Much To My Delight

Much To My Delight

Looking for Me? I’ve moved!

Hey guys! I no longer write on this site, but if you’d like to read more, I can be found at my new home: Midlife Modern. Thanks for reading!

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A Big Announcement

 

I moved to New York City 20 years ago with a goal to write.

As a kid, I dreamed about growing up to become a newspaper columnist. My first jobs out of college were in publishing, but were nothing like I’d pictured. I was writing about subjects that didn’t interest me much for very low pay. I never really found my groove in the magazine world, and after a lot of false starts and dead ends, I left the field altogether.

That’s when fate (otherwise known as the internet) stepped in and let me create that dream-job on my own. I discovered blogging in 2010, and have been posting my own “column” incredibly sporadically ever since. I loved the freedom of writing about anything and everything that came to mind, without an editor asking me to fix that or change this. I was free to write in whatever style I wanted, which helped me develop a stronger writing voice (I think). There were many times things would happen and I’d be DYING to write about them here. There were times when keeping a blog pushed me to make plans and try new things so I’d have something fun to write about. There were also plenty of occasions when I struggled to come up with anything to say.

Over the years, my posting frequency has dwindled to a slow trickle. A lot of that can be attributed to fatigue and job burnout, some was classic writer’s block and a great deal was frustration with back-end stuff on WordPress. You may have noticed that this site is visually quite messy, with the photographs often blown out and distorted to wacky proportions. Blogging on WordPress is not great for people like me who get flustered trying to make even the most basic back-end tweak. Every time I wanted to post a few pictures to illustrate a story, I’d waste a few hours, only for the shots to come out looking goofy anyway. I’m not a full-time blogger and never had a plan to be, so working with a site that was difficult to post on absolutely contributed to a lack of content.

And so without further ado…sadly, this will be my last post on Much to My Delight. I think this blog has run its course, and looking at the site doesn’t bring me the same motivation or excitement anymore. I started it in my early 30s and now I’m in my early 40s. I think it’s time to move on, so I’d like to take this time to thank you all for reading here through the years, especially as I’ve been such an intermittent poster. You guys are great, and I’ll miss talking to you (and with you!) in this space. Thank you for reading here all these years– it’s meant so much to me.

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Thanks for everything!

 

Oh wait… I forgot to mention…

I have a new blog!

GOT YOU, suckers! April Fool’s ALL UP IN YOUR FACE.

It’s true, ye old faithful Much to My Delight is indeed biting the dust today, but that’s only so I can introduce you to my brand new site!

Introducing…

MidLife Modern: A Blog for Grown-Ass Women

 

I know, I know… 41 (42 in June!) is maybe technically not middle-aged yet, but as I thought about building a new site to post on, I knew I wanted something that reflected the stage I’m entering into, something I could grow with. It’s along the lines of buying an expensive winter coat a size too large, just in case you happen to gain 15 pounds in the next five years. (I totally did this by the way and it was one of the best financial decisions I’ve made).

Since going into private practice and no longer commuting two hours a day into Manhattan, I have blissfully stumbled into some free time, which feels like the world’s greatest gift, as it’s all I ever truly want more of.  My hope is that with a less stressful job, more time and an easier platform to deal with, I’ll be able to get back into a fun blogging groove again, writing about topics that reflect this new season of life (okay, now I do sound middle-aged!). I’ll likely never be a daily blogger, but I’m excited to think up some new topics from a different angle, and hope you’ll follow along with me.

Thanks to everyone who ever read a single post of mine. Thank you to the people who took time out of your day to offer kind words, positive feedback and thoughtful commentary. Whenever I felt myself stepping away from writing, it was you who pulled me back in and I appreciate that so much.

It’s been a delightful journey, and now I’m ready to take the next step. Hope you’ll follow along with me!

xoxo, Jenn

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The Blogger Formerly Known as Jenn

 

Is this thing on?

Do you remember me?

Am I still welcome here?

