with six kids, young adults actually but when you have to cook and pick up after them, I still term them kids.

What does that mean for me?

Bra.

They came in carrying suitcases.

What does that mean for me?

I may be sleeping in it.

 

No this is not my everyday bra - but I'm wearing that one, remember.