this week

savoring the sweetest tomatoes to survive this drought.
listening to my husband read aloud from this this book.
sneaking away to read this.
mustering up the courage to ride this. (i am a chicken)
excited to reconnect with distant family.
discussing this frank rich column with the left side of the house.
enjoying my son's love for swimming.
completing a deadline.
clicking on the blue apple in the upper right corner,
dragging down to SHUT DOWN...

actually balancing it all...
...this week.

When I was little, I thought it was Phot-Hog

I bring my camera everywhere. I am not a photographer. I have no absolutely no training. Any shot that turns out on my simple Sony Point and Shoot is pure luck or pure Photoshop. This lovely creative blog community has inspired me to take more and more pictures. And I prefer to decorate my posts with authentic pictures taken by me that somehow relate to the entry. I usually find the words before I find the picture. I often get stuck without an image. I am not a photographer.

Some dream of dancing, or singing or painting their masterpiece. I have always wished I could snap a better shot. I truly believe becoming a photog has got to be in your gene pool. I have unsuccessfully clicked away at the images in my head for years. I am not a photographer.

So when I woke Saturday morning to an un-emptied cooler left over from a delightful evening at a favorite outdoor concert venue, I was distraught to find my trusty tiny Point and Shoot soaked all the way through to the Lithium Battery and Memory Stick. The melted ice has leaked into the front pocket of the soft-sided cooler on wheels that had doubled as my purse the previous evening. My camera was dead. I am not a photographer.

Like carrying a wounded pet to the 24 hour vet, I pulled my camera out onto the glass counter at Wolf Camera, expecting the worst. I was told a new battery might do the trick or perhaps just let it dry out under a bright light. But, the prognosis was not good.

I began to let go. Truthfully, there were thing I did not like about that soggy little camera. My eyes wandered to the NEW digital camera display. The shiny dry cameras boasting more sophisticated controls began to entice my growing passion. But, there was still a glimmer of hope for the old Point and Shoot. Might I be able to revive the camera that is simply not quick enough to capture my mobile seventeen-month-old?

I am not an impulse buyer. I am not an impulse buyer. I am not a photographer.

The salesman was good. He offered free classes to tempt my passion for photography and a promise to teach the features of the “powerful camera with advanced optics and controls.” I am now the owner of a new gleaming arid camera for the Intermediate Photography Enthusiast…

And after a full day of basking in the rays of a 120 Volt light bulb, I am also the owner of a previously waterlogged Sony Point and Shoot that works just beautifully. But no longer advanced enough for this budding intermediate photographer ;)

G-Ba

I call her Grettie-Betty. She reminds me of my grandmother’s sister, Betty, the blonde one, the younger one, the funny one. Like my grandmother, I am the brunette one, the older one, the occasionally witty one.

For a younger sister, she takes more care of me than I ever have of her. As a child, during thunderstorms, I would often crawl into her bed for comfort. She was still too young to understand the rumble of our parents fighting. Oblivious to the drama, I found security in the arms of a four year old.

Growing up she was my closest playmate even though I bullied her endlessly. Far too young to be unsupervised in a kitchen, I often left her unattended to explore our appliances. One of our favorite “games” was Aunt Betty’s Kitchen where I placed countless orders for peanut butter and jelly, grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate with marshmellows. She poured a mean glass of orange juice and I could convince her to serve me just about anything.

Today we call her Auntie G-Ba. As a second grade teacher, G-Ba’s summers are free for gardening, sun bathing and trips to the beach. She asks me to visit often as I do not boss her around as much as I used too. She is a fantastic hostess providing us with plenty of cookies, clean towels, cool drinks and our own rafts for the lake. She steals Zack for sleep-overs when our schedules explode. She graciously takes over when I am desperate for a helping hand. I never have to ask, she just steps in. Zack is one of her greatest joys and she parades around with several pictures of him in her purse.

She shares my passion for show tunes, rerun marathons and corn dogs. She understands me in the way only a sister can. I envy her spirit, her lightness and the ease in which she travels through life.

Although she is 30 pounds lighter than her older sister and a much better homemaker, I know she sometimes looks at the ring on my finger and the baby on my hip and thinks I am the one that has it all. But the truth is, nothing at all would matter if I could not share every moment with her.

sincere therapy

"Have you ever considered taking your own life?" she asks earnestly, pen poised over her clipboard.

“Yes.” I quickly answer. Then I consider the question.