My name is Jenn, and I used to write here. Right here. Not that often–sporadically, once in a while, when the mood struck. Today the mood struck, and I wanted to pop in and say HI!

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Here’s something you should know about me. I don’t believe in multi-tasking. I think it’s a crock. Every time I’ve tried to juggle more than three balls in the air I end up with a stubbed toe. I’m a believer that we can accomplish anything we want in this life, anything and everything…but not at the same time. This excludes things like working while being a mom, not that kind of multi-tasking. I mean pursuing two or three big goals at a time. Not a fan of that. So anytime I take months away from this thing, it’s a pretty safe bet that things are going just fine, I’m just throwing my focus in another direction. Just for a little while. Just till I square things away. But I always seem to come back here. I’m not sure why.

Awww, sure I do. I love writing. And today I found myself missing it.

But I’m also rusty, so today’s post will be mostly a little life update. Doesn’t every life need a little updating now and then?

*The big news is.. I started a private practice! I’ve wanted to do this for years, and I finally did, but it took a lot of planning and I’m not out of the woods yet. The first step was moving out of my supervisor role and reducing my monster caseload at my clinic, which had to happen organically over time. This week kicks off my first 4-day week at the clinic (!!), and every Wednesday I’ll be on my own. My ultimate goal is to do private practice two days a week, clinic work two days a week, with the fifth day free.

I have no clients yet, as it takes between three and four months to be accepted by insurance panels. I’m hopeful that once I can accept insurance business will be easier to find, but for now I’m cash-only, which makes me feel like a naughty service. The best part is that my new office is in Astoria and a TEN-MINUTE WALK FROM HOME. If you have ever ridden the NYC subway during rush-hour you have some idea of what a significant lifestyle change this is going to be!

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* I’ve had eight doctor’s appointments in the past two weeks. That’s about seven too many, in my opinion, especially considering that I’m in really good health (thank goodness). A severe case of contact dermatitis has had me at urgent care and an allergist, who performed one of those four-day allergy patch tests on me to determine why my face and neck looked like they’d been scrubbed with a scouring pad. Turns out I’m allergic to nickel, “fragrance mix” and four chemicals found in most cosmetic products, so it looks like I’ll be using organic half and half to wash my face from now on. I’m just glad it wasn’t food. I also had two wisdom teeth removed last week when I thought I was only having one. Not sure how they snuck that one by me! Oh! And I’ve had fucking plantar fascitis since June, which really sucks. Have you ever had it? Does it really go away like they all say it will?

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(finally looking like myself again= warrants a selfie)

* I’ve gotten perhaps a little, how do you say, woo-woo? It all started with me buying a Himalayan salt lamp and a bottle of lavender oil spray for my office, and now I’m in acupuncture every other week and going to  yoga classes like they’re going out of style. I’m very late to the yoga party, but I have mastered downward dog and full spaz.

* I finished writing a book earlier this year, and have literally not opened the document since March. I told you I’m not a multi-tasker. Maybe I’ll get back to it, but part of me feels like I won’t. I really like certain parts of it, but there are a lot of others that kind of fall flat, and I’m not sure if it works as a cohesive piece. Maybe I’ll open it up and tinker with it again in the next few months once I settle into my new work routine. Maybe I’ll start something new. We’ll see. But I’ve tried moving away from writing, and it just doesn’t work for me. I always want to come back to it, and I always start to feel just a little bit sad when I’ve stayed away too long.

* Nearly two and a half years into owning this home, and it’s finally starting to feel almost done. Although, it’s hard for me to even say that because there are still so many little things I want to do around here. I have absolutely loved the process of decorating my home. I find it to be another form of creative expression, and this place really feels like “us”.  We were in such hard-core saving mode when we lived in our basement apartment (for 10 years) that I never really bought anything to give it life. Now that I know we’re going to be in one place for a good long while, I’ve really taken my time and tried to find things I think are just right for the space. I’m not as afraid of spending money as I used to be, which is a very foreign feeling to me. I’m also borderline obsessed with thrift stores and flea markets. Anyone interested in some room tours?

