B-Day: P.S.

You didn't really think I could get away with not posting on my 50th birthday, did you?

When I press "Publish Post" at exactly 9:10 a.m., I will be exactly 50 years old. It's about time! I think it's fair to say that my salad days are officially over -- the inexperience of youth and all. Again, it's about time! I'm not old, just finally grown up. I guess there was a time in my life, even recently, when that idea was horrifying, but I’m actually really thrilled that I’ve arrived. I feel like I finally fit in my skin, my slightly sagging skin, yes, but my skin. It’s been a long journey. Nice to meet you, Nancy. Happy Birthday. And as my sweet little Scottish gram would have said, "Many happy returns of the day. May God bless."

And by the way, I do, in fact, have a zit. Some things never change.

So, it has come to this. My final words are courtesy of Lisa, whose Lewis Carroll-based show I mentioned yesterday. They are from her Director's Note in the program, and I can't think of a better sign off.

"This is a story of growing up, and all of the madness, the work, the stories and games that go along with that. What do we need to know in order to move onto the next step in life? What childhood lessons or friendships do we take with us or leave behind? How do you spend your time? What rabbit are you chasing... Who ARE you and what is your Wonderland?"

I'm starting to figure it out. In the meantime, I have a Bittersweet Chocolate Frosted Layer Cake to bake...

Love,
Nancy

Day 1: Not Much Left to Say

It's actually quite surreal to sit here at my computer and type in the words Day 1. I have a way of giving up on things -- follow through isn't my strong suit -- but I was determined when I started this back in August to finish it. And I've done it. And I have to tell you that I'm crying right now, I'm that proud of myself.

One day late in July the title One Hundred to 50 popped up out of nowhere. David and I happened to be in Boston the next day and I mentioned it to him, my arbiter of taste when it comes to words; three days later, with his praise for the idea spurring me on, I was blogging. Another impulsive move on my part, but a good one. This blog has been a massive brain dump for me, my stream of consciousness, free association. Our very first computer used to flash the words, "Communicating at an unknown rate." And a few years ago when I was in London, I saw a road sign that said, "Changing Priorities Ahead." I used to think that both of those would make great titles for my autobiography. But in a way, this blog represents the first half of my autobiography, which I suppose, therefore, ought to be called One Hundred to 50.

That leaves the second half of my autobiography. For those of you who have told me that you're going to miss reading my blog everyday, I would reply that I think I'm going to miss writing it more. Thankfully (for me anyway!), I do have an idea for the next one: 50 to One Hundred. I'm not going to pressure myself into writing everyday -- after all, my plan is to do it for 50 years -- and I'm not sure when I'll start, but one of the items on my ultimate to-do list is to write another blog, and do it I will. Consider that a threat and a promise. Check back on this blog from time to time and perhaps you'll find an update. And if I were you, I'd check it tomorrow.

FYI, I've already taken care of one of the other items on the list. An hour or two after I posted it I happened to open an e-mail from Ticketmaster and lo and behold, it said that tickets were going on sale yesterday at 10:00 a.m. for U2 on July 19th at the Meadowlands. Serendipitous! Barring any unforeseen circumstances, looks like I'll be able to cross that one off the list.

I'm going into the city this afternoon. My impulsiveness worked out with regards to the blog but in terms of my hair, well, that's a whole other story. I'm going back to my old hairdresser to see if she can finish what Jaafar started. And would you like to know what her name is? Young! No joke. How appropriate, huh? Afterwards, I'm going to a baby shower. I don't know when I last went to one. It was probably for Lisa, our old nanny, whose baby shower baby is now eight.

Lisa is the drama teacher at a private school in New Jersey, and Friday night Hope and I went to see her show "Wonderland," an adaptation of books by Lewis Carroll that she co-wrote with one of her students. Incredible. And, she gave me a glorious gift: a list of 50 unforgettable NLMG things and memories. I can't possibly thank her enough for her thoughtfulness and for sparking my own memories that might otherwise have remained buried. I've written several times before about the beauty of those "Aha!" moments; reconnecting with a younger me is one of my greatest pleasures. Lisa gave me 50 of them.

Anyway, going to a baby shower this evening feels like a lovely way to usher in my big day. A new life. New memories. New joys. And the continuation of mine...

So, let's see, who else has a birthday tomorrow? My friend Laura, my birthday buddy. Also, Abigail Adams, Marshall Crenshaw, Kurt Vonnegut, Alger Hiss, George Patton, Charles Manson, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Demi Moore, Calista Flockhart and Leonardo DiCaprio. Quite an assortment of characters. All Scorpios. Watch out! People born on November 11th are supposedly good storytellers. I certainly don't compare to the likes of writers like Vonnegut or Dostoyevsky, but everyone's life is a story, right? And each person tells it in their own way. Thank you for listening to me tell mine.

Day 2: My Ultimate Playlist (As of Today)

The following fifty songs make up the playlist of my life. They're not necessarily my favorite songs, although some of them are. I have many -- but not all -- of them on my IPod. These are simply songs that evoke strong memories of particular times in my life. For instance, I love to run to "Magic Carpet Ride." "And I Love Her" was the first song David and I danced to at our wedding. "Smooth" reminds me of my friend Karin dancing. "Elevation" reminds me of driving in the car with my kids. We used to sing "Have You Seen the Ghost of Tom" at Halloween in elementary school. There are only a handful of current songs on this list because I don't know yet what will remind me of this time in my life. And who knows how much of it I'll even remember? I've forgotten most of it already! Perhaps I'll have to add "Forever Young" by Youth Group or "When You Were Young" by The Killers or "Reelin' in the Years" by Steely Dan.

I refuse to apologize for any songs on this list, even if some of them are highly embarrassing. I will, however, apologize for the fact that there are actually closer to 100 songs here. I tried so hard to edit them down to fifty, but the best I could do was about seventy-five, so I gave up.

In no particular order, I give you the playlist of my life.

“Sugar Sugar” by The Archies
“Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl) by Looking Glass

“Sounds” from The Me That Nobody Knows
“Lose Yourself” by Eminem
“Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor
“New Year’s Day” by U2
“Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf
“Daniel” by Elton John
“Losing My Religion” by REM
“Night Swimming” by REM
“Shiny Happy People” by REM
“Burning Down the House” by Talking Heads
“Take Me to the River” by Talking Heads
“Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads
“Fly Away” by Lenny Kravitz
“Catch My Disease” by Ben Lee
“Single Ladies” by Beyonce
“Monkey Man” by The Rolling Stones
“(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones
“Start Me Up” by The Rolling Stones
“Bungle in the Jungle” by Jethro Tull
"Ninety Six Tears" by Question Mark and the Mysterians, Doug Martin on piano
“Windy” by The Association
“Little Miss America” by The Beach Boys
“Every Day I Write the Book” by Elvis Costello & The Attractions
“Crush” by David Archuletta
“Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong” by Spin Doctors
“Free Fallin’” by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
“The Weight” by The Band
“Red Red Wine” by UB40
“The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” by Traffic
“Fire and Rain” by James Taylor
“Get Down Tonight” by KC and the Sunshine Band
“Moondance” by Van Morrison
“Electric Feel” by MGMT
“Have You Seen the Ghost of Tom” by ?
“Place of the Blest” by Randall Thompson
“I Love to Laugh” from Mary Poppins
“Tainted Love/Where Did Our Love Go” by Soft Cell
“Layla” by Derek & The Dominoes
“Elevation” by U2
"Mississippi Queen" by Mountain
“Lounge Act” by Nirvana
“Roll With the Changes” by REO Speedwagon
“Rock the Casbah” by The Clash
“More Than a Feeling” by Boston
“The Joker” by Steve Miller Band
“Closing Time” by Semisonic
“Amie” by Pure Prairie League
“Our Lips Are Sealed” by The Go-Go’s
“Brick House” by The Commodores
“And I Love Her” by The Beatles
“Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” by BJ Thomas
“Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac
“Let’s Stay Together” by Al Green
Handel’s “Messiah”
“Downtown’ by Petula Clark
“Cinnamon Girl” by Neil Young
“Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” by Johann Sebastian Bach
“Wouldn’t It Be Good” by Nic Kershaw
“Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” by Crosby, Stills & Nash
“Have A LIttle Faith in Me” by John Hiatt
“Jackie Blue” by Ozark Mountain Daredevils
“Pick Up The Pieces” by Average White Band
“Rebellion (Lies)” by Arcade Fire
“More Than This” by Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music
“Head and Heart” by John Martyn
“Bittersweet Symphony” by The Verve
“For the Beauty of the Earth” from the Presbyterian Hymnal
“Work It Out” by Jurassic 5 & Dave Matthews Band
“Take A Minute” by K’naan
“No One’s Gonna Love You” by Band of Horses
“Deadbeat Club” by The B-52s
“She Drives Me Crazy” by Fine Young Cannibals
“The Lucky One” by Freedy Johnston
“Walk Away Renee” by Jimmy LaFave
“Bullet and a Target” by Citizen Cope
"Waltzing With Bears" by ?
“Intro/Sweet Jane” by Lou Reed
“Better Man” by Pearl Jam
“Debaser” by The Pixies
“I Want it That Way” by The Backstreet Boys
“Fallin” by Asher Roth
“Going Out Of My Head” by Sergio Mendes & Brasil ’66
“Run” by Snow Patrol
“It’s My Life” by Talk Talk
“Peaches and Cream” by John Butler Trio
“Sarah Smile” by Hall & Oates
“Doctor My Eyes” by Jackson Browne
“Wagon Wheel” by Old Crow Medicine Show
What I Like About You” by The Romantics
“Meet the Mets” by ?
“I’m Henry the VIII, I Am” by Herman’s Hermits
“Angels We Have Heard on High” -- Christmas Carol
"Smooth" by Santana

