Petal to the metal

Last weekend I had a lot of errands to run.

I stopped at a handful of grocery stores, to pick up a handful of items, and on my way home, I stopped at a florists' shop to buy myself a treat. I'd been sick all week and needed something to boost my spirits.

I looked at the ranunculus, snapdragons, tulips, some of the most beautiful (and expensive $54/dozen) roses I've ever seen, carnations, and eventually settled on a bunch of white daisies. I really wanted some of the other, more colorful flowers, but settled for simplicity...and durability.

While walking from cooler to cooler trying to make up my mind, I tried to figure out what I liked the best, what I'd want to see each morning and evening, each time I spent time in my living room, where the flowers would sit upon my tallest bookcase.

A week later, the flowers still look perfect, but they seemed a little lonely.

Thankfully, everything goes with a blank slate. Before heading home last night, I found a bouquet of 4" bright red gerberas. When I got home, I trimmed the daisies and arranged them with the gerberas in a vase that a friend's mother made, a tall, white ceramic vase with a rim of blue glaze and a smattering of green leaves here and there.

The flowers are not reflective of what I grown in my garden. They are too perfect, too bright. Outdoors, I prefer sunflowers picked over by the goldfinches the perch atop their buttery orbs, bee balm with their seemingly endless opening and closing miniscule flower heads, peonies overflowing with ants and whose edges are brown and crispy from exposure, irises of intense and washed out color that spread and blossom seemingly at random, daffodils with their ruffled tubes, day lilies with their orange and red triangular petals arriving and withering in quick succession, bleeding hearts with their dainty droplets falling along a thin stem towards the earth.

I'm ready to fast forward to spring and get those blooms abounding. I'd rather look at them outside, while I work in the yard.

Mom genes (continued)

Much of the dinner I had with Mom on Tuesday had to do with Grandma. She's turning 95 on March 6th, and we're throwing her a party.

The Chicago and Atlanta contingents of the family are coming into town for it, and all of us cousins cannot wait to see each other. Friday night will be at Sister's house, where all the kids will fall all over each other with joy at being together again, and all us adult cousins will catch up on news of the family and whatnot.

Birthday brunch will be Saturday, where Grandma will be the guest of honor, and thankfully, it will be where she lives. She will then be able to take a nap without feeling guilty, and have her friends included without having to worry about how they would travel to another venue. The plans for this have been in the works for months. Last week when I asked what she'd like for her birthday, she said, "I just want everyone to be together."

Saturday afternoon it looks like we'll have a pool party at the out-of-towners' hotel, which sounds like heaven! I cannot imagine anything better than playing tag with the kiddos, that will rival snuggling Thanksgiving weekend in adorableness.

I cannot wait to see my cousins. We don't have the chance to visit often enough, living in different cities.

I grew up hearing stories of my parents' families all living in the same cities, well, not all, but there were extended visits when they didn't. I've been lucky to meet many second cousins, and consider my Boston cousins my second family. They took me in for the holidays each year and always made me feel at home.

It's also nice to have a reason to celebrate with family for something other than a holiday. I'd say 95 is definitely something to celebrate. Happy almost birthday, Grandma!

Mom genes

Yesterday was one for the record books.

I slept somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 hours, managed to do very little on my chores list (one load each of laundry and dishes), and spent four hours with Mom without arguing or getting on each others' nerves.

That last bit is shocking and hopefully something that will continue.

I love Mom. She's given me a lot to be thankful for in life. She instilled in me an early love of the arts by taking me to the opera and ballet and symphony, as well as a great appreciation for visual arts by bringing me to her art history classes and museums whenever possible. Mom was my academic advocate, making sure I was given a chance to enter gifted programs in elementary and middle schools, as well as pushing for my entry into advanced courses in high school. She also negotiated with school officials so that I could spend a semester of high school in Israel.

Mom is persistent, which is something she passed along to me. She sets a goal and goes for it. She is a 33 year entrepreneur, and showed me that women can cook, sew and own a business...and often put me to work.

I called her yesterday afternoon to see what time and where I was meeting she and Grandma for dinner. She said, "Let's have an early dinner at Nordstrom, I'm at the mall already. If you're not busy, come on over now. You need a new pair of jeans, right. I'll get them for you. Call me when you get here."

And so, put the dishes in the dishwasher, put on a sweater and some shoes and headed out the door.

