SRFS UP

Vanity plates are so….vain. And while I myself AM vain, I see no need to broadcast my vanity to cars idling in back of me. So when my lease ended on my Audi, and my new plates arrived, I knew immediately what I was in for.

My plate spelled out “SRF.” Clearly indicating someone who loves to surf, someone who loves the beach, someone who loves the water above all else. Right? If you’re going to pay money for an acronym to be spelled out on your license plate, it should spell out something that you adore above all else.

Right? Like: DOGZ. NYCTY. CHEEZ. Or HRVRD.

(At this point in time, I can’t imagine ANYONE bragging about attending Harvard. What an embarrassing institution).

Anyhoo, the SRF is NOT the topography I adore above all else. MNTS, maybe. Or DSRT. But not SRF.

Here’s a smattering of what I have gotten so far:

Wawa Attendant: “Like to surf?” Me: No.

Guy next to me in hotel parking lot: “You from Surf City?” Me: No.

Guy pumping gas next to me at a Sheetz: “I guess you like the water, har har.” Me: Not really. Har har.

Just recently a new acquaintance at a tailgate: “Surf’s up,” then he did that hang ten hand gesture. Me: “What does that mean?”

Oh, let it end.

Sword Fight

Three equal length boxes arrived at the house last week. Narrow, about three feet long.

I pondered. Golf clubs?

They were addressed to my oldest, so I texted him from work.

Boxes for you at house.

Yes!  he texted, and he told me that they were birthday presents for himself and his brothers.

I was filled with dread. You don’t understand his style in gift giving. He gives things like Bernese puppies. Forts. Sprinkler systems. Trips to places like Auschwitz, and Machu Picchu. Gift cards for experiences like combing the cashmere off the bellies of Angora goats in the Himalayas. His gifts should come with things like warranties. Flight plans. Insurance policies.

When I arrived home, the outer boxes were on the floor, and one inner box.

Game of Thrones, the box said.

I called Tommy down, and he emerged off the stairs holding a sword. A real sword, the sharp kind that disembowels villains in Shakespearean tragedies.

I stared and asked.

But why? Why do you need that? What will you do with it?

He shrugged, and offered:

Hang it on my wall at school? Have a sword fight?

Jesus, I said. No. That’s a real sword.

He scoffed. That’s the point, Mom. This is a Game of Thrones sword. You wouldn’t understand.

Obviously not.

Then it was the night of our big family dinner at our favorite restaurant, and we were all gathered at the house. It was time for John to give his twin brother Dustin his sword. I wondered how it would go over, Mr. Conservative Hospital Corners getting a sword for his birthday. I hoped he didn’t hurt his brother’s feelings when he opened it.

When I heard him whoop and holler, I knew I still didn’t get it. I’ve never seen him happier with a gift in my life. They showed me some “Game of Thrones” video, some battle scene where some leader who doesn’t want to be a leader but who is a leader anyway charges thousands of barbarians all shooting arrows at him. He thinks he is alone, when he suddenly turns around, and realizes his own army has been behind him the whole time. He draws his sword.

The Sword. The one that they all now own, the sword they are whispering about. I hear only snippets of their conversation.

Fight…Yard…Cousins…Thanksgiving.

God, I hope they are going to use the swords to cut the turkey.

A Sweet Ride

I was discussing my soon-to-be expiring Audi lease with my son.

“I don’t know if I like it enough to keep it,” I said.

“I agree,” he answered, clomping through the house like a Clydesdale. “It wasn’t you, Mom.”

Interesting. Bear in mind that people in my life have said this about every car I’ve ever driven. I’ll go backwards, before the Audi:

Middle child, looking at every angle of my Chevrolet Equinox parked in driveway, on my first day home with it: (Shaking his head) “It’s o.k. I guess, but it’s not really you, is it?”

I mean, I thought it was.

All boys in my trail-rated Jeep Wrangler, as they watch me wave to other Jeep drivers: “Mom, stop. You are not cool enough for this Jeep.”

I knew that the day I bought it.

All three boys, as I shepherded them from athletic youth activity to athletic youth activity in our family Chevrolet Tahoe: “Can dad drive us in this truck next time?”

Point noted. Dad is cooler.