And last but not least, the song that I don’t know the name of that I heard in the bar. Can someone please help me out here? If you think you can name that tune (oh how I loved that show -- “I can name that tune in two notes!”), please call me and I’ll hum it for you. If you can, indeed, put me out of my misery, I'll burn you a cd (or five) of these beauties...

Day 3: The Ultimate To-Do List

Last night's birthday party was perfect. My five very favorite people in the world were with me. I had a cocktail made with vodka, crushed concord grapes and lime. I had Butternut Squash Custard with American Persimmon, Quince and Pine Nuts for an appetizer and Spanish Mackerel with Foie Gras, Savoy Cabbage, Mussels and Sesame Seeds for my entree, along with a sentimental bottle of red wine. Gingerbread Cake with Poached Seckel Pear and Cream Cheese Ice Cream (and a candle) for dessert. The mackerel reminded me of the time I ate a bowl of cat food (no need to go into the stomach-churning details, let's just say it wasn't one of my prouder moments).

I also got the best birthday present ever. David had arranged a photo session for our kids with the photographer who took pictures of them thirteen years ago. My favorite photo from the first session hangs on the wall of our kitchen. This new one is now hanging nearby. It made me so teary I almost couldn't speak (everyone was thrilled). All in all, a great night. My hair didn't look too good, I couldn't do the makeup like the lady in the store, and my party dress didn't do much to conceal the extra fifteen pounds, but no matter. My family made me feel beautiful and well-loved.

My posts to this blog have been fairly spontaneous. I've kept a list of ideas which I've pulled from a few times, but mostly I've just written whatever has popped into my head on a daily basis. From the get-go, however, I knew what the final posts would be. I now present to you my list of Fifty Intentions for the Next Fifty Years (in no particular order). Some of them are gleaned from this blog, some I've been thinking about for years, and a few were just added today. I don't really want to call it my bucket list because these are not necessarily the things I want to do before I kick the bucket. They're simply what I aspire to. Some are silly. Some are serious. I know some are pipe dreams. So be it.

Stop using the word anyway so much.
Read the newspaper every day.
Save some trees by canceling all my subscriptions to magazines; I never read them anyway.
Make a few new good friends.
Take more baths.
See U2 live.
Climb Mt. Kilimanjaro.
Grow old with David.
Be the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom.
Learn how to blow dry my hair.
Organize my photos.
Sing "Sweet Baby James" to my grandchildren.
See my parents again.
Take a graphic design class.
Make the perfect pie crust.
Walk all the trails in Ward Pound Ridge Reservation.
Run another half marathon.
Laugh hard, loud and often.
Learn to say no.
Find more ways to say yes.
Finish a New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. No cheating. No help.
Go to Antarctica, the Galapagos and the Grand Tetons.
Take a flying lesson.
Grow old gracefully.
Go apple picking with my children one last time.
Pray daily.
See David Sedaris perform.
Figure out the name of the song that I heard at the bar.
Be more dependable.
Get to the bottom of my to-do list.
Read more, and finish Anna Karenina. Consider the possibility of, or perhaps of not, adding War and Peace to the list.
Sleep more.
Relax, simply sit still and simplify my life.
Stay engaged, put myself out there: no fear.
Always inquire as to the dress code.
Buy a road atlas and keep it in my car.
Go on a two or three week vacation with absolutely no plans; just get in the car and drive, and enjoy the adventure.
Take the Winnie the Pooh quotation to heart: "You're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."
Never ride another rollercoaster as long as I live.
Take my vitamins.
Exercise six days a week (I've read that's what you must do to stay flexible and strong).
Witness my children succeed according to their own definitions of that word.
Spend more time with all the people I love.
Always see the glass as half full.
"Be the change I wish to see in the world" (thank you Mahatma Gandhi), whether it's in Nicaragua or in South Africa or right here in my own backyard.
Make my parents proud.
Start playing the piano again.
Learn to play the harp.
Not beat myself up if much of this doesn't happen -- just do the best I can.
Write another blog.

On three separate occasions in the past thirty three years, I have looked ahead to turning fifty with a concrete goal in mind. When I was seventeen and a senior in high school, I played the "What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up" game with my friends. I said that I wanted to be a bestselling author by the time I turned fifty (saying what I really wanted to do -- be a mom -- sounded too lame). My senior year in college my friend Albert and I decided to marry one another if neither one of us was married by the time we turned fifty. And about three years ago I decided that I wanted to run a marathon before I turned fifty.

To a certain degree, I've accomplished all these goals. Thanks to Jan and David, Albert and I weren’t forced into an arranged marriage. I've finally started writing, and while this blog may only have a handful of readers, they’ve been generous in letting me know that my words have on occasion moved them or made them laugh or made them nod their head in agreement. And even though I only ran a half marathon, it was 95 degrees out and I sure as hell felt like I'd run 26.2 miles. I’ve accomplished what I set out to do, and along the way I’ve led a charmed existence. I’m deeply grateful and excited to see what the future holds. And by the way, I'm no longer embarrassed to say that I think being a mom, and a good mom, is probably the most important job there is.

And now I'll take my leave of you. I've got places to go and people to see and things to do.

Day 4: It's Party Time

Okay, this doesn’t bode well. Sometimes all you need to do is sleep on a new haircut and it’ll look more like itself, more like what it wants to be, in the morning. But not all the time... That Dave, he’s a lucky guy, huh?

But not even the prospect of a bad hair winter -- maybe if I put on a ton of makeup no one will notice my pixie cut gone wild -- can dampen my spirits today. I’m as excited as I've been about anything in recent memory. Today's my birthday party! The guest list is highly exclusive: David, Annie, Jack, Luke, Hope and moi, Mneme. There, I’ve said their names! It was time to name all of them out loud. Sort of like a twisted version of Rumpelstiltsken or something.

We’re having a family dinner in the city tonight. All of us together, sitting around a table in a lively environment eating delicious food and just enjoying one another’s company -- that’s my idea of perfect happiness (and my answer on the Proust questionnaire). So tonight I attain nirvana, paradise, heaven, whatever you want to call it. How lucky am I?

Ultimately, having dinner with my husband and my children is what I decided I wanted to do most for my birthday. We thought about taking a trip; in fact, we thought and thought and thought about it until honestly, I just didn’t want to go anywhere. I had all kinds of reasons for not wanting to go away, but the one that mattered most was simply that I love it here. This is my life and the place that I want to be on my fiftieth birthday. I want to blow out the candles and make my birthday wish smack dab in the middle of all I know and am, surrounded by my family and my to-do lists and my unmade bed. My wish is that I remain as blessed as I have been for the last 50 years -- that life goes on just as it has. I’m incredibly lucky. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. The Galapagos can wait.

Anyway, I bought myself a new party dress. $39.99 at Target. Things are looking pretty good.

Day 5: Who Is That Masked Woman?