The jeans were an easy find. And, they were a size smaller than the last ones we got several months earlier! Mom mentioned that she saw some cute outfits I should try on, while we were there, to wear for Grandma's 95th birthday party next week. Who was I to say no?

We perused the copious options, and selected a wide array of floral prints, variations in navy and tan, sweaters, cardigans and one or two blouses. We even brought a few crazy patterns into the dressing room. The kind and helpful woman who helped us also selected a few pieces to go with random tops and skirts we thought might work well.

A couple of hours later and what seems like a thousand outfits and combinations tried on, we were pleased to have found what could be described as a new wardrobe for me for the next several months. I mean, I'll have to get a few sleeveless items for the summer, but I now have skirts and tops that actually fit my now smaller frame in a flattering way, and are versatile enough that I can wear them to meetings, on dates, and to synagogue or out on the town with minor tweaks to accessories and combinations of top layers and shoes.

While I'm really grateful for the clothes, the best part was the quality time I got to spend with Mom. Once I established that she didn't need to go on past one comment on the ill-fitting nature of an outfit, we went through the afternoon in peace, joking about my inability to wear the color mint near my face (although we did get a mint checked skirt), discussed our chests at length (especially our inability to tuck in a shirt due to the short distance between boobs and waist, along with her continuing commentary about how we should get a two-for-one reduction rate--or would that be four-for-one), and the common sense approach we took to the outfits ("Your father would love that on you." That was the line that always went along with a yes number).

One of the biggest successes of our shopping adventure is that I didn't let Mom into my dressing room. While I am pretty comfortable with my body, I am not comfortable with being judged about it. That's a hang-up I've had with Mom since I was young, likely stemming from my Weight Watchers membership at 11 years old. My family is not great with setting up boundaries, but this one was a winner. Mom had a comfortable couch to sit on, and could see my feet...and whatever I was stepping into at any given moment. We could hear each other, and we talked the whole time. It was really lovely. It was a bonding moment without being forced or having too many expectations.

We also had dinner together after making our purchases. We each had salads, and I ordered us a basket of sweet potato fries to go along with them. We shared them, both enjoying our dinners, and more conversation, about life and death, about planning and letting go, and about how people can surprise us. We even called Dad (so Mom could get his sweater size and buy him one before we left the store), and I was able to share my gratitude with him as well. Apparently, he's been telling Mom to take me shopping for a while. I will choose to see that as a statement of generosity, rather than as a statement of embarrassment at my shabby attire.

Honestly, it doesn't matter. I love my folks, regardless of their ability or interest in taking me shopping. Love has never been on condition of stuff for me. It's much more about having connection, about caring for and about each other, and about being present.

That said, I'm really excited to look pretty in my new duds!

Thought (less)

I've been writing this blog for nearly two months now.

You've been privy to my insecurities, my nuances, my passions and my peculiarities, many of which you share.

Today, however, I am drawing a blank.

Then again, it may just be writing fatigue. I've been writing and editing a piece for a national Jewish food blog, a grant report, narratives about meetings I've had over the past year, and an inordinate amount of data entry and maintenance.

Basically, I want to stop staring at a screen and typing.

I have a feeling that tomorrow you'll have something more interesting to read. In the meantime, you might want to start one of my favorite books, "So Big" by Edna Ferber. Just don't Google the title...you're likely to get the same unintended results my sister did when she forgot the author's name. You don't want to see that. Or, maybe you do!

(E)v(o)acati(ve)ion

It has been a while since I took just a vacation.

I don't mean the 3-4 day trips to see friends or family. I mean a week or more off of work with no plans, other than to relax and enjoy wherever you are.

Thinking back, there haven't been many of those since embarking on working adulthood. Post college, there aren't natural work stoppages in the calendar year that make it acceptable to shirk responsibilities, turn off the phone, hold the mail and skip town.

I've taken a handful of trips to Boston to see friends over the past 8.5 years, slept on couches, pull-out couches and air mattresses galore. I do remember one or two beds for a night each, as I played the game of see everyone you know in short amount of time.

There was one trip to Florida for fun with one friend that was just for the sake of fun. We sunned ourselves, had plenty of cocktails, and mocked the vice presidential debates in real time.

I think the rare trips for the sake of enjoyment have been with family. Sadly, the enjoyment has come mainly because of the ability to pay for good meals, decent places to sleep, transportation and entertainment (museums, spas, shopping, music, dance, theater). I am grateful for those experiences and hope to be able to enjoy those same luxuries from my own pockets at some point.