All three boys as babies/toddlers, as I shepherded them from errands to play dates to supermarket to t-ball in our family Chevrolet Tahoe: “Grrhdhpsdopspaf, phlooooppp, sjdkfjiw.”

Baby babbling noted. Too much truck for me, I get it.

Youngest child as a baby, watching me get into my Mazda Miata convertible: “Ew, Mom.”

The Miata lasted less than a year.

A student watching me park my cabernet-colored Jeep Cherokee in the faculty parking lot, then accosting me in the hallway: “Mrs. Oves, I don’t see you in that truck. At all.”

How can you not see me? I was right THERE.

My late husband, a day after I announced I was pregnant with twins as he watched me squeeze my way into my Mazda RX-7 sports car: “You’re not going to fit into this car much longer. We’ll have to get you something for your girth.”

Gee, thanks. I never felt cooler in my life than when I was driving that car with my Alanis Morrisette CD blasting.

My late husband when we were still dating, as he drove me back in my Chevrolet Tracker from the dealership, since I could not drive stick:  “I just don’t get how someone buys a vehicle without knowing it is stick shift, and then refuses to learn. How did you intend to get to work?”

I obviously hadn’t thought that far ahead.

My calm older brother on the phone, after I told him I had totaled his Dodge Charger while he was doing a military tour of duty overseas: “That’s a shame, Mary, that car was you.”

So maybe that was the last time a car was me. So what’s left?

I’m thinking a cement mixer. A VW bus. An Airstream.

Anyway, my close and personal friend Dave Ramsey, who personally counsels me on everything financial, wants me to let the dealership buy off the lease so I can just buy a clunker. The thought of my having that extra money every month makes him giddy with glee.

Part of me doesn’t want to give up the Audi symbol that reflects onto the ground when I open my driver’s door at night. Or the encapsulating “thunk” whenever someone closes the door. The safety, the lines, the sheer vanity of the Audi.

Can I give that up?

But there’s something about driving a clunker that appeals to me, besides the obvious benefit of no car payment. Terrestrial radio. No computer system that tries to override my brain. Nicked and scratched, inside and out, well-loved and imperfect.

Anyway, at the age of 56, that describes me perfectly. Some mileage, some wear-and-tear, but in the long run?

Just a sweet ride.

Jewelry Girl

Oh, to be a Jewelry Girl.

You know her. Maybe you are her. Maybe when you get ready for the day, you go to your expansive closet and open your jewelry case. Not jewelry box, but jewelry case, an actual piece of furniture with ten drawers, a padded velvet interior, and copper hooks.

You pull open your drawers and ask yourself: gold or silver today?

You decide the silver will look better with your tan, and you begin to patiently layer your necklaces by using the mirror at the top of your jewelry case. You step closer for a better look, and nod in approval. Next you go for rings, which are lovingly and gently encased in their velvet drawer, then consider your bangles and earrings. Your look is sophisticated and never overdone, and at the end of the day your jewelry goes back into its case, waiting for its next opportunity to shine. Meanwhile, the pieces you didn’t wear that day tingle in expectation that maybe tomorrow will be their day.

I’ve love to to be a Jewelry Girl, but certain personal circumstances prevent it.

There’s too much variety. How does one choose from the thousands of pieces online and in stores? How can anyone actually not like a piece of jewelry? Like if you get jewelry for a holiday, do you say, “This just isn’t me”? How do I know what is me, and what isn’t?

I’m too clumsy. I tend to get myself caught on, well, the planet. I get my sleeves caught on flatware, my pockets caught on drawers, my feet caught on hampers. Necklaces and bracelets and earrings are risky when attached to my body.

I lose it. Last month an expensive pearl stud fell out of my earlobe. It’s in the house somewhere. A month before that, I misplaced my beloved one-of-a-kind silver stacking ring I bought in Scottsdale. It’s in the house somewhere. Last summer I lost a rose gold hoop earring, a pair of earrings which was the last gift I received from my late husband. It is not in the house somewhere, but in a parking lot elsewhere.

I’m impatient and also going blind. I barely have enough patience and eyesight to put on one necklace much less a bevy of pieces.