“Well, no, I mean, I guess sometimes, when I am really blue, I fantasize about taking my life… somewhere else. Slipping away from the burden of needing everyone else’s approval. I picture myself living in Florida or something, just off the coast, working as a Barista, socializing with only strangers. Sometimes I take him with me. Other times I go alone. It depends on how miserable I am…”

“Why Florida?!?” she cynically questions..

“I don’t know,” I really don’t, I think to myself, “It just seems like it would be nice.”

“Yeah, you gotta pick a better place.” And just like that she dispelled the whole fantasy of taking my own life. I just couldn’t come up with a better place.

heart ache

Gerald F. Jones
July 14, 1963 – May 21, 1997

Driving down a crowded highway the other day, I crawled up on this bumper sticker. It was one of those moments when your heart suddenly jumps into your throat, the air gets thick and your eyes begin to burn. At the same time I smiled. I was a 1990’s Deadhead. The day Jerry Garcia died my answering machine filled up with messages of condolence. But that was not what struck me in the heart before I almost rear-ended this Grand Marquis.

Jerry was my mother’s baby brother. Only 11 years my senior, he was more of an older brother to me, than an uncle. As a baby, he took me to the same beach my mother took him to. Jerry loved the sun and the sand and the waves of Lake Michigan crashing against the North Shore’s seawall. We would make “couch sandwiches” when I visited him as a toddler. He would squish my sister and me between his mother’s yellow and orange couch cushions relentlessly tickling us with “mustard” and “mayo.”

As a young adult Jerry lived SoHo. He was a painter. He was an artist. He was a New Yorker. He begged me to attend NYU and explore the streets of the city. Jerry connected us with our distant family out East. When he returned to visit the Midwest, he was often the glue that connected our family scattered throughout Chicagoland.

The last time I was with Jerry was Christmas Eve 1996. We attended Midnight Mass. After Communion, I watched him kneel and pray. I will never forget the sight of Jerry at that pew, dripping in the soft decorative lights of the church. His long hair draped over his salt stained overcoat, his hands clutched each other just beneath his chin. He meditated on his knees and seemed to be asking for salvation or safety or security.

The following May, Jerry fell to his knees again. This time for good, on the floor of his apartment in SoHo. The autopsy revealed he had an enlarged heart. He literally died because his heart was just too big for this world. It was time to move on to a place where his soul could stretch. We scattered his ashes, during a snow storm, into a raging Lake Michigan. The waves welcomed him with delight and the sun peaked through with a wink as his last remains washed into the fresh water sea.

I never took the chance to visit Jerry in New York. He didn’t attend my wedding or ever meet my son. But I am left with the amazing gift of his art. His paintings constantly remind me how he touched my soul. His enormous faith reminds me to pray.

Sometimes my heart simply aches. I Still Miss Jerry.

a true sign

I am a true Pisces. I am temperamental, overly-emotional, hyper-sensitive. I am an escapist with my head in the clouds. I am at times impractical and usually indecisive. I will tell you anything you want to hear...

I am still struggling to lose the last ten pounds of baby weight...
AND the ten pounds I wanted to lose BEFORE I got pregnant.

I had to laugh when this month’s Oprah Magazine totally nailed my vulnerable zodiac self when it comes to dieting…

PISCES (February 19 – March 20)
Kindly, dreamy, poetical, and occasionally self-delusional, you badly need structure in your life, or else you’ll start drinking gin and writing god-awful songs lyrics. Best bet: exercise that gives you the illusion of merging with universe with the universe–yoga, rock climbing, running. To avoid going off the deep end, opt for a rational, three-meal-a-day diet–and hang on to your scales.

Ha! I love it! Now, I'm going to go get drunk and write my own music.

floating toward a dream

This is the dream, a backyard of lily pads. A pier for boys to explore. This is what I have been busy doing. Floating toward our dream house. I am sifting through paper work, signing away our savings, crossing fingers and toes. I am up to my elbows in touch-up paint. I am softly caressing this quaint dwelling we have called home for five years... hoping someone else will find it as lovely as I have.

We have tossed our pennies into the fountain. We have decided to leave this town that is a little too obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses. We prefer a better view, a more eclectic crowd and a slightly slower pace. We would rather compete over the speed of our motorboat than the health of our lawn and our bank accounts.

And while I have been consumed with my future and I have missed my Internet friends in the now. I have missed coming here to spill, to observe, to connect. I hope you have not forgotten me. I have missed you. I have many thoughts to share.

Dream with me that I will sleep under a different roof in the days to come… But, please begin visiting me again… For now, my URL is the same.