 It's funny, I have friends who love to take extended trips to kayak, white water raft, stand up paddle, hike or camp. I always thought of that as something to do in the short term, more recreation than vacation. I always thought of vacations as the time to catch up on light reading, a time to give yourself a break, not break a sweat. I love the idea of learning while on vacation, expanding my mind and exploring a new culture.

I do recognize the joy in exploring nature, in experiencing the wonder of water lilies on a lake, of eagles soaring overhead, of cooking over an open fire. I had that during summer camp. I also had lots of mosquito bites, mystery meat and cabin mates with eating disorders.

I prefer clean sheets and hot showers. Doesn't make me love nature any less, just makes me more of my father's daughter.

I really want to see Morocco, India, Thailand, New Zealand, Hawaii, and any number of other waterfront destinations. I want to smell spices in the food stalls. I want to walk on the beaches and swim in the oceans. I want to hear new music and learn new languages. I want to explore cultures outside of my own and experience them outside of literature.

Bring on the savings account and the travel brochures. I have too many suitcases to stay home for long!

Hey, Taxman!

One of my favorite tax-related movies is Stranger Than Fiction.

Will Ferrell, Maggie Gyllenhal, Queen Latifah, Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson couldn't make tax preparation more appealing. Seriously.

That's about as excited as I get about taxes. Mostly, I just dread having to do them each year.

I used to do paper forms by hand, by myself. It was tedious, and involved my looking up small print in the big book of forms and instructions, and occasionally calling my accountant cousin for help. Often, I would procrastinate and simply file an extension...as I learned to do by example throughout my childhood and adolescence.

The advent of telephone filing was a tremendous achievement. Then came e-filing, of which I was a late adopter. One year, I knew I was owed a refund and ended up going to the local IRS office for assistance after April 15 for help. They were great. Kind and efficient.

Last year, my taxes were excruciatingly complex. I had to file for two jobs, two occasional jobs, and unemployment, along with a myriad of itemized deductions. It took hours, but in the end, I received a sizable refund.

This year, I only filed for two jobs, one occasional job and a lesser myriad of itemized deductions and ended up owing 10% of what I received from the government last year. Not sure where I went wrong, other than taking home 36% more income than the previous year. Definitely not going to shake a stick at that.

Let's hope I owe more in taxes every year for the rest of my working life if that's how it works.

This year, I also realized something that made itemizing much, much easier. I went to my health insurance provider's website, as well as my prescription benefit provider's website and found the totals of my out of pocket expenses for doctors' visits, lab work, and medications.  It made the whole process much less painful.

I'm really happy to contribute to most of what my taxes pay for, especially the things that continue to be cut from the federal budget: help for low-income families, public education, veterans' benefits, infrastructure and social security.

Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.

—Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, 1789

 I'm looking forward to a long life as a taxpayer. 

Daff(y)odils

The daffodils have bolted in my front yard.

The sudden rise in temperatures from below freezing to low 80s and back into the 50s has confused them, as well as the rest of us. They are not alone. A few doors down, purple crocus are fully open on a neighbor's lawn.

My irises and daylilies are starting to shoot up their greens once more. The irises are trying to recover their withered and dried appendages while sending up new leaves.

The bluebells will be next, followed closely by the tulips and the iris blossoms in succession. The daylilies and purple cone flowers will erupt with the peonies, which I hope have not only survived, but expanded their reach to the left of my front steps.

If the rain and sun have anything to do with it, my garden will take care of itself.

Bring it on, spring. Bring. It. On.

Birds of a (shake a tail) feather

You've already been privy to the flock of starlings in my trees, but I haven't told you about the birds I love to see.

My grandma who has already passed on--the one who shared with me her love of gardening both vegetables and flowers, and who taught valuable lessons in how to be nice (because she wasn't all the time) and about the importance of caring for yourself before others (a lesson I am still trying to learn)--taught me about bird watching. We used to sit at her kitchen table, which doubled as the dining room, and look up birds in her guidebook while finding finches and cardinals, bluebirds, bluejays and woodpeckers.

Those sweet moments are some of my most cherished memories, and I still smile when I see birds in my yard, their colorful plumage brightening the winter landscape, portending the spring and summer colors ready to bloom from the landscape.

Weeks ago, I spied my first cardinal of the season. He was sitting atop the chain link fence separating my yard from one of my neighbors. I knew it was a he, because his feathers were bright red. Another lesson learned early on. Male birds are generally more colorful, in order to attract the females, whose colors are more muted, if not entirely different.