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* Three weeks ago I organized my tupperware drawer and it still looks the same. This signals major personal growth.

* I saw A Star is Born this weekend, and I think Vin and I were the only two people who didn’t walk out crying. I liked it a lot, Gaga is a freaking marvel and Bradley Cooper’s acting was A++ but something fell short, and I still can’t put my finger on it.

Anyway, I think we’re all caught up now. Enough about me. How have you been?

I missed you.

 

 

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In Texas, it’s like borrowing a cup of sugar.

 

Did I ever tell you the story of how my dad met his next door neighbors? It is perhaps the most Texan story of all time. It’s really funny.

My dad lives between Galveston and Houston in a small marina town called Kemah; in the 2010 census the population was 1, 773. There’s a wharf down the road where people park their boats and a line of seafood shops sell fresh flounder and enormous shrimp shaped like bananas. Dad built his house on a large plot of land on the edge of a small lake, a body of water so placid and tranquil it barely ripples, even in a hurricane. Dad’s yard is the perfect place to drink a refreshing cocktail and watch the sun set. Every time I visit I’m reminded how different our lifestyles are.

One day, Dad was doing some work in his yard when a big snake slithered along his path. Now dad has all types of undomesticated animals wander around his area and come through his yard– coyotes howl at night, geese do running leaps across the grass and dozens of turtles line the edge of the lake, their hard shells docked along the shoreline like colossal skipping stones. One time we had to have a bobcat rescued from the top branch of an oak tree. Its eyes were piercing hazel and lined by a rim of bright white fur–gorgeous but terrifying.

Dad also has many domesticated animals, as he and his wife rescue anything with four legs. Most things wouldn’t cause a stir, but snakes could cause major harm to their six dogs and two cats. According to legend (aka: my father’s retelling), he handled seeing the snake in a very brave and masculine way, then ran a few blocks to the house next door to ask for help from his new neighbors. He still hadn’t met them yet.

Dad ran up to their front door which was framed by two box ferns and adorned with a seasonal homemade wreath.

“Hey! I live next door. Do you have a gun I can borrow?” He dropped his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“You don’t have a gun?” the neighbor asked. He wore blue jeans and a belt buckle the size of a salad plate. They called him Longhorn Bob, because he raises longhorns. Years later, at my wedding, he did a bidding call to auction off dances with me and Vin. He also served our friends shots from his best bottle of tequila.

“I don’t have a gun. But I have a snake I need to shoot.” said Dad.

Bob closed the door a bit and whispered to his wife Cindy, a beautiful blonde who rolls 60 enchiladas on Sundays just in case people stop by. “Cindy, this guy says he lives next door and he needs to borrow a gun to shoot a snake. What should I do?”

“How do we know he’s not gonna shoot his wife?” asked Cindy. This was a fair question.

“I don’t understand,” said Bob. “Why doesn’t this guy have a gun?”

When Dad retold the story to me, I laughed at the irony of the situation. My father didn’t seem suspicious because he was holding a gun, he was suspicious for not owning one.

Isn’t that funny?

 

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My Achy Valentine

 

Thursday, 4:15pm 

I take a sip, and immediately know. I’d just led a group in my office and had offered everyone present water or tea. I keep a little mug tree on my desk and most of the time consider it a pretty nice touch for a therapist’s office, except on the day everyone puts their dirty cups in the same spot and I mistakenly grab one thinking it’s mine.

Jenn: “OMG I’m panicking because I think I accidentally drank water out of someone else’s cup. I know I have the cold and the flu and probably Ebola.”

Vinny: “Haha, oh no!”

J: I’m going home to pour a bucket of hot salt water down my throat. This might be it for me. Game over.”

V: Ok baba. Get to gargling. You’re not going to die.”

J: “Don’t forget that I love you. We had a lot of good times.”