I have recently fallen in love with a jewelry brand, a brand that is endorsed by my favorite actress. Something about their pieces does something to me. It’s like Andrew Wyeth’s art- I’m drawn to it, but I lack the words to explain how. I have begun secretly to stockpile pieces by this jewelry designer, which has its own display in Nordstom. My goal is to have an entire jewelry box filled with it. The prices range from reasonable to outrageously expensive, and so far I have invested in a bracelet and most recently, a necklace.

The necklace is on a very sturdy silver chain, and the bracelet is a silver cuff which is simply unloseable. I’m not taking any chances.

Lovings

Few things:

Lots of inquiries about my TED talk. What can I tell you, it takes TED a loooooong time to edit these talks. I guarantee they will not post it until it is perfect. When I get it, you’ll get it, so simmer down. It’s not like I’m hiding it. Sheesh. Don’t you think I want to start racking up views?

A friend texted me and asked me if I would ever personally confront Jordan Peterson about his comment about Yumi Nu, that is, if I were to meet him in person. Um, no. I’d be a coward, or I’d faint. I’m a huge fan of JP, like HUGE. I find him irresistibly charming, stoic, erudite and yummy. The older man thing, you see. But I’m still peeved at him. Beauty takes many different forms, and who is Jordan to say this young girl isn’t beautiful, just because she’s not a size 00? I’m not saying she should be on the cover, or that she shouldn’t be. I’m not a magazine editor. I’m simply saying beauty is relative. Oh, and newsflash: size 10 girls like wearing bikinis on the beach too, and look damn good doing it. Kudos to Sports Illustrated. If you found her girth distasteful, just flip to another page. Problem solved.

Things I’m loving right now:

The Zaha dress from Sophie Grace. Perfect for work, slimming and sexy. I have the blue.

“The Lincoln Lawyer” on Netflix. Based on the best-selling novels by Michael Connelly, this show stars Manuela Garcia-Ruffo as Mickey Haller, the best criminal defense lawyer in L.A. Ruffo is gorgeous in a nefarious way. If I can find some time and stop doing word finds and binge-watching “Seinfeld,” I want to get into it.

Skims. Thin, light undergarments for women. I’m a huge fan of smoothing undergarments when I work, even in the summer, and these provide smoothing without making you overly hot. Yummy. And they’re half the price of Spanx. Sara Blakely better stop taking trips into space with Elon Musk, and watch her product- it’s not what it used to be.

The new olive color of La Creuset. I want. But I don’t need. So I shan’t get. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if it made fiscal sense to buy every new La Creuset color when we wanted? Wah.

The Fruity-Dipped cone at Dairy Queen. I’m kidding, I don’t love this. Don’t waste your money or your time, it’s terrible. The outside “fruit” dip tastes like…wax lips. You know the wax lips “candy” that tasted like candle wax? Dairy Queen disappointed me, I was so looking forward to this new product. Yuk.

Catch you Wednesday.

Back to the Roost

Yesterday morning I went into the kitchen at 5:00 a.m. to make my coffee, and as I ran the faucet, looked out towards our garage in the dim early morning light. And there was a possum, sniffing the outer edges of the garage and trying to figure out a way into my sons’ man cave. He kept pushing his snout into the door, which while not completely closed, would not yield to his weight.

Thank goodness for them, because if he got in there, there’d be no way I would have chased him out.

I sat down in my chair to drink my coffee and do a Word Find, when I heard it.

Rahck.

My head popped up. Could it be?

Rahck.

My heart beating in anticipation, I looked out towards my bird feeders and saw them standing on my stoop, looking towards the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Duck are finally back. May 14th, the latest date they have returned to my yard in all the years they have been visiting me. I’m so happy to see them, and they seem very grateful for the expensive critter food I had ready for when they finally showed up. When they were done eating, they just sat in my yard and took in the sights, relaxing to finally be what I like to call their “home away from home.”

My bunnies are back, too. We must never rush nature. It is on its own schedule.

Flasks

The Hydro Flask® company must have such a difficult time figuring out a way to market their product to to get their customers to purchase more than one.

Most things we buy wear out, break or get boring, right? Socks. Underwear. iPhones. Cars. It doesn’t take much of an advertising budget for those brands to titillate us. But everyone’s individual Hydro Flask® is so personal and beloved, and their products are so strong and durable, how and why would people need more than one?