It begs the question, why do human women don ourselves so lavishly, preen and bejewel in order to attract a mate? Why aren't men working harder to attract us?

I have been single for a long time, often choosing to be alone, rather than putting myself in situations where I would have the potential to date, to meet someone with whom I'd like a relationship. It is easier in some ways to care for myself than to allow someone in my life to help me, to be a partner, to build a life together.

Maybe I should take a cue from the birds. It doesn't matter what I wear, but that I show up, that I hang out in the right place, that I look for a man who will attract me with his showmanship, his interest in me, his attention-getting schemes. For me, it's more simple than fancy outfits or gifts. For me, it's more about spending time together. It's about reaching out to me. It's about being there consistently and sharing in communication and commitment.

I wish it were as easy as being a bird. Then again, I don't love the idea of throwing up to feed my family. I'm much better with a frying pan.

Off (helter s)kilter

I've been off my game lately.

Yes, I've been slowed down by asthmatic bronchitis and pleurisy, but there have been other things.

Last Wednesday, I was driving to work and shattered my passenger side mirror when it hit a garbage can on my street and flipped into my passenger window. Thankfully, the window is intact, and my mechanic has found a replacement part that should arrive tomorrow.

I got my Valentine cards out, but at least a dozen of them were in the mail or hand delivered belatedly.

I didn't drain my rain barrel and it no longer holds water, just allows it to leak out of the enormous crack along the bottom edge.

The last of my papaya seedlings has finally started its descent towards the compost heap. My dishes have taken over not only the entire sink, but most of one counter top. I spilled soup all over the stove, the floor and a bit of myself today. And, I had a hard time finding fresh ginger at THREE different grocery stores today.

Here's hoping that the massive storm heading my way tonight washes everything clean, including my slate. I'm ready for the shifting winds, even if they are going to be tornadoes.

Turn the stereo(typical) up

Every once in a while I am amazed at the ignorance and assumptions of people.

As a kid, I had a strong identity. I listened to stories from three great grandparents, four grandparents and a handful of great aunts and uncles. I knew we were from Eastern Europe, that our families all left for a better life in America, and that in some cases, we left because of anti-Semitism.

One of my maternal great grandmothers fled her family's farm in Kiev, because the Cossacks were burning it down. The family hid under beds at a neighbor's farm and made their way across the Atlantic to settle in Philadelphia, New York, New Orleans and Los Angeles.

We were lucky. Most of our family fled Europe for America at the turn of the 20th Century. We escaped before things got really bad. Not that they hadn't been bad before. My other maternal great grandmother's ancestors fled Northern Portugal during the Spanish Inquisition (around 1509) for Poland. She was from Warsaw and arrived in New York as a child with her family.

I have friends whose grandparents and great grandparents survived concentration camps. I grew up with survivors, some willing to speak about their experiences, others reluctant even to show the numbers tattooed on their arm. In elementary school, I was obsessed with learning about the Holocaust, about the camps, about the survivors' stories, about why anyone would want to wipe out an entire group of people.

I was obsessed with injustice and persecution, and wanting to end it.

I endured any number of unsavory comments growing up. From someone I thought was my best friend telling me I was going to hell because I didn't believe in Jesus to being harassed by one boy nearly all of my 8th Grade year with swastikas.

As an adult, I've had less of that. At least less overt sentiments voiced in my direction. Recently, however, I had a customer ask if I was Jewish, and when I said yes, she commented on the smallness of my nose. She went on to say that most Jews have more hawkish features. She was from Eastern Europe. She is one of the reasons why I am not interested in seeing where my family lived until a little over 100 years ago.

I did tell this woman, who seemed in other ways to be intelligent, that we come in all shapes and colors. I try to see every such interaction as an opportunity to educate someone rather than shame them. They already have preconceived notions about the Jewish community, and it is my duty, as part of that community to be a good representative.

Sometimes it's about more than getting mad, it's about making a good impression.

Fruity and delicious

I love fruit.

Mango and pineapple are some of my favorites, but I go for nearly every fruit.

Apples, with their crunch. Pears with their subtlety. Watermelons for their sugary dribbles. Lemons and limes for the brightness they add to baked goods, soups and sauces. Plums and apricots for their tartness. Peaches and nectarines for their embodiment of sunshine.

During winter months, I love any and all citrus. Recently, I have been indulging in mineola, heirloom and blood oranges. Each with their own succulent tang.