With my birthday only five days away, I'm starting to exhibit the kind of anal retentive behavior that’s usually reserved for my pre-vacation routine: the to-do list must be tackled. Fortunately, in the case of this big birthday it's not the entire list. Believe me, I'm deeply relieved that I don't feel compelled to research the benefits of the Optimum Triple Play Upgrade or to organize my recipe file. No, it's the beauty to-do list. At 9:10 Wednesday morning, when I officially become eligible for membership in the AARP, I want to be looking as good as possible. I don't want to look like a quinquagenarian. Barbie doesn't look like one, so why should I?

I have a facial scheduled for Monday. Tomorrow I'm getting a manicure and a pedicure. I’m checking everyday for stray eyebrows and whiskers. I’m using body scrub. And today I got my hair cut: not trimmed, cut. I've been needing to make this change for a while. My hair has been getting longer and stringier as I've been debating what to do with it. Today I took the plunge and went to a salon I've never been to before. I put myself in the hands of Jafaar, a seemingly nice man who turned out to have his own agenda. I mentioned that I might like the Meg Ryan "do" from about ten years ago. I modeled that messy and chopped bedroom hair for quite some time and I thought it suited me. Speaking of which, have you ever watched "Chopped" on The Food Network? It's always exciting to see what the mystery ingredients are, but I won't be really impressed until the contestants have to incorporate a Yodel into the appetizer course.

I don’t think that Meg Ryan was who Jafaar had in mind as he attacked my limp tresses. Although he couldn’t have known it, I now look like no one so much as my fifth grade self. I wanted a little lift, I wanted to look a bit younger, but I was thinking 40, not 10. I have a slightly updated pageboy. My head looks like a bowling ball. I’m seriously hoping it looks better once I wash it and go. I've never learned how to blow dry my hair so I don't. I don't spray volumizer on my roots. I don’t use modeling wax on my ends. The only mousse I like is chocolate.

In the same spirit of adventure, I stopped in the neighboring department store and had my makeup done. The makeup artist didn't believe me when I told her I already had makeup on. She has a decidedly heavier hand than I do and proceeded to list all my flaws that can be corrected with various kinds of spackle and shellac. I was under the impression that it’s good if your skin is slightly pink -- I mean, aren’t we all aiming for a natural looking blush? But oh no, I must cover up the natural pink tones in my skin and then put on blush (only with a synthetic bristle brush) for a nice rosy glow. Conceal the circles! Use lip liner! Put on a base of buttercream eyeshadow (I wanted to eat it) and then cover it with pewter. If I’m going to cover it, why do I need to put it on in the first place? And for God’s sake, would you please use volumizing mascara? My retort that I was already wearing mascara elicited a guffaw.

I have to admit that my eyes look kind of nice, but my painted lady look and my immature head of hair are an odd juxtaposition. Regardless, I ended up buying most of the crap she used on me in the belief, well... I don't know in what belief. I just did it. The only makeup my mom ever wore was red lipstick, but one day she allowed her makeup to be done in a department store while Ayon and I watched. I thought she looked great afterwards. She bought some of what the saleswoman used on her and put it in a drawer in the bathroom, where it quickly got pushed to the back and remained, unopened, until I started playing with it.

One of the questions on the questionnaire I wrote about yesterday is “What is your motto?” My answer was “Do your best. Do it tomorrow. Love your neighbor.” What I didn’t add, but which I say a lot, is “Less is more.” I’m pretty sure all the makeup I bought is going to sit in the back of my drawer, too. Less is more. And as far as my hair goes, I just need to remember my mom's motto: “This, too, shall pass.”

Day 6: Random Thoughts: Part V

It's a bit misleading to label this Part V. I mean, let's be honest, pretty much every post has been random. It should be Part XCV (you do the math).

I can't believe that I only have a few blogging days left. It's probably just as well -- I have a couple of big commitments in the next month and then, of course, there's the dreaded Christmas shopping. Every year I vow we're going to scale back; I claim I want to spend the month of December doing things that feel Christmasy. Supposedly I like to bake cookies, write Christmas cards and throw back a few eggnogs with friends (actually that's a lie -- the thought of eggnog makes me gag -- but bring on the tequila). Yet these things never happen. Supposedly I abhor shopping, yet I spend the latter part of November and most of December doing it. I have no credibility.

Happily, I learned this afternoon that that's not entirely true (I seem to be telling several little lies in this post). I heard an interview with Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter, whose new book is a compilation of "Proust Questionnaire" columns from the back page of the magazine. Each month since 1992 the same set of questions has been posed to a celebrity, the theory being that you can tell almost everything you need to know about a person by the way he or she answers. If you go to the magazine's website you, too, can answer the questions, and you'll even learn which celebrity you're most like.

Jane Goodall, the chimp lady, answered like me 92.82% of the time. I think that gives me some cred. And runner up, at 78.86%, is Ron Howard! Now please, who doesn't like Opie? And here's something weird: turns out Jane Goodall credits a stuffed animal chimpanzee that she was given as a child with her lifelong passion, and its name was -- get this -- Jubilee! I wonder if Jane likes snack food cakes...

I'll tell you my answers to a few of the questions, but I think, if you've read all my posts (JZ, NSE and LH, I think I'm talking to you), you can probably answer most of the questions for me. Or at least come up with a good guess. And that makes me proud, because it means, I hope, that I accomplished part of what I set out to do in this blog, which was, through storytelling, to shed some light on how I came to be who I am today, and who I might like to be tomorrow. I think my mom and dad would be proud, which is one of only a handful of things I've ever actually aspired to. If you've seen the movie "The Sixth Sense," you can't possibly have forgotten the scene where Cole, a boy who speaks to dead people, and his mom are talking in the car.

Cole: "Grandma says hi.... She said you came to the place where they buried her, asked her a question. She said the answer is 'Everyday.' What did you ask?"

His mom, choking back sobs: "Do I make her proud?"

Yeah, I hear you.

So.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Having no hope.

What is your greatest extravagance? My purses.

If you died and came back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be? A well-loved dog.

How would you like to die? At an advanced age, but before I'm incapacitated mentally or physically. I hope I go to sleep one night and never wake up. I hope the people I love know that I died peacefully and that I loved them deeply. I hope I die with no major regrets.

On what occasion do you lie? I plead the Fifth.

Actually, that's a lie; I did answer that question. I'm just not telling you. For once.

Day 7: Magical Thinking

I took another walk in the Reservation today, this time with my friends M and K. It was a sunny, crisp morning and the woods were glorious, even if most of the leaves had already fallen. It made for a loud, leaf-crunching walk, but as long as we stayed really close together and shouted, our conversation flowed mostly uninterrupted.

Towards the end we came upon a patch of milkweed: a grand finale to a lovely stroll. Having a memory rescued from the crevasse where it's been spirited away, forgotten and gathering dust for years and years, is truly a gift -- the milkweed pods brought me right back to the garden at my childhood home. One side of the garden ended in a hillside that was covered with milkweed, and in the fall I delighted in stripping the pods of their silky white filaments and scattering them in the breeze. I believed the pods had been left especially for me by fairies and trolls. Whoa, another memory floating by! Remember those ugly trolls with the hair like dandelion fluff that we used to play with? I've always thought the Olsen Twins were separated from them at birth...

Anyway, I didn't have my camera with me this morning or I would have taken a picture of the milkweed in its natural setting. Instead, I picked a few pods and brought them home, where they're now sitting on a shelf in the dining room. It makes me happy just to look at them. And it's reassuring to know that I have them on hand in the event that I should suddenly grow a wart, which milkweed supposedly cures. I wonder if it does anything for stray whiskers?

Thinking about my garden also reminds me of my Tumble Tum, another childhood favorite. It was a steel bowl big enough for me to sit in and rock. A simple toy, but I had more fun in that thing (maybe it had something to do with the name). I could just imagine the milkweed fairies and trolls tumbling in it at night! Imagine my distress when I discovered that my brother J used my Tumble Tum for target practice, setting empty tin cans on it and shooting at them with his airgun. I was unhappy until I was given a turn with the gun, peace thus restored.

Out of curiousity, I've just googled Tumble Tum and the only listing that comes up is a definition in Urbandictionary.com which says: a Bot that is really a chicken. Say what? Maybe I've got the name wrong? Could it have been a Tumblety Tum? A Tumblety Drum? Would someone please help me out here?

I'd like to go for one final spin in a Tumble Tum. Mine eventually rusted out and got tossed. Someone somewhere out there must have one. What an excellent way to usher in 50 that would be...