V: “You’ll be fine.”

J: “You can remarry. I don’t want you to starve.”

V: “Stop! You’re fine. But yeah– you better gargle that salt water.”

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Friday morning:

The staff doctor calls in sick. (in a health clinic, this is the sign of the end). The receptionist looks overwhelmed and slightly feverish.

Friday early evening:

Vinny finally arrives home after a week-long ski trip in Vermont where he’d been hurtling himself through fresh powder and guzzling hot chocolate with shots of whiskey. I pull myself off the couch to greet my husband in paint-covered black sweatpants and a dirty shirt. My head wobbles on my shoulders; its weight substantial and cumbersome. He immediately has to rush out to a work function.  I immediately rush to bed.

Saturday morning: 

I wake up to fresh flowers and crippling fatigue. I know right away I will spend the entire day on the couch with a jug of ginger tea and a remote control. Vinny heads upstairs with his father to paint the rental apartment. Throughout the day, groups of people tour the place, all of them healthy and attractive. I greet them from my horizontal position on the couch in a plush white robe. Refusing to shake anyone’s hand, I offer up a few patriotic salutes.

Flashes of warmth course through my neck and shoulders, so I’d remove the robe and immediately start to shiver. Beads of sweat pooled at the base of my neck, then they’d dry and I’d be cold all over again. Per my request, Vin went to the grocery to buy a whole organic chicken and a huge stick of ginger. I taught him how to make “my great healing soup” from my spot on the couch. The only thing he’d ever boiled before was hot dogs. Watching him skin and debone a whole chicken for me brought tears to my eyes. He takes my temperature throughout the day, presses his cool palm into my hot forehead.

Sunday- Monday:

Still achy and fatigued and laying prostrate on the couch. By late Monday, feeling better– take a walk, call clients and tell them I’ll see them in the morning.

Tuesday morning:
I’m dressed and ready to go to work when my knees start to buckle and the idea of walking a few blocks to the subway seems an impossible feat. I feel much better than I had days ago, but still worried about getting others sick.

“I think I need to check in with a doctor,” I say to Vin, who was just about to leave for work too.

We get in the car and drive to urgent care, where they should consider changing their name because we sat in a windowless exam room for an hour waiting for the PA. Vinny played with every instrument in the doctor’s office before i was finally declared flu-free. We go to the pharmacy to pick up my meds, and Vin waits another 30 minutes in the car. It’s now 12:30 and he’s several hours late for work. It reminds me of how I got sick on our honeymoon, and instead of complaining about not being able to go out and do stuff, he spent an hour brushing tangles out of my windblown hair.

Tuesday evening:

Text message from Vinny,” Make some room on that couch baba. So so achy.”

Jenn: “Oh no! Not you too!”

V: ” I think this is the big one. You should remarry. I want another person to eat as well as I have.”

After a crappy subway ride home, Vinny opens the door and heads for the couch. I lay a blanket on him, the raggedy white throw I’d been coughing into for days. I cover his feet, and start the pitcher for tea. I touch his hot forehead with the cool palm of my hand and tell him to get some rest.

It’s my turn.

On and on we go.

And I can’t think of anything more romantic.

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My Great Healing Soup

-one whole organic chicken (skin removed)

-1 whole stick of ginger root, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces

-as many cloves of fresh garlic as you can handle (i go for 6-8)

salt + pepper to taste

Boil all this together for a long time until it tastes really gingery and really garlicky. Remove chicken and shred, then put it back in the pot. That’s it.

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The Reason I Don’t Blog Much Anymore

 

Is this thing on?

I know what you’ve all been asking yourselves. “Where has she been? Why doesn’t she blog anymore?”

Just kidding, I’m well aware no one is sitting around asking that. But I thought I’d fill you in anyway. Plus, my website domain renews every September 15th. I just paid 15 bucks to keep this blog running, so I might as well use it.