The blood oranges in particular, remind me of my trip to Italy in 1999. I was working for five days with a private high school's modern dance troupe that was booked for performance in Ravenna, one of my favorite places on earth. After my gig was over, I met Mom in Florence and we traveled for an additional 11 days. Each morning we had a glass of blood orange juice, something neither of us had tasted previously. I was hooked. It was sweet and tart and deep purple in color.

The mineolas I love for their tartness as well. I love to use them in baking. Their zest and juice add a special touch to Hamentaschen in particular, filling and dough alike.

Last but not least, I adore grapefruits. I have a tendency to overindulge in them, though. I like them plain, messily separating the flesh of the fruit from the membranes. That means I don't eat them in front of other people, or very often.

Citrus reminds me of Israel. My high school experience there was full of pommelo. Their thick rinds, their sweetness. The joy of sharing them with my friends and room mates.

Blackberries always remind me of summer camp in Wisconsin, picking wild berries by the side of the road while on canoe trips and behind the clinic, snagging my clothing and slicing my arms on the brambles. Strawberries remind me of our first home, and sneaking berries off the strawberry pot when Mom would send me outside to play.

Just keep the bananas to yourselves. They have a weird texture, taste and smell.

Sunshine day

California is suffering the worst drought in recorded history. The rest of the US is buried under a barrage of blizzards, and Nashville has clean streets and sunny skies.

Last week, while most of the rest of the country was suffering from horrendous weather, we were sitting pretty. It was chilly, but no snow, no ice, no cancelled schools.

Having spent so much time in Boston, I was happy to have the respite from winter weather. After all, that is much of the reason I moved back to Tennessee.

My parents, in Knoxville, had seven inches of snow. All of which melted the next day.

I remember having snowsuits as a kid, and sledding in the neighborhood, making snow forts and snowmen.

I remember wearing tights under my jeans since we didn't have long johns. There was hot chocolate and pants thrown straight into the dryer as we came into the house through the garage and into the laundry room. Disrobe, dry off, get warm, go back outside with hot jeans burning our snow-stung legs.

Sweet memories of childhood and adolescence. Now, bring on springtime!

Paging Dr. (Feelgood)

Friday I finally caved and went to the doctor.

After enduring a mostly sleepless night, interrupted by frequent coughing and attempts at rinsing out my repulsively full sinuses, I called in sick to work and made my way to my internist's office before 9am, which was lucky, since they close at noon on Fridays. This is an important point to note later.

After registering, I was quickly called to make my way to an exam room, making a quick stop at the digital scale. "Wait, that is 1X7.8lbs, NOT 1X8lbs! That .2lb makes a big difference!" Blood pressure, pulse, medications list all checked.

Doc walks in the door, notices I've lost weight since I last saw him...almost two years ago. He was complimentary of my progress then talked at length about obesity, drugs to curb it, and asked what I am doing to keep weight off. It was kind of like a back handed compliment. I am not THAT big. Could be, but I'm not. Sometimes it is okay to stop with a compliment.

Describe symptoms with cough-rasped whisper voice, throat checked, swollen neck glands checked, diagnosis: asthmatic bronchitis. G-R-E-A-T.  Antibiotics and the good cough syrup are to be called into my pharmacy. Great!

Not so fast.

There is also a steroid shot in my left butt cheek. Happy Valentine's Day to me. Joy.

I pick up a note for work, and head there to drop it off and grab some groceries on the way to the pharmacy. No prescriptions were called in. This is now 11am. Pharmacy says they'll text when the meds are called in and ready for pick-up.

I go home, make a bowl of lunch and some herbal tea, and tangerine juice, fold the laundry on the small couch, and and lie down. By 2pm I still hadn't received a text. Call pharmacy. Prescriptions still haven't arrived. Call doc's office and get hung up on after being transferred three times. Call back and ask to be transferred to on call doc's office. Leave lengthy, pleading message to please, for the love of Valentine's Day, call in my medications so I can start feeling better.

Two more hours pass. Call pharmacy. They promise to page the doc and get me on the well-wagon. Moments later, doc faxes in the scripts...six hours after I left the office. Gee, I'm so glad you are concerned about my health.

Of course, I'm grateful for the gift of persistence and having enough energy to be my own health advocate. I hope others have the same strength for the simple and complicated things that life brings.

Brotherly love(d)

Last week I found out that my brother really likes me.