For today's parting shot, here's a photo of the milkweed I picked as well as one of something I saw earlier this fall that I consider equally as magical.

Day 8: My Body Politic

It's election day. I'm not running for anything except my fat ass, and I'm not even doing much of that. I really think I might be the laziest person on the face of the earth.

I ran once for public office. It was in high school, and I wanted to be vice president of the junior class. I would never dream as big as president -- that's just not my style. I don't like people thinking I know anything, because I don't; I don't like them expecting things from me, because I tend to disappoint. I'm not a natural born leader but, rather, a perfectly happy follower. Tell me exactly what to do and I'll do it. Just don't ask me to come up with the plan. My fat ass-brain is too muddled and confused (although if you really want to see confused you ought to meet my sister Ayon, and don't worry, she laughs about it more than anyone!). Hence VP. I'll be the passenger. You drive.

Except, of course, in my role as wife and mother. I'm the president. I'm the four star general. I'm the despot and the tyrant and the autocrat rolled into one. Don't argue with me. Don't offer an opinion. Just do what I say, and do it now. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, I said I didn't want to hear a word.

Did I mention that I lost the election? I can't blame it on the boss man because I wasn't running on a ticket. I was a lone wolf. I was running for the job of follower and I still couldn't win! Who loses a race like that?! Rogue maverick Sarah Palin can blame the boss man but it's pretty clear she had a lot to do with his defeat. I'm not supposed to talk about politics in these things, though, so that's all I'll say about that. But not before I add an illuminating piece of advice from Dan Quayle about being Vice President: "One word sums up probably the responsibility of any vice president, and that one word is 'to be prepared'." On second thought, I think it's a good thing I lost that eleventh grade election. I don't think I was cut out for the job.

I'm not sure where this is going except to say that as much as I look forward to new experiences and opportunities in the back nine, I can assure you that running for public office will not be one of them. And that's a very, very good thing for all concerned. Perhaps I'll make more time to simply sit, letting my thoughts and ideas and memories take me where they will. I spoke about this today with my friend A as we walked the trails of Ward Pound Ridge Reservation, right across the street from my home. I used to think that time spent on things other than my to-do list was a luxury, an indulgence, when what I've discovered these last 92 days of blogging is that "indulging" my memories and ideas and taking some time each day to write about them has left me feeling calmer, more grounded and less confused than I have in a long time. So thank you for indulging me. Perhaps I'm not lazy after all.

P.S. These are photos from today's walk.

Day 9: There Was an Old Woman Who Loved All Her Shoes

No matter how old I get, and I hope it's old, I refuse to wear sensible shoes. No Aerosoles or Easy Spirits for me. I may not be all that into clothes but I LOVE shoes. I wasn't kidding when I said that I'm a shoe ho. Shoes, like other accessories, make the outfit. Give me my favorite $7 white t-shirt from Target and a pair of blue jeans and I'll show you a killer outfit.

I think my obsession began as a very young child. Check out this photo of 2-1/2 year-old me wearing my mom's spectator pumps, her hat, her purse and her gloves; hats I'm not so into (they don't do much for my hair), but swap out the bonnet for a scarf and it could be me today. I even have the same fat, sturdy legs, although they're decidedly less cute now...

The first shoes I remember owning were clodhoppers: brown leather, lace-up, practical shoes. Hideously ugly. I despised them. Whenever I had a new pair, my brother D and sister A would peek under the dinner table and snicker at my misery as the tears rolled down my cheeks. My mother's choice of sneakers for me was no better: canvas Keds with a rubber toe. They were for babies! Years later, they were among the first shoes I bought for my own children -- it really doesn't get any cuter than a baby in red, rubber-toed Keds -- but at least I'd never dream of putting them in clodhoppers.

I think I was the last girl in third grade to suffer the indignity of wearing red rubber boots over her shoes when it rained or snowed. My mom finally caved and bought me the kind of boots everyone else was sporting: brown rubber pull ons lined with fake fur that I wore without shoes. I felt like a princess! I imagine that's how H felt when I finally gave in and bought her Uggs. I do remember what it's like to want to look just like everyone else, to not want to stand out in a crowd.

In sixth grade I got my first in a long line of clogs. They were navy blue suede and laced up the front with blue and white striped laces, just like sneakers. I had never owned anything so cool (remember, me of the danskins and desert boots) and I was absolutely on top of the world, clipclopping around in them day and night. I wore clogs almost exclusively for the next ten years until I just couldn't find them anymore. They'd gone out of fashion. Then, on a trip to Seattle with my mom in 1989 I stumbled upon a shoestore selling a few different styles and I promptly bought a pair of brown leather ones (my adult version of clodhoppers?). I returned home and proceeded to clomp across the Columbia campus -- you could hear me coming when I was still blocks away -- and the students stared in open disbelief, almost as mockingly as the mean girls you're about to hear about. Within a year, however, everyone was wearing clogs again. I'm telling you, I really think I'm responsible for the resurgence of those loud, wooden shoes. Someday there'll be a Wikipedia article about it, you just watch.

I'm pretty sure my mom tried to teach me a lesson in ninth grade, either that or her taste was as appalling as mine. I fell in love with a pair of chunky heeled sandals I saw in the window of a shoe store in town. I coveted those honey colored, slingback beauties with a bunch of red cherries etched into the tops. To my astonishment, after one relatively brief assault on her, my mom bought them for me. I wore them proudly to school the next day, feeling oh so fashionable and hip, but the mean girls' guffaws and finger pointing when I went up to the board to conjugate some French verb or other (could it have been hate or despise or detest?) proved too much. The woeful sandals never came out of my closet again (tres laid); to my mom's credit, she never inquired about them.

I have lots of shoes in my closet now that I adore. I've become more discriminating about my shoes, plus my mother doesn't buy them for me anymore. Over the years I've had many pairs that I love, including my running shoes (I wouldn't go so far as to call them sensible) and a pair of cheetah print stilettos, the heels of which are covered in red patent leather. I still own and wear variations on the clog theme. I wear black leather boots that it takes two people to get off my foot (no shoes underneath those babies) and light brown cowboy boots. David has a bad foot and his choice of footwear is severely limited; I have enough for the both of us. In a moment of extreme honesty, daughter A asked if she could have all my shoes and purses when I die. Well okay, but I want to be buried in my favorite new pair, which I haven't worn yet. Perhaps on my 50th birthday, with a white Target t-shirt and jeans...

Day 10: The Right Stuff

A's fine. No appendicitis. The doctor at the emergency room gave her an anti-inflammatory and a Pepcid AC. Who knows if it was stress (which she's feeling a lot of) or something bad she ate or a pulled muscle from being thrown over her teacher's shoulder in Movement class. Hopefully it doesn't return and she finds the time for sleep and regular meals and some relaxation; I don't understand why a 19-year-old drama student should be living the life of a medical student (or why, for that matter, a medical student must succumb to such torture), but it seems pretty common... Anyway, after we left the hospital I helped her with an errand and then I went to the grocery store and bought as much food as I could carry, hopefully enough to ensure that she and her roommate have something decent to eat for the next week. It felt good to be able to help her in some small way. It was my Halloween treat.

In his sermon this morning, our minister said something that really resonated with me: Your life may be the only gospel that someone else ever reads. I've typed it up and taped it to the edge of the bookshelf in my office, where other pearls of wisdom hang in the hope that they will stay with me and inspire me, keep me on track and inform my actions and decisions, or just make me laugh. I try to lead a just life, to lend a helping hand as often as possible and to love my neighbor, but it's not always easy and I often fail. I need reminding, and a lot of it.

The time it's easiest for me to do the right thing, the time when I most feel that I'm living my life the way that God intended, is when I'm building houses in Nicaragua, which I've had the privilege of doing for the last three years. I won't be going this year and will really miss seeing my friend Mayra. I helped build a house for her family the first year I went and I've managed to spend a few minutes visiting with her each time I've been in Nicaragua since then. That I don't speak any Spanish and Mayra doesn't speak any English is irrelevant -- something clicked between the two of us, something that language and distance and lifestyle played no part in, and neither one of us will ever forget the other. At the dedication ceremony for her new home, she looked me in the eye and spoke from her heart; I did the same. We knew what the other was saying.