I haven’t been writing much here, but I have been writing a lot. Actually, I’ve been writing more than ever. At least I was, until Labor Day. Labor Day was my self-imposed deadline for the first draft of the book of essays I’ve been writing. The original deadline was my 40th birthday in June, but I missed it. This is now a recurring theme–not of my book– but of my life. To the 22-year-olds going out into the world, making plans, putting milestones on a timeline… as your 40-year-old elder, I will now encourage you to remain flexible. Things may not happen when you want them to, and you better learn to roll with it. If you don’t get married by 28, the world will keep turning.

Anyway, I thought I was just about ready to put this puppy to bed on Labor Day, and I was feeling pretty great about it. Then I showed it to a writer friend to get some much-needed feedback, and have spent the three weeks since staring into space, organizing my inbox and scratching my butt. Sometimes I take a break to share a really interesting thought on Facebook, something groundbreaking like my urgent and irrepressible need to pee, but mostly I just sit around, feeling lost, confused and unmotivated. It’s not a good feeling.

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The only person to have read my essays is one of Vinny’s work colleagues named Zach, an international bon vivant, technical wizard, writer, and supercilious wine drinker. Zach and his girlfriend lived in Montreal this summer and are now moving to Paris for two months this Thursday. Zach speaks four languages and spent 12 hours a day learning Arabic while living in Syria. He’s applying to fellowships so he can complete his novel from a remote cabin in the woods, deep in the piney Adirondacks. When we visited Zach in Montreal over Labor Day weekend, we spent more on wine than our monthly electricity bill. Zach leads a vivid life–far more vivid than mine–and it shows in his writing.

I was extremely reluctant to show my writing to Zach. First of all, he’s a man and my writing– I’m fairly certain– is far more appealing to women. I wasn’t sure he’d enjoy my voice, or be able to appreciate my “period at summer camp” story the way a woman reader would. Plus, his writing style is just the total opposite of mine. His writing reminds me a lot of Chuck Paluhniuk (who I love), while mine is kind of simple, straight-forward, and probably a little too silly or sweet for his taste. But I showed it to him anyway, because I’ve read every line of my “book” 40 times and none of it even makes sense to me anymore.

His feedback was enormously helpful, but none of it included lines like, “My God, girl…you are brilliant” or a softly whispered “I had no idea you were so talented, Jenn”. His feedback was critical, straight-forward, laser sharp and extremely accurate. Each of his suggestions made complete and total sense, and he made no attempts to coddle my ego when making them. I found his recommendations enormously helpful, but now I’m worn out and wondering how to execute them.

Writing doesn’t come easily to me at all. It’s hard work and unfortunately I’m in a spot where it doesn’t feel fun anymore. I kind of want to finish this thing up and move on. I was on a bit of a roll for a while, but now I find myself distracted so easily. I feel like I’ve lost my swag, and I really want to find a way to get it back.

Anyway, that’s the reason I don’t blog anymore. I don’t know how other people balance so many balls in the air, but I learned a long time ago that I can’t. If I’m actually going to finish this book, it needs to be the only writing project I do for a while. I’d rather throw 100% of my effort into completing this now than barely having time for both that project and the blog, for God knows how long. I’ll be back here more regularly once I’m done. Maybe. We’ll see.

And yes, eventually I will get this book done because I started something and I am hell-bent on finishing it.

Whether it makes sense or not is another thing altogether.

 

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God Bless Texas

I grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast, where the air is thick and sultry and almost always smells like salt. I drove to school with my windows down, on a long road that lays like a plank across the Gulf of Mexico. My hometown isn’t known for having the most beautiful stretch of beach in the world, but its ours and we take care of it. We also take care of each other. That’s the kind of place I’m from.

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On the Gulf Coast, we have hurricanes. They are familiar and a fact of life. To grow up in Galveston is to grow up watching your dad nail sheets of plywood to the windows while your mom packs clothes and gathers road snacks. When the sky turns dark and the gulf begins to look restless, parents drive their kids to the beach to run around in the wind before they’re trapped inside for who knows how long. The grocery stores quiver with anticipation, dogs get anxious, dauntless men wax their surfboards.