I would love if that were so.

Not that there’s not a variety. There are flasks for cold, for hot, for soup, for noodles. Lids, straws, sports caps, large-mouth, small mouth. And the colors are endless. I was shopping yesterday, and just drooled over the biggest Hydro Flask display I’ve ever seen. I even tried to narrow it down if I were to actually purchase one, but it was impossible.

No matter. I wasn’t planning on purchasing one, because I love the size of mine, the lid, the color, and the stickers on it that I have spent the better part of two years choosing very carefully and lovingly. I bring my flask everywhere, and I mean everywhere.

Hydro Flasks® weaken me. I almost caved yesterday when I saw a beige and yellow flask announcing, “Limited Edition!” This gets me every time, when a Hydro Flask is made in a color that we will never see again once it’s gone.

I also love giving them as gifts to my boys. A few years ago they each got a small hot flask. Two years ago, they got a medium. This past Christmas, they got a large. I don’t know if they will ever use them, but I love buying them in delicious fun colors, wrapping them up, and seeing them emerge from the wrapping.

I especially like when they put them in their rooms for safe keeping, forget about them, and then I slink in there and steal them until the flasks eventually become mine.

Always a method to my madness.

This Not That Part II

I was going to post a Mother’s Day gift list, but everything I saw I was like, “Ew, don’t get her that.” So I’ll save the list for another time, because here’s a list of what NOT to get her:

Don’t get her: A hat. They’re always a mistake. Always. Beach hats, fedoras, Stetsons, you name it. If she wants one, let her make the mistake, not you.

Get her: A flowery scarf big enough to wrap around herself.

Don’t get her: Health products from Goop. Don’t make pretentious Gwyneth Paltrow, who is the CEO of Goop, any richer than she is. I’m sick of her profiting off the message that women are living their lives wrong.

Get her: Something from your local beauty store, keep the money in town. Homemade soap, for instance.

Don’t get her: Cocktail makers. Take her out, instead of getting stuff for her to stay in.

Get her: A great table near the piano player at the swanky beach bar.

Don’t get her: A “Binge-Watching Survival Kit.” C’mon. Mask mandates are lifted, it’s going to be summer soon. Don’t buy her shit to encourage her to sit around the house. This made me incredibly sad.

Get her: Concert tickets to a comedian or a band she loves.

Don’t get her: Sleep masks. These seem like a good idea, but they’re really annoying to wear at night. Don’t waste your money.

Get her: A cute light-diffusing alarm.

Don’t get her: You’ve Got This! book titles. I get annoyed when anyone tells me “You’ve got this!” or “You go, girl!” It’s very condescending.

Get her: A cute journal for her thoughts and doodles.

Don’t get her: Electronics.

Get her: Rifle Paper Co. stickers to stick in her journal. I love playing with stickers in my journal and appointment book. After all, we’re all just little girls at heart.

Blow(dryer) Jobs

*(I added the “dryer” at last minute- I chickened out).

Over the last few months my hair had not been coming out well after styling, and I didn’t understand why.

Until recently.

I’m crazy with my hair, and that observation cannot be overstated enough. I take hair gummies for shine and texture, and I can tell when my diet is off because my hair gets depressed. If my hair doesn’t look good, I don’t feel good, so ultimately, my hair predicates my mood. I don’t even like hairdressers styling my hair at the end of an appointment, because there is only one way I like it to be styled, and that’s my way. No curls, no straightening, no bouffant, no hair spray or gel.

(The only exception to this is before a photo shoot. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: no matter what your stylist says will look good when you’re photographed, BELIEVE HIM/HER. They know what they’re talking about. Every good photo session I’ve ever had is because I put my complete trust in the stylists and photographer. That’s the magic combo, baby).

But for a regular hair appointment? “Just hand me that blow dryer and I’ll do it myself.” Stylists are baffled by this, because part of their fee is for a blow-out and style.

So imagine my dismay the last few months as I’ve watched my hair turn brittle, lifeless and flat. I tried every imaginable product, added an extra gummy to my diet, bumped up fruits and veggies, rinsed with cold water, but nothing worked. Every day I looked at my split ends, dumbfounded as to what had changed in my routine.