Thinking of Mayra is akin to looking at the pieces of paper taped to my bookshelf. She inspires me when I'm feeling lazy and selfish and self-absorbed. It doesn't have to require as much effort as going to Nicaragua, although for me that's a pleasure; it can be as simple as buying groceries for my daughter or writing a note to an acquaintance who has lost her mother or letting a car pull out in front of me in traffic. I just need to make the time for it and I need to remember to do it. These small gestures mean a lot and are the things that make up the story of my everyday life, the gospel according to Nancy. There are lots of cautionary tales in there, but I've managed to get some things right, and that's a start. In the meantime, I have Mayra and my bookshelf.

Day 11: Boo

My costume this evening won't involve the dog cone after all. Instead I'll be wearing the look of a concerned mother. I've just gotten a phone call from A, who's headed to the emergency room with possible appendicitis. I'm going back into the city right now to be with her.

Part of what I've been considering as I hurdle towards this birthday are my priorities, the things that matter to me most, but there's never been a doubt in my mind as to #1 on the list: my husband and my children. So I'm off to do my job and take care of my firstborn the very best I can.

Day 12: A Leetle Geeft Pour Vous Part II

Friday, my favorite day of the week! There really isn't any excuse for not feeling happy on a Friday, and today is no exception. I'm going into the city later to watch A in her Tisch stage debut. As freshmen, drama students are not allowed to audition for roles, so it's been a while since she's been on stage. Acting is so deeply a part of who she is and she must feel so good to be back at it. And it makes me happy to know that she's happy I'm going to be there.

Yesterday I went into the frame shop in town and happened upon an exhibit by a local artist. One of the pieces displayed was part of a series she did back in 2006 called On Becoming 50. Each day for a year she journaled on a 4x6 postcard and then printed images over the words. This particular piece showed the final postcards leading up to, as she puts it, her "jubilee" (and I love how she puts it -- great word). I didn't have time to read many of the entries, but it was a moving piece that really struck a chord with me and I hope to return when I have more time. I took special notice of her final sentence on her 50th birthday: "I have a zit." My how I can relate! I hope that doesn't have to be my final sentence. And I'm thinking about it a lot now, because the day is almost here.

I think I'm going to have to steal the word "jubilee" as the ones I've found aren't nearly as pretty. Jubilee rolls off the tongue and sounds almost onomatopoeic (okay, I had to look up the spelling of that one). Quinquagennial sounds like it ought to be in a wheelchair. Semicentennial sounds like it ought to be retired. Jubilee is just like Baby Bear's porridge and chair and bed: it's just right.

So, in honor of my upcoming jubilee and the fact that it's Friday, both of which feel just right, I give you the following fun video.

Day 13: The Five Senses (or Lack Thereof)

I went to the eye doctor today. At first the receptionist didn’t want to give me an appointment because I was just there in March, but she caved when I told her that I’m blind and can’t possibly wait another five months. Turns out the eye doctor felt I was exaggerating; my eyes haven’t gotten any worse. He gave me a sample of a new kind of multi-focal contact lens (I guess the word bifocals is no longer p.c.) that’s not even on the market yet that should -- OH MY GOD!!! David just walked in with a box of cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery! They’re the very best cupcakes in the world and at this moment he’s the very best husband in the world! And I can see them clear as a bell! -- solve my reading problems. That’s what he told me back in March when he gave me my first pair of bifocal contacts. We shall see. Aging eyes requiring five different sets of spectacles (and I'm not exaggerating) is one of the downsides of turning fifty, except when it means that you look in the mirror and give yourself a big thumbs-up on account of the fact that you can’t see your wrinkles and cellulite and whiskers.

A couple of years ago I went to the audiologist. When the receptionist asked me the nature of my problem I asked her how much time she had; then I told her that I was practically deaf. Turns out the audiologist felt I was exaggerating; she said my hearing was perfect. She gave me nothing but a disgusted look when what I really wanted was a hearing aid. I’m going deaf I tell you! Can't you hear me? I constantly scream at my children to “Come in here and talk to me because I can’t hear you!” or “Turn around and look at me when you talk so I can hear you!” or “Turn down the music so I can hear you!” or “I can’t hear a word you said!” They don’t think I’m exaggerating. Loss of hearing is one of the downsides of turning fifty, except when it means that you can pretend you didn’t hear something you don’t want to hear (not that I’ve ever done that).

There’s not a damn thing wrong with my nose except for its size. Believe me, I wish I could say that I suffer from anosmia, a loss of the sense of smell: remember, I live with three men and two dogs. A visit from Dr. Glade might help.

On the other hand, my sense of taste may indeed be growing duller. I’ve heard that happens with age -- our taste buds start to disappear, which explains why older people tend to enjoy spicier, hotter, more flavorful food. That might also explain why I can eat a pound of candy corn or a pint of Phish Food in one sitting. I simply can’t taste it until the last few bites. I thought it was an issue of willpower, but perhaps my taste buds are the real culprits.

And that leaves me with the sense of touch, the loss of which, I guess, is numbness. Although my ass-brain seems downright paralyzed from time to time, that's all I've got on that subject. The end. No exaggerating.

Day 14: Random Thoughts Part IV

Carmen Aretha went for her follow-up visit with the canine surgeon today and the pathology report shows that all the cancerous tissue was removed. Excellent, excellent news! My euphoria was slightly dampened, however, when he decided to leave in a few staples since her incision hasn't healed completely, meaning she has to continue to wear the dreaded cone. Yet it's not Carmen but rather me that I'm embarrassed for (have you ever seen the birthday card with a picture of two girls and the first one says, "Where you celebrating your birthday at?" and her friend replies, "Don't end a sentence with a preposition!" and the first one says, "Where you celebrating your birthday at bitch?!"). I had already decided that I'd be wearing her cone as my Halloween costume. I had no choice but to ask the nice doctor for an extra cone, and when he looked at me enquiringly I was forced to explain. Not one of my finer moments.

It was another rainy day and I was feeling domestic so I made Italian Wedding Soup courtesy of The Barefoot Contessa for dinner. I also made a pumpkin cake for dessert which we haven't eaten yet. Strange ingredients, as in pouring a box of yellow cake mix over the pumpkin mixture. Could be really disgusting or could be out of this world. I sort of hope it's the former so that I'm not tempted to eat the whole thing. I only have a few weeks before the big day and it would be great if I could lose a pound or two. Maybe the vet could put a couple of staples through my lips....

I almost fell at the grocery store today. The floors were wet and slippery and my foot went right out from under me, but thanks to my amazing coordination and sense of balance I was able to stay upright. I fell this summer in the airport in Barcelona, also on a wet slippery floor, and I landed hard. I'm sure the high heels had nothing to do with it. At least I looked good on the way down! I also fell in the vet's office a few weeks ago, again on a wet slippery floor. What's up? I think maybe I ought to stay home on dismal days. Or maybe I ought to go barefoot like the Contessa.

We're about to carve pumpkins. What fun! I just better be careful with the wet slippery knife.

Day 15: Color Wars

I think by now everyone's heard that poem that starts "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn't go..." This worries me for two reasons: I already wear a fair amount of purple and I happen to think that red and purple look fun together. Does this make me prematurely old or do I simply have no taste or both? Are red and purple opposites on the color wheel or something? I seem to recall that opposites are complementary colors, which I assume means they look good together, but then again, you never know.

Actually, I think that yellow and purple are opposite one another on the color wheel, and that's a combination I've never cared for. Yellow is not my favorite color. It doesn't look good with my skin or my hair, no matter what color it happens to be. At the moment my hair is sort of a honey brown with just a hint of red -- darker than it used to be. I was tired of the fact that our very hard well water turned my highlighted blonde hair green, which really didn't look good with my skin. It made me look sallow, which I think is kind of yellowy and, well, you already know how I feel about that.

Another color I can't stand is salmon. I love to eat it but I hate to wear it. A color test I took showed that salmon would be a good color for me but I beg to differ. Salmon reminds me of bandaids. Gross me out, Loretta!

My favorite color in the Crayola box was always Blue Green. Red Violet was a close second (see, there you go, red and purple!). I didn't care much if the Raw Sienna or the Raw Umber crayons broke, and I despised Flesh. It was renamed Peach in 1962, when I would only have been three, but I swear I remember it. Speaking of crayons, a brand new box of them (preferably with a built-in sharpener) and a pad of paper was just about the best gift I could imagine as a child. The only thing better might have been Operation, but Santa always forgot to bring it.