Hurricane Alicia was the only one I ever witnessed. There was a long stretch of storm-free weather after that, and then I moved away. I was six years old and my parents had finally let me paint my bedroom an extremely nauseating shade of pink. We joined the masses on the causeway to get out of town and stayed in my grandparents in Houston until it blew over. When we came back home, the only room to have flooded was mine. It was repainted white, with one pink accent wall because my parents, though logical, didn’t have a full appreciation for my girlhood aesthetics.

Mom fortuitously moved out of Galveston just before Hurricane Ike in 2008, when the decks that jutted off the back of our house crumpled like a house of cards and fell into the lake below. Moving to Houston felt like a logical plan, since Houston always seemed impervious to the worst of these storms. Houston was always the place we evacuated to.

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My mom, dad and brother all own homes in the greater Houston area–which is enormous, by the way–and by sheer luck and stroke of fate, they are all safe and their homes are completely dry even though the roads around them certainly are not. The relief is palpable, but they are still sitting out storms and waiting for water to recede. Down the street from my brother’s house, cars were completely submerged in water, and people were sitting on roofs waiting to be rescued. Many of my niece’s friends and classmates have been displaced from their homes, and it’s been upsetting for her.

Watching the news has been heartbreaking and I’ve tried to limit it, but it’s hard to look away. So many Texans have a long, hard road ahead of them. Instead I turn to Facebook, where it feels very much like a community potluck right now. People in Austin and Dallas offer up extra rooms and hot meals. Friends from high school have posted their phone number and encouraged anyone who needs rescue by boat to use it. They’re volunteering at shelters and leading prayers at churches.

That’s the kind of town I’m from.

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Please consider helping South Texas recover. And if you think Houston is all barbecue and good ol’ boys, I highly encourage you to watch Anthony Bourdain’s Houston episode on Parts Unknown and get to know this great city in a way that’s rarely seen. It’s a dynamic and diverse city with a big heart.

 

If you want to donate, here are a few places to get started.

South Texas Blood and Tissue Center

The STBTC is in dire need of blood donations to prepare South Texas Hospitals for Hurricane Harvey. The center says although O negative and O positive blood is at critically low levels, all blood type donations are welcome. The center says less than a day’s supply is available. The center is asking the public in the San Antonio and New Braunfels areas to donate right now.

Donate: Visit southtexasblood.org or call 210-731-5590 to schedule an appointment to donate blood.

Texas Diaper Bank 

“Diapers are not provided by disaster relief agencies,” the TDB posted on Facebook Friday. To alleviate that need, the TDB is requesting donations of cash and diapers to provide emergency diaper kits for families that are being displaced due to Hurricane Harvey.

Donate: Visit the donation page at texasdiaperbank.org and designate your donation for Disaster Relief.

Catholic Charities USA

Catholic Charities USA, a Catholic social service organization, is seeking donations to help those who have been affected by Harvey. The group has set up a website devoted to Harvey relief, and explains that “long term recovery” is part of the group’s approach to disasters like this one.

Donate: Text CCUSADISASTER to 71777.

Austin Pets Alive!

Austin Pets Alive! is an animal shelter and no-kill pet advocacy group seeking assistance to help with pets in the aftermath of the storm.

Donate: It has created a page on its website specific to Harvey-related needs.

 

 

 

 

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I flew United this weekend and lived to talk about it.

Our Travel Plan: Thursday, April 6th:

Leave NYC 1:50pm, Arrive Houston 5pm.

Get picked up in a rented church/ party van at the airport. Fellow travelers: My dad, dad’s wife, husband Vinny, 12-year-old niece and a shih tzu named Chewie. Plan to drive (approx. 4 hours) to Horseshoe Bay, TX, home to many retired white people, down-home cooking and my grandparents. Estimated arrival time: 9:30pm.