I mean, I know that, but we don't always get along. We are a lot alike, but we are miserable at having conversations with each other. The funny thing is that we're usually coming from the same perspective, and with good intentions, but the words get lost in translation and interpretation.

Monday night, though, he stopped by my physical job while I was downstairs eating dinner, and apparently asked every other employee he saw if I was there. Not only that, he let them know that we hadn't seen each other in a long time, and he really wanted to say hello.

Finally, one of my coworkers took pity on him and took on the burden of tracking me down. A manager paged me, and I made my way upstairs to find my brother. We were about to spend about 10 minutes catching up, giving hugs, and being entirely cordial.

I really love my brother. He is tough and sentimental. He is adventurous and measured. He is intense and goofy. He is supportive and wants to the best for me. He will always look at my choices through the lens of someone who is three years old, with more experience, and more perspective.

While I may not see my brother often, I cherish our relationship, and am glad for it.

Love it or leave it

Valentines 2011...floating hearts.

I adore Valentine's Day.

I know, I know, what's a nice Jewish woman doing celebrating a holiday named after a saint? Whatever. It's all about spreading the love!

I have been making this year's hand crafted cards for weeks now, painstakingly gluing miniscule strands of tinsel to slivers of card stock, creating the illusion of flames shooting out the back end of a rocket ship.

The first iteration of the cards looked more like sperm than rockets, but I fixed them. Easily. Art sometimes takes a little tweaking now and then before it's just right.

The 2014 Valentine card.

I've already given one card in person, but due to a bit of laziness on my part, most will be a little late on delivery. No matter, a card is a card is a card, unless you're one of the lucky few to get one of mine!

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. May you find love, have it requited, and share it (appropriately, of course) with everyone you know. I sure hope my love and I find each other this year.

Oh, and Shabbat Shalom!

Valentines 2010...hand embroidered felt coasters.

Crowning glory

Monday night I was able to leave work a little early...at 10pm.

When I got home, I retrieved my mail before unloading the car and heading inside. As I started walking back up the driveway, I noticed the moon trying to shine through the hazy night sky. It wasn't the biggest moon, nor the brightest I've seen, but it was surrounded by a giant halo that took my breath away and put a smile on my face.

After texting a friend in Boston about it, he told me that the phenomenon I saw was caused by ice crystals in the atmosphere. Leave it to a distance hiker to know about outdoorsy stuff. I was grateful that the ice was staying put, rather than coating the ground.

The ring around the moon was the silver lining to my long day.

Croak madam

Yesterday morning I woke up with a sore throat. Well, woke up is a generous word for it.

I actually hit snooze at least four times before finally turning off the radio and sleeping another two hours. Luckily, I was planning to work an half day from home and was in no hurry to get started.

When I finally got out of bed, I knew something was off, but decided to have a little fun with it. When I opened my mouth to talk myself into getting moving, I sounded a little like B.B. King. I had a gravelly, deep, Delta blues sound, and I put it to good use.

I began to sing as I puttered around the house, working up to taking a shower, which helped loosen up my lungs a bit and got rid of some of the nasty stuff making me sound so fabulous.

While I don't enjoy being sick, I do embrace any chance I get to develop a new vocal range. Glad this one is not permanent, though.

Keeping it together

Last week at one of my jobs I was witness to an ingenious budgeting tactic.

A woman coming through my check-out line bought a gift card, paid for it, then paid for everything in her shopping cart with the gift card, thus keeping her expenses in check.

It was a brilliant maneuver. As someone who is a stranger to budget-making, and yet still manages to pay all the bills by not spending much, I am always interested in how other people stay within their means.

Having grown up in what would probably be referred to as an upper middle class household, I rarely had to think about money. There were certainly fat years and lean years, but the lean years meant the choice between public and private school (or private school and vacations...I chose public school). Sometimes Mom and Dad would talk about their solvency with me, other times they would hide it until I asked for something and was told it would have to wait.

I was not deprived. I did not go hungry. That did not mean I was oblivious to those less fortunate, less privileged.

I was aware of the stereotypes my peers and strangers had about Jews and money. I was prone to giving any money I had to homeless men and women on the streets of Knoxville. I didn't pick up pennies I'd see on the ground, in part because I had a classmate who would throw coins at the few Jewish students to see if we'd pocket them.