But back to my hair. Gray is a color that I really like -- much of the downstairs of my house is painted three different shades of it -- but I don't plan on giving up the battle with my hair anytime soon. I know there's a movement afoot for women to let their hair go gray, but consider me a member of the counterinsurgency. I'm turning fifty armed with a bottle of Clairol Nice 'n Easy.

Day 16: Have Your Cake And I'll Eat It Too

I love that Monday is cake day at "All Things Considered"! Just one more reason I love NPR. But what I really love is CAKE! I think I'll choose a cake from this book to bake for my birthday. What a perfect day that will be. I'll let you know how it turns out...

FYI, if the sweet potato pound cake just sounds too good to pass up, the recipe is on the NPR website.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=114057039

Day 17: Big Brothers Big Sisters

I deeply admire my two sisters, ordinary women, perhaps, to some, but to me extraordinary women who have overcome a great deal and have worked hard to build good lives for themselves and their children. They're strong and intelligent and funny and loving.

Since I was only five when my oldest sister, J, left for college, my early childhood memories of her are hazy. She was a bit of a hellraiser -- I do remember my parents arguing with her -- but somehow she always managed to get her way! I remember that she pierced a friend's ears at our house, and that she called me Nina. She had a car accident once and wore a big white bandage on her chin afterwards. She clicked sheets between her fingers and liked to pick at my fingernails, which I hated but which I endured because it was time spent close to her. I thought she was very glamorous and very beautiful. She wore eyeliner and teased her hair. She invited A and me to visit her after she got married and I was awestruck by her inflatable chair. She took us to a mall (I'd never heard of such a thing) and to the beach. She introduced us to penuche. She loves Chuckles. In fact, she's the only person I know who loves sugar more than I do. She's knitting me a beautiful vest. She's very friendly and outgoing and makes friends wherever she goes.

My sister A (for Ayon) and I did grow up together, at least until I was in eighth grade and she left for college. We got along except for the times when we fought violently. We played with our Tammy dolls (our mom thought Barbie's boobs were obscene) and rode our bikes and played Tip It and Booby Trap and Sardines. We squeezed into the gold armchair together to watch "Wonderama" and "My Three Sons" until the chair's arms finally gave way. We shared a bedroom for many years and played bridge on our beds; she'd stretch out between the two and I'd crawl across her body, trying not to fall into the raging river below. I'd beg her to get the cat off my head when he was attacking my hair in the middle of the night. We were juvenile delinquents together: we snuck up to the Cenacle late at night and knocked on the nuns' windows, went skinnydipping in Mrs. Haas's pool and swam in the Croton Reservoir, and flung Swedish Fish from the widow's walk of The Chatham Inn at the people below. She bought me my first record, which I believe was Toulouse Street by The Doobie Brothers. I longed to be just like her, which I'm sure she found very annoying.

I also have two older, cherished brothers. They were right when they told me as a little girl that I would never be as smart as they are. Their lives, too, haven't always been easy, but they've persevered and stayed true to themselves. They are honest and proud and loyal. They're wonderful big brothers.

My oldest brother, J, left for college when I was just three. He was tall and handsome and bounced me on his knees. I once bounced so enthusiastically that I broke his tooth. He was in the Marines during the Vietnam War but his considerable intelligence saved him from combat; he was sent to Jefferson City, Missouri for computer training. He taught me how to wrap a present and helped me with my math homework. He took me skiing. He introduced me to the Beach Boys and Dick Dale. He was really good at scaring us silly when we played Home Free All around the house. He'd make stink bombs in his chemistry lab out in the old tool shed. He was the idolized big brother. He made heirloom rocking horses for his children and his nieces and nephews; they're replicas of the rocking horse that our grandfather made for him. When our much-climbed-in old apple trees had to be cut down, he made each of us a simple but exquisite bowl out of the wood. He walked me down the aisle at my wedding. He's very sentimental and might actually cry more easily than I do. I know we both had tears in our eyes that day.

My brother D left for prep school when I was in second grade. Big brother J beat him up so he beat me up. He liked to nap curled up in front of the radiator in the living room. He played the electric guitar and introduced me to The Ventures and "96 Tears" and "Devil with the Blue Dress On". He taught me how to play Spit and War and I Doubt It. He loved to play table hockey and would beg me to play with him even though I was no good. He also liked to play ping pong. He was a fast runner but sometimes I could beat him when we'd race around my grandmother's apartment building (or maybe he just let me). I remember going to watch him run cross country at school and cheering him on, feeling quite proud that he was my brother. He was impressive in his Army uniform, serving as a Military Policeman in Germany during the war. He sent me a fabulous pair of carved red wooden shoes and a music box from his travels during those years. The music box is in my daughter H's room now. Later, he walked our mom down the aisle at my wedding. He likes donuts, too. He always calls me right after I've replied to one of his e-mails (he sends a lot of funny ones) because he knows I'll pick up then. I hate picking up the phone. His somewhat abrupt manner -- "Okay, gotta go, see ya" click -- belies his big heart.

My brothers and sisters and I are all our own people. We certainly have a lot in common but we also have our differences of opinion. Sometimes we get angry -- when a Martin gets angry look out. We no longer have parents to act as the glue and the peacemakers and the news anchors. I'm not so good at keeping in touch. It's easy for me to get bogged down with day-to-day matters and to rely upon an occasional e-mail or news through the grapevine to keep up-to-date. I just hope that my brothers and sisters know that my silence isn't indicative of a lack of care and concern and love. The ties that bind. I love them all. I'm adding "Reach out and touch more" to my bucket list for fifty and beyond.

Day 18: No Contest

Were I to submit a blog post to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, where wretched writers are welcome, perhaps it would read something like this:

It was a dark and stormy night, following what had been a dark and stormy day during which little has been accomplished; not much has been done. She's had a nameless tune stuck in her head all day and it's making her crazy, crazy like a bull in a china shop although why anyone would bring a bull into a china shop is a question worthy (or perhaps not) of consideration at some other time than the present because she’s too tired. The kitchen sink is filled with dirty dishes, dishes that should have been washed during the day when she wasn’t doing much, but all she wants to do is climb into her unmade bed; the bed was made yesterday, though, so it’s not so bad, and only her husband slept in it last night because she was in the city having fun with her girlfriends, hence the lazy day today, so the sheets aren’t too messy since only one person slept in them. Problem is, she has to write her blog, the one that she has been writing now since August 3rd without a break although, truth be told, some of the entries are much better than others but I guess that’s to be expected since not everyone can be on all the time now can they, and despite the fact that she's been waiting all day for inspiration to strike, it’s pretty clear that that hasn’t happened and it’s getting late and she’s got to get this posted before midnight and like I said all she wants to do is go to sleep and wake up to a bright, bright sunshiny day. She doesn't have many opportunities left (seventeen to be exact... oh wait! that’s the number of syllables in haiku, and her daughter H pointed out to her that she messed up on a few of them way back on Day 36 so I had better prove that I know how to write one now: She’s getting older/Is she getting wiser too?/Only her hairdresser knows for sure -- well, I guess she can’t write haiku after all) to share all she's learned and experienced and witnessed and forgotten about these last fifty years and to hypothesize about where it all will take her, let’s hope she remembers to bring her reading glasses, but tonight just doesn't feel like the night when she has to figure it out. She's been trying to do that for a long time now, and hopefully she has a long time remaining in which to continue to try to figure it out because it’s not going so well so far. Maybe she'll come up with some answers along the way; I really hope more than anything that she can figure out the name of the song because I really like it and I'm almost positive that she does, too, because she heard it in the bar yesterday with her friends, the bar where one drink was something like $15 and K didn't even drink hers because it tasted like whiskey instead of tequila, and the minute she heard it playing she said, "Oh, I love this song!" but she couldn't remember any of the words or who sings it and now she can't google even one word of the lyrics which might help. In the meantime, she has decided that it's okay to go to bed even if the dishes aren't done. That's a start.

Day 19: Friday Fun

I'm going into the city today to wander around with a few friends and have dinner. I don't know whether I'm more excited to hang out with my friends or to eat solid food! I wonder if this is how a baby feels three or four months after birth: milk is great but give me some grub! Perfect segue into this video that a friend posted on Facebook. It's one of those sappy things that left me in tears. And Lily looks just like a younger Carmen who, by the way, got a relatively clean bill of health from the doctor the other day. Go doggies!