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What Actually Happened:

1:00: The rain is falling. Our Uber driver drops us outside La Guardia and tells us to have a nice flight. Looking back, I realize that phrase is bad luck. We need a new saying for “have a nice flight”, something along the lines of “break a leg”, but gentler. Suggestions?

1:30: All checked in. We came here knowing this flight was delayed; we learned at home which gave us freedom to leave the house late, which we always do. We were originally scheduled to leave at 1:50, now the board says 3:00. We have time for lunch in the airport. Airport lunch: A treat if there ever was one.

1:45: I text dad and let him know we’re now arriving at 5:47pm instead of 5:00.

1:46: His response: “Ouch.”

Vin has a burger and fries; I hit that turkey club with a bag of chips.

It is now legitimately pouring outside. I check my phone; flash flood warnings for the area. Vin calls his folks and asks them to check our basement for flooding. Our basement has flooded three times since we moved in less than a year ago, and every time it did, the gush was so forceful I consider wearing floaties and having myself a swim.

2:00: We take two seats at our gate and wait for boarding.

2:30:

2:45:

2:50:

3:00: The plane hasn’t arrived yet. The sky is pitch-black. The children next to me are kicking their seats. Everyone’s food stinks.

3:42: We get an update over the loudspeaker. The good news is, our plane has landed.

3:43: The bad news is, it’s been struck by lightning. In eight places. There are scorch marks and everything.

3:50: The maintenance crew can’t assess the damage because the airport is still under threat of lightning. Once they figure out how bad the damage is, they’ll let us board the aircraft. I’m actually not that interested in this plane anymore and would prefer they go wrestle up a new one.

4:00: El Capitano comes over the loudspeaker. “So, the plane you’re going to be on was hit by lightning in eight spots. There are some burn marks they’re checking out. No planes are leaving this airport because of the heavy rain. All the ramps are closed. I don’t know how long they’ll stay closed. I’m assuming not forever. Eh, I don’t know, folks. Surmise from that what you will. I’ve been doing this a long time.” We are all humored by this, but not reassured.

5:45: Vin’s parents give us an update. The basement flooded. I think of my vintage rug down there and send my best from afar. Which actually isn’t that far at all, considering we live ten minutes from the airport.

6:00: Announcement: They got us a new plane and we’re leaving at 7:00. Sighs of relief abound. The 7th graders in the corner go back to playing chess. I am picturing my father having a coronary from his leather couch in Kemah as he realizes he’ll be driving until at least 2 in the morning.

6:10pm: An Orthodox Jewish man with five children under the age of 10 file in seats across from us. There are always a lot of Orthodox Jews leaving from La Guardia, and I don’t know what it is about them (or me) but I always find myself wondering where they’re going and what they do on vacation. But when I see this gentleman, all I want to know is what he does for a living, and how he can afford that many plane tickets.

6:45: We board, five hours later than planned. By 7:20, we’re in the air. A five hour delay, but hey, this is a flight on United. We could have waited around five hours only to be punched in the face.

10:30: We’ve got our bags, and we’re in the silver party van dad rented for this road trip. We’re each handed a bag from Jack in the Box, and we’re on our way.

11- 12:50: The stars at night are big and bright.

12:55: We are deep in the heart of Texas. Bastrop, to be exact.

1am: We make a pit stop at Buc-ee’s; a convenient store the size of three football fields where you can choose from 20 different kinds of beef jerky, 25 brands of chewing tobacco and a wide variety of breakfast tacos. The one by my dad’s house is tiny, but this one also has a section for clothing, home goods and full-size barbecue pits. There are apparently 83 toilets and this is the view you get as you walk toward them.

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2:15am: We have arrived at our rental house. I seek out my toothbrush and my bedroom. In 13 hours I could have made it far into Europe, but I have only made it so far as central Texas. Tomorrow morning our whole family will gather in Horseshoe Bay to celebrate my dear grandfather’s 90th birthday.