The first day I arrived in Tampa, I took a shower and did my hair before the first Meet-and-Greet, and as I was blow drying my hair, I could immediately tell that something was different. For the first time in months my hair was being cooperative. It was soft and shiny, and responded to my styling method. And even when it got a little humid out, my hair stayed sleek and healthy.

Weird. Was it the water? The air? The sun?

It wasn’t until the second day that I realized what was different. As I was drying my hair with the villa blow dryer, feeling the tingle of the powerful hot air on my scalp, I became curious to know what brand blow dryer was giving me such a good blow job. I glanced down.

Baby Bliss Pro.

Boom chaka-laka.

Of course. It was the blow dryer. I have always used a Baby Bliss Pro, but a few months ago mine had finally died after years of use. So one day I was in Walgreens, and I grabbed a Revlon blow dryer for 30 bucks, because hot air is hot air, right?

NO! NOT RIGHT! WRONG!

The Baby Bliss Pro has 2000 watts of power and dries hair quickly for reduced split ends and frizz. You’d have to use a high-quality blow dryer to understand a low-quality one. My crappy Revlon dryer took forever to dry my hair, the AC motor so cheap that it exposed my hair to more damaging heat for longer.

Here is a description of my Baby Bliss.

Hairstylists covet Dyson blowdryers, others like Hot Bar or Hot Tools. Regardless of what kind of blow dryer you use, just be aware that you get what you pay for.

Timeless vs. Trendy

(Thank you to Ingrid Fetell Lee for the inspiration for this post)

We know that the pleasure we find in tangible objects is fleeting. Scientists call this hedonic adaptation, or the hedonic treadmill, and it describes the way that our emotional responses to objects or situations dampen over time. Like when I keep journals and pens in my cart at Target, and in an hour the excitement of finding a journal with a velvet-embossed baby elephant wears off. I end up putting it back on the shelf because it no longer seduces me.

When we buy new things we love, the purchase lights up our brain with delight. But then we just get used to it, and while it may not be worn out, its appeal has dulled and we search for the opportunity to replace it with something new again.

On and on and on.

Ingrid asked me to make a list of things in my home that bring me joy. This is only partial:

My pewter elephants. My Icelandic prints. My little jewelry bowls. The Andrew Wyeth prints in the guest bedroom. The old-fashioned kitchen timer near my stove.

I’m trying to become more cognizant of objects of desire, so that what I buy has a lasting impression to make me happy long after the purchase. So what was I left with after shopping at Target last Friday? Not much. I’ll itemize.

A jar of Vitamin C Shea Sugar scrub for 8.49. This may seem like a luxury purchase, but I’m dying for a massage scrub lately, and they run in about $150.00. Not so bad now, huh? I love spa services so much, but I can’t go every month, so I try to do as much home spa-ing as I can. I treated myself to a bath and sugar scrub after the long weekend, and let me tell you it was LUXURIOUS.

A pink stoneware coffee mug with the phrase “Cup of Happy” for $7.00. I’ve been eyeing up this mug for months. I love the color, the graphics, and the feel of the stoneware. It gives me so much pleasure every morning when I use it. I know I complain about the crowds and warmer weather, but I can’t wait for spring so I can take this mug out to my patio and drink my first cup of coffee al fresco, and greet the morning with my squirrels, bunnies and ducks.

Toppling Tower Wood Blocks Game for $14.99. Dumb purchase, but I couldn’t help it. And in my defense, I was left unsupervised in front of the Chip and Joanna Gaines’ spring Magnolia collection. It’s like Jenga with desert and earth-toned blocks. I just pictured us playing this at the dining room table after Easter brunch. Love at first sight. And even if no one plays it, it brings me joy to look at it on the counter.

That was pretty much it. I got some Tide on sale, a Burts’ Bees lip shimmer, a bathmat with tassles.

From Ingrid:

“As people, we’re not fixed entities. We grow and change over time, and that may mean a changing relationship with our things. But by keeping these principles in mind, you’ll waste less money and time on things that quickly lose their luster, and be better able to invest in things that will have timeless resonance in your life.”

Read Ingrid’s article to find the six ways to make sure you choose things that bring you renewable joy.