Day 20: Home Invasion

Our house is teeming with unwelcome guests. One of the worst offenders are the Asian Lady Beetles, which are not to be confused with those cute little polka-dotted ladybugs that are supposed to bring good luck. And that's a good thing, because I can't even begin to count how many of them I've flushed down the toilet in the last 24 hours. I've done a little research on these pests, the ones that 6'3 J is terrified of, and it seems that they're just looking for a four-star hotel to hibernate in for the winter. They don't cause any structural damage and they don’t chew anything. They’ll pack their bags and leave in the spring.

Asian Lady Beetles particularly like the warm, sunny side of light colored houses. Yup and yup. They're all over the southwestern side of our light coffee, baja dune and seashell colored house and they're squeezing in wherever they can (why couldn’t we have painted it plain old dark brown?!). Every half an hour or so I go into the living room and sweep these surprisingly fleet painted ladies off the windows and walls and into my hand -- as many as 30 or 40 at a time. They feel kind of creepy crawling around my palm yet I doggedly persevere. I think I've got them licked but no, minutes later the replacement troops have arrived. I even hosed off the house this afternoon in an effort to drown them or stun them or make them think that maybe this isn’t such a nice place after all, but they paid no heed. I guess they prefer the toilet.

Something really gross? Sometimes they get crushed as I pick them off the wall and they leave a trail of yellow shmush. Apparently when they feel threatened or are harmed they excrete this foul smelling liquid from their legs. And J's right, it truly stinks. He immediately smelled it when he got home from school this afternoon. He walked in the house and asked me if I'd been crushing ladybugs again.

And to top it off? Today's the third and final day of my cleanse. I'm actually not hungry anymore, but still and all, when I saw that today's little bag of goodies contained a small baked apple, I almost cried. I ate it with my fingers after one of my killing sprees and the awful ladybug stank must've gotten under my fingernails because I could taste it in my apple! Revolting!

Speaking of stank, we’re also suffering from a stink bug infestation. For several weeks now the occasional brown, rather prehistoric looking beetle has been trying to get in our bedroom. I shoo them out, and although I don't really like it when one has gotten in and goes buzzing by my head, they haven't bugged me too much.

Late this afternoon, however, I went into my bedroom and found scads of ladybugs making themselves comfortable as well as at least twenty of these big brown monsters clinging to the insides of our windows. It was a chamber of horrors! Down the toilet they all went. They're called Western Conifer Seed Bugs, also known as stink bugs because of the foul smelling substance they secrete when threatened. Unlike the ladybugs, I haven't gotten a whiff of the stink bugs' perfume, probably because I haven't posed much of a threat until now. Now that they know I'm their mortal enemy, though, well, I'm kind of scared to go to bed tonight.

And finally, one of our computers has a particularly malicious virus. Our trusty computer man spent the better part of the day waging war against the virus but it's tenacious. This doesn't bode well for our other home invaders.

Day 21: Untitled

I cannot lie: I spent most of the afternoon sitting in front of the tv watching reruns of "Top Chef". I was very low energy, very tired -- perhaps a result of the liquid cleanse, or perhaps it was all in my head. Either way, I couldn't seem to get out of my own way, so I took care of some stuff in the morning and had a really lazy afternoon. It's good to do that sort of thing every once in a while. But why I chose to watch "Top Chef" when I can't eat is weird, just like going to Whole Foods yesterday. Funny thing is, none of the food the competitors made looked particularly good to me. Maybe I have more willpower than I give myself credit for. Or maybe I'm bored with scallops (they use them a lot) and smears of sauces on the plates. That's so 2008.

Tonight I'm supposed to take a bath as part of my cleanse ritual, so to the tub I go. I'll bring the book I'm reading with me, which is, surprise, surprise, about food. It's the new book by Julie Powell of Julie and Julia fame. Turns out she became a butcher after she finished her experiment.

I wonder what I'll become after I turn 50...

Day 22: Cleanliness is Next to Hungriness

Three women from my town recently started a business promoting healthy living, and among the services they offer is a three-day cleanse. I got an e-mail Sunday night asking whether I'd be interested in joining the group starting today. Did they know that I ate several pounds of buttercream frosting on Sunday? Had word gotten out? My willpower these last few months has been at an all-time low -- even my fat jeans don't fit -- and I decided that this cleanse would give me a much-needed jump-start. I said yes without hesitation. I picked up my bag of goodies this morning.

So far I've been an excellent camper. I haven't eaten anything I wasn't supposed to except when I licked my finger after slicing the lamb roast that I made for everyone else's dinner. I didn't even realize I was doing it until it was too late. That's the same excuse I use after consuming an entire package of Oreo Double Stuffs. Anyway, I've had several interesting and tasty drinks today made out of a variety of fruits and vegetables. I had a shredded cabbage salad for lunch. For dinner I had some sort of thick pureed soup which was LOADED with cayenne. I've been drinking lots of water and cup after cup of green tea. I pee every five minutes. I'm being so good! All the while I'm dying for sugar, for carbs, for fat. I'm dreaming of buttercream frosting.

For some strange reason I went to Whole Foods today, a place I rarely go. Call me a masochist. I was okay until I hit the very last aisle, where parmigiano reggiano, coffee beans and massive chunks of chocolate are all on display, unwrapped, samples abounding, within a few feet of one another. The aromas wafting through that space blindsided me and I felt almost giddy. I got out of there fast.

The best thing that's happened today is that A came home for the night as a surprise. She could almost take my mind off food except that she walked in with a box of Pop'ems and an Entenmann's Marshmallow Iced Devil's Food Cake. An offering of love, but I had to deny, deny, deny. It just doesn't seem right.

"Chopped", my favorite show on The Food Network, is on tonight. "Top Chef Las Vegas" is on tomorrow. I think I'd better TiVo them.

Day 23: That's What Friends Are For...

I was impressed by and slightly jealous of my friend K when I spoke with her this morning. She was in the midst of a major house purge and reorganization. I guess she's been fending off chaos for a while now and is finally attacking it head-on. Once she's done, her argument goes, not only will her house be uncluttered and tidy but so will her brain. She'll then be able to take on a new project or commitment with a free and easy mind.

I, too, love order. Clean, well-organized closets, shelves and drawers make me swoon. I dream about paying every bill the moment it arrives; never having less than a quarter of a tank of gas; picking up the phone every time it rings and dealing with whatever it is that's coming through that line rather than letting it drift in voicemail oblivion. Never put off until tomorrow and all that...

The problem with this way of thinking, though, is that in reality you're never done. You fantasize that once the big event is over, once you've finally gotten the car inspected, once the tupperware is stacked by size and shape and all lids are accounted for and once the water filter is changed -- once you get to the bottom of the to-do list -- everything will be better. Then you'll be happy. Then you'll be able to start that new exercise program. Then you can say sayonara to stress. But let me ask you: have you ever actually gotten to the bottom of your to-do list? Don't new errands, new tasks, and new projects constantly appear there? Remember my theory about the Elves and the Shoemaker? Precisely! And need I remind you that Halloween costumes and turning off the outside water for the winter and new snowboots and boiler repairs are just around the corner? Ever heard of Thanksgiving? Christmas? Not to mention college applications in all their hellishness?

I didn't have the heart to say this to K on the phone this morning. I really didn't want to burst her bubble. Her euphoria was so contagious I almost broke out the label maker and tackled the overflowing cubbies in the mudroom. But I resisted, stayed true to my lazy self and instead did a Ken-Ken puzzle. I was a bit rusty and it took longer than usual. I also went online and looked at sheets (which we truly do need) and then wandered down to my garden to check out the brussel sprouts (not quite ready to harvest). I called the insurance agent and discovered that our policy doesn't cover J while he's delivering Chinese food, so I told him he needs to find a new job. Enough for one day! I'm exhausted!

K's a lot smarter than I am and a lot more determined, so maybe she knows something I don't. Organizing my files doesn't give me a sense of peace but it does leave me with a real sense of accomplishment, and that's surely something. Okay, I'll do it tomorrow! Or better yet, maybe K can bring all her positive energy over here and tackle my mountains of crap for me -- I have a birthday coming, after all.

Day 24: First Person Singular

During his sermon at church today, our minister told us that he starts each new confirmation class with the question, "Who are you, really?" and then gives the kids a sheet of paper with I am ___ written 15 times. So I thought I'd give it a go.