As an adult, I have occasionally sent out too many donation checks before paying my bills for the month, finding myself with a shortfall for the electric company. I am more careful now. With my dip in income, I am hyper-aware of what is available. I eat what is in the cabinets and fridge before stocking up at the store. I wear out my clothes before buying more. I fix my car, when I can afford the repairs, and take out a loan if I need to do something extensive.

In a lot of ways, I wish my family had talked about money more than we did. We were taught about saving, and had our own accounts. I remember bringing my piggy bank to get emptied and sorted for deposit. I rarely spent my allowance, and made loans to my siblings...often in exchange for borrowing their Walkman.

I try not to worry about money. It's only money. I can grow some of my food. I can cook all of it. I can fix some of my worn out clothes. I have a support network of friends and neighbors and family and synagogue and understand the resources available if I find myself in dire straits. I have worried about money in the past, and I hope to avoid that anxiety in the future, even as I am uncertain about my income sources this year.

When that time comes, I hope to employ skills I have learned from others, like the smart woman who came through my line last week. 

White out

Saturday morning I woke up to flurries.

Having lived in Boston for 12 years, eight of which were record breaking snowfall years, I am not a fan of snow. The last year I lived there, my landlord had to shovel me out of my apartment. Twice.

My memories of Boston winters are mostly filled with trudging through grey slush and accumulating salt rings on my shoes. I remember shoveling the sidewalk, and shoveling out my car.

One year, I was sick with a fever during a storm and failed to move my car to the opposite side of the street. Not only was my car ticketed, but it was also impacted by multiple plows' efforts the previous night. When I finally got out there and started trying to shovel my way through the ice-crusted snow, I was a miserable mess. It was rough work that I was not in shape to complete. After about 15 minutes of struggling, I looked up to see two postal workers emerging from the US Post Office across the street. Not only did they help me, they finished the job in about five minutes. It was almost better than spring. Almost.

Saturday, the flurries didn't last long at my house. They barely even stuck to the ground before the sun came out and the temperatures rose. For the few minutes they were falling, though, they were big, beautiful flakes.

I could handle that a few times each year. As long as they're gone by lunchtime.

Hair apparent

There are a lot of wonderful things about a new haircut.

First and foremost, it is so, so, so soft. And manageable, did I mention manageable? For those of you without the blessing/curse of curls, this is a big deal. This is especially true during winter, after a long hiatus from haircuts, and to be honest, all the time.

My hair gets dry. Sahara, Mohave and Negev dry. This, combined with generally high humidity in Tennessee, means that my dry strands that refuse to join their sisters to combine into ringlets become a halo of fuzz. Increasingly this is a pure white halo that belies my age.

When my hair is long, I have a hard time keeping my hands off of it. The most defined and kinkiest curls are oh, so twirlable. It's habit I try to avoid, but as my hair gets shorter, it also gets more touchable. The tangles are gone, the fluff is minimal, and I cannot stop wrapping it around my fingers.

Another thing to love about a new haircut is that is a chance to let go, in a very real sense. It is a physical manifestation of releasing the weight from your shoulders. A tangible weight, in my case that is no longer pulling my neck, no longer getting stuck in my collar, no longer making me look like a curly-headed Cousin It.

I do feel lighter and softer with my new haircut. Then again, it could just be the continuing effects of yesterday's yoga class.

(Reclining) Pose(r)

I admit it. I like yoga.

When I lived in Boston, I went to classes between 1-3 times per week. It was a stress release and I would often catch a class between meetings, just to remember to breathe. It always helped, and helped me justify my exorbitantly pricy gym membership on the fringe of Harvard Square.

When I moved to Tennessee, that regular practice took a surreptitious nosedive. When I worked inside a building with a gym and classes, I would try to sneak away for a weekly class when time would allow. It's been five years since I had that job and worked in that building.

A more practical way to continue my practice is to squeeze in 30-60 minutes of poses and stretches with guidance from my trusty television. OnDemand  has made exercise easy by allowing me to pick and choose when and with whom to participate, but the service does not give me the necessary motivation required to actually do it.

Every once in a while, I will treat myself to an actual class, with an actual instructor, and other people. Today was one of those days.

A friend was teaching a 2-hour restorative yoga class in the middle of my single day off this week. I jumped at the chance. If there's something I need, it's a chance to relax for two hours.

Boy, did I!

I swear, by the end of that class, I actually melted into my hot pink mat. I hope to carry that peacefulness with me, regardless of the regularity of my yoga practice. The ability to let go of thoughts, emotions, pain and the confines of your mind and body shouldn't have to be rare or difficult.