Incidentally, we will also be celebrating mine.

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Snow Days

We had an unexpected snow day yesterday, and among all the things that excited me about it, what thrilled me most was spending a random Tuesday with you. It was so out of the ordinary, a special little bonus, a shot in the arm to get us through the last few weeks of winter.

Losing a day’s work, for me, means losing a day’s pay, but I didn’t really worry about that. The older I get, the more I value time over money. Once the bills are paid, I’m usually left feeling like I have enough money to make me happy. When the weekends are over, I never jumpstart the week thinking I had just enough time. These days I’m working longer and harder than ever, but it’s not because I’m dying for more money. It’s because I’m trying to eventually free up more of that precious, fleeting time. I hope you’ll continue to work the same way, because when I get all those hours freed up, I’d like to spend the majority of them with you.

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Yesterday, I watched you through the window while you were shoveling and thought, “He’s such a good man.” You really are. You’re hard-working and kind and faithful and funny. You’re the kind of guy who shovels more than his side of the street, who goes all the way down and around the corner, because the next door neighbor is older, and you don’t want him to have to come out in the cold. You’re the kind of guy who’d drop anything he was doing to help anyone who asked. After all these years, you still open my car door every time, still wait for me to turn the key in the lock and step inside the house before driving away. There’s never been a time when you didn’t offer me the last delicious bite, and you always, always put the toilet seat down. You are one in a fucking million, and I’m very, very lucky to be married to you. I’m cursing for emphasis here, because sometimes you need the word fuck to really drive the point home.

Today marks 14 years that you’ve officially been my partner, and it all just seems to be going by so fast. Sometimes I’ll look at pictures of us in our 20s and think of how much our faces have changed. How when I met you my stomach was flat as a board and you were so skinny your chest was practically concave. This week I spent a fortune on anti-aging products and when the snowflakes hit your beard, it was hard to distinguish them from the slender threads of gray. These years with you have been the best of my life, and I hope the years ahead are just as kind. Occasionally I worry that someone is up there keeping score, and I already used up all my good luck when you hitched your wagon to mine. Let’s hope not.

I delight in your company, and look forward to it every single day. So here’s to snow days and sunny days and all the days in between. I just want to hug you and love you and make you pancakes until the end of time.

 

 

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People I really like

 

I like all kinds of people, really, but some — like cream– simply rise to the top. These are the types of people I like the very most.

 

People who understand and apply the phrase “to make a long story short”.

People who don’t have a hard time saying, “You know what? You’re right.” or “I see your point.”

People who enjoy eating and talking about carbs. And coffee. And tacos! Food in general really.

People who ask questions.

People who play fair and share their toys.

People who use the phrase “Pimpin’ ain’t easy” indiscriminately, for example: “I need to head across town to get some corncobs for dinner. Hey, pimpin’ ain’t easy.”

People who use their whole face and a good portion of their body to tell a story.

People whose natural instinct is to treat others with kindness and respect.

People with a signature style, like only and always wearing Hawaiian shirts or the color blue.

People who are quick to give up their seat on the train for the elderly, disabled or pregnant.

People who laugh and smile and don’t take themselves too seriously.

People who aren’t afraid to make mistakes, and acknowledge when they’re wrong.

Anyone over 80.

Anyone under 5.

People who don’t give a fuuuuuuuuuuck.

People who call me miss instead of ma’am. I like them extra when they call me “young lady”.

People who already own or are in the market for a scotty-dog sweater.

People who listen before speaking. People who think before reacting. People who don’t interrupt.

People with unique hobbies like carving soap or collecting old milk bottles (train surfers need not apply).

People with accents indicative of their native region. Any kind will do, but I’ll always prefer British, Australian, Venezuelan, Bronx-born Puerto Rican and East or South African. I have a client from Somalia and every time she speaks it’s like listening to a book on tape I never want to end.

People who put antlers on the roof of their car at Christmastime.

 

 

 

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