I am mostly a good mother.
I am a so-so wife.
I am strong.
I am filled with good intentions.
I am not always right, although that's difficult for me to admit.
I am a good listener.
I am moody.
I am funny.
I am pretty good at telling people that I love them.
I am sentimental.
I am good at wasting time.
I am aware that I have all I do because I'm lucky, not because I deserve it.
I am a believer in sharing my good fortune with others.
I am looking forward to turning 50, but I'm nervous about growing old.
I am superman. No, not really. Just reminds me of that REM song.

Day 25: Out of the Mouths of Babes

The other day I posted my "This I Believe" essay. Now I want to share the "This I Believe" essay that a kindergartner from Austin, Texas wrote. It's easy to feel jaded about this world of privilege that we all live in. Tarak McLain restores my hope that maybe, just maybe, things will work out. Our world needs more thinkers like him. And Tarak, I couldn't agree with you more that everyone is weird in their own way. But unless I absolutely have to, I really don't want to wake up early. It feels lovely to turn off the alarm and go back to sleep. Almost as good as taking a dog nap in the middle of a dismal afternoon. Even a seven-year-old doesn't know everything; still and all, my guess is that he knows a whole hell of a lot more than most 600-month-olds...

http://thisibelieve.org/essay/57159/

Day 26: Conehead

Well, it seems I have to eat my words (along with everything else in sight). I was completely wrong about Carmen and her attire. She did indeed come home in an Elizabethan collar to complement the 23 staples in her leg. The glass half full way of looking at this is that I might be able to do something fun with it for a Halloween costume.

Out of nowhere H told me in the car today that I'm almost 600 months old, which doesn't actually sound that bad to me.

It's another gray day, but the fact that it's Friday makes up for a lot. I'm going to do something I rarely do and take a nap -- just another in a long string of guilty pleasures. Not a catnap, but a good, long sound one. A dog nap. I refuse to wear the collar, though.

Day 27: Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

It's October 15th and it was actually snowing earlier today. Not sticking, but there were some discernible white flakes in the air. Now there's just a steady rain: ugly, depressing and cold. The only cause for celebration was that H's soccer game was cancelled. Am I a terrible mother? I just wasn't in the mood.

This morning I brought Carmen to the vet for surgery on her elbow. She had a malignant tumor removed a few weeks ago and today's surgery was to remove a larger margin of tissue, although there's not a lot of flesh on an elbow to begin with. Poor girlfriend. I felt terrible leaving her there. At least she won't have to wear an Elizabethan collar. There was an otherwise studly American Bulldog thus encumbered at the vet's office and I could tell he was embarrassed when Carmen caught sight of him.

I was sad when I left the vet's office and food seemed like a good solution. I went to the grocery store and did a BIG shopping -- it had been a while and our cupboards were bare. Truly, though, it was just a convenient excuse to buy candy corn. My next stop was the apple orchard to buy cider and donuts and an apple pie. Sadly, I also had to buy apples. In past years our refrigerator would be stocked with apples that we picked on Columbus Day. This year, the tradition took a backseat to college, friends and dwindling interest. I guess it was bound to happen. At least my kids still write letters to Santa. The threat of no Christmas presents is a pretty powerful motivator.

My mom sometimes made pancakes and bacon as a special treat for dinner on a yucky night like this. I briefly considered it tonight, but the idea of having sugar and fat for dinner after eating a pound of candy corn made me feel sick. Instead, I've made a recipe my sister sent me for lasagna soup. When my kids see the spinach and the mushrooms floating in it they're going to mutiny.

L is hoping for a snow day tomorrow (dream on, buddy!). When the kids were younger they believed that wearing underwear on their heads to bed and putting spoons in the freezer created good snow day karma. I wonder if they're too old for that now, too. Maybe it could also make Carmen all better? That would be so delightful.

Day 28: Special Delivery

So, last night it was the dogs who smelled up the joint, tonight it's J, the newest Chinese food delivery man in town. He just walked in and I swear he smells exactly like General Tso's Chicken. Who was General Tso, anyway (I don't know the etiquette of naming food after people, but I assume it's an honor bestowed posthumously)? I guess he was probably a little bit sweet and a little bit spicy. J is mostly just sweet. He was born that way -- happy, easygoing, laid back -- and it serves him well.

For the past few days I've done practically nothing but work on J's yearbook ad. I do believe I mentioned that it was due last Friday, but the queen of extensions got an extension. The page is done now, nothing left to do but glue down the pictures, and I'm really happy with the way it turned out. Ridiculous to put that much effort into it, especially when no one will look at it for more than a split second except me, but I'd know if I didn't do a good job. It would stick in my craw. Perfectionist that I am, good enough simply doesn't cut it. Perhaps 50 will mellow me.

Putting together this ad has been a real tear jerker. I've been going through all our old pictures, reminiscing, smiling, laughing, and thinking about how much I'm going to miss this sweetheart of a big boy when he leaves for college next year. I'm so proud of my kids, and it's amazing to watch them grow, but right now I'm wishing we could stop the clock. I don't want them to leave me.

Day 29: The Best Laid Plans

Olivia Beyonce the dog has just come inside reeking of poop. She's rolled in something and it's deeply nasty. I was planning on writing my blog now, but instead I must give her a bath. Shit happens.

P.S. Turns out Carmen Aretha had a romp in the same shit. Although both of them are now shiny and clean, they smell like wet dog and are deeply ashamed...

Day 30: Heaven on Earth

For the past four years, NPR has been airing a weekly series called "This I Believe" during which people share essays describing their core beliefs in 500 words or less. I wrote a "This I Believe" essay for a project at church two years ago, but try as I might, I couldn't get the word count down. "Words, words, words" as Hamlet said -- 577 to be exact. I figured I'd get around to editing it and submitting it to NPR another time.

Well, another time was today. Now or never. A few years' distance made me much less proprietary about each and every word, and without too much difficulty I managed to shave off 109 of them. There's hope for me yet! NPR stopped airing "This I Believe" earlier this year but This I Believe, Inc. is still collecting essays for its database, so perhaps my essay will appear there one of these days. With 60,000+ essays already in the database it's unlikely that anyone will ever read mine, but then again, that seems to be my preferred medium. I don't know who the heck reads this blog and that doesn't stop me!

I highly recommend going to www.thisibelieve.org and exploring some of what's there. You might just get inspired to give it a go. In the meantime...

This I Believe

The teasing whine of bagpipes; the magical glimpse of a hummingbird; pale pink geraniums bursting into bloom in November: all proof of something I know exists, not because I can see it or hear it but because I can feel it.

Bagpipes. My father’s parents were born in Scotland and he indulged his love of everything from that land. Many a morning we would wake to the oily smell of kippered herring frying on the stove. My dad dragged me to the Scottish Games to watch the caber toss and a wee bit o’ Highland dancing. And he arranged for each of my brothers and sisters to be serenaded by bagpipes at their weddings as he was, later on, at his memorial service.

When I was planning my wedding, I mentioned bagpipes to my mother and she replied firmly and without hesitation, “That tradition died with your father, Nancy.” No arguing. Done.

One glorious summer afternoon years later, I went for a run down a deserted path through the Vermont woods. The silence was eventually broken by a familiar drone; peering through the trees, I saw a bagpiper, in full regalia, standing on a small bridge of land between two ponds, serenading me. “Your bagpipes, Sister,” I could hear my dad saying as he tickled my knee. For the rest of my run, he was right there by my side.

Hummingbirds. In her later years, my mother became fascinated by hummingbirds, by their beauty and their fragility and their rapidly beating wings. As I’d never seen a hummingbird, I didn’t share my mom’s passion. Yet shortly after she died, I was lying in a hammock in her beloved Adirondacks and turned my head to see a hummingbird hovering nearby. Several weeks later, standing on the deck of our new home, I was visited by a ruby-throated hummingbird. I’ve since snapped photos of them, notoriously shy, just feet away from me, happily feeding on purple verbena. I even rescued one that was trapped in our garage with the help of a butterfly net. When I see a hummingbird I’m filled with my mother’s presence.

And the geraniums? I didn’t inherit my mom’s green thumb, but after she died I did inherit one of her prized potted plants. Determined not to kill it, I fed it and watered it and brought it inside at the first hint of frost. And five months later, on November 11th, 2004, it burst into full bloom for the first time, a spectacular birthday present to me from my mom.

I believe that bagpipes, hummingbirds, and geraniums are a loving reminder that my parents are always nearby. I believe these reminders are a gift from God, a manifestation of God’s love for me. I can feel it, I can sense it, and it’s heavenly.