Bring on the zen, y'all. Bring. It. On.

Bigger and better

When I was in college, a string of friends ran the Friday Flowers table in the student center. The idea was that students would buy flowers for dates, for their parents, for to bring to Shabbat dinner, or for themselves.

Last Friday, when I bought a bouquet for Grandma, I also bought tulips for myself. I love tulips, especially variegated blossoms, you know, the kind that have multiple colors.

The flowers I brought home last week are hot pink with white edges to each petal. The glory of tulips is that they continue to grow after you put them into water. I don't know how they do it, but it's like they stretch. After a week, the stems on my tulips are at least 2.5', and the flower heads are slowly opening. In short, they are gorgeous.

It has been a long time since I bought myself flowers, but they seemed appropriate to celebrate not only the end of the week, but also the impending end of January. The purchase was a celebration of the promise of spring, the joy of not having to work for two days.

I'm looking forward to filling my home with flowers from my own garden, once the temperature inches back to tolerable.

(A)way with words

Yesterday was a whirlwind of weird and wonderful moments.

It all started with being a panelist for a discussion about how the faiths of three different women led us to social justice work. I was truly inspired by the other women on the panel. It also felt good to say out loud what brings me to my work, what fills my heart and soul, and how I am unable to do anything else as successfully without compromising my happiness and fulfillment. That was from 7am-9am.

At 9am I started my journey to Memphis for meetings for one of my jobs. I had four people scheduled in three meetings (12:30pm, 2pm and potentially 4pm). Through a series of unforeseen circumstances, some of which are detailed below, I didn't actually make it to my first meeting (with a revamped line-up of who I was meeting with) until 1:50pm.

The circumstances included such gems as: stop and go traffic due to lane closures for pot hole repairs on a major interstate midday, and getting pulled over by a state trooper...and taking the longest route to get to my destination once I entered Shelby County. The trooper was in an unmarked blue car that I saw as I crested a rolling hill. I slowed down as I passed him and thought I was in the clear, but I noticed the car pull up alongside me...carefully avoiding making eye contact as he was matching my below-the-limit speed...until he turned on the blue lights and we both pulled off the road.

He carefully exited his vehicle and walked to the shoulder, where I had my passenger window open and my wallet on my lap with my license in my right hand. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" "I have an idea." "Do you know how fast you were going?" "No ma'a...no sir." "78, in a 70. Where are you headed?" "Memphis for meetings with pastors." "What church do you go to?" "Oh, I don't work at a church, I work for _______." "What does _____ want with churches? Is there a problem we should know about?" "No sir, ______ is interested in working with congregations and their social action committees on everything from voter rights and student rights to free speech and more." "What does ________ think about (this conservative guy I know about) and what he says about gay marriage?" "I don't know who he is. What does he think about gay marriage?" "He is against it." "______ supports freedom of speech, and would defend his right to voice his opinions. __________ also supports the rights of gay couples to marry."

The trooper then told me about his plans to study criminal law and go to Nashville School of Law. I wished him luck. He handed me back my license and told me to remember that driving is a privilege and not a right. Did I mention that he was leaning intimidatingly into my car this whole time? There was more to the conversation, but it just got weirder. Oh, and I shook his hand before he left...after asking his name and giving him mine, not that I'd like to see him again.

The meetings all went well, and continued to get shuffled. One to this morning. Two others were combined.

After the meetings, I checked into my hotel in Midtown. Your typical low-end hotel with clean sheets, a bed, a tv, and a bathroom.

I'm pretty sure the guy who checked me in was checking me out. He also put me in a room at the very end of the hall on my floor, next to the emergency stairs. I feel like I'm in outer space, or at the very least pretty far away from anyone else. If I were with other people, or knew other people in the hotel, that would be fine. I'd love a quiet room at the end of the hall. As a single woman traveling, it creeps me out more than reassures me that I'll have a peaceful night.

After depositing my bags in the room--yes, I am staying for a single night and I have multiple bags (smallest suitcase in my collection, bag for meetings, purse and bag with car snacks and tunes)--I went back downstairs to get another pillow or two. The only guy at registration had a long winded, oblivious customer who managed to assemble a line of four people behind him. The clerk directed me to a workman down the hall and told me to ask him for the pillows, and to get them from the housekeeping room. As I walked down the hall, I hear a man behind me say, "I'm with her." Um, nope. No one is with me. That is why I'm not comfortable here. G-reat.

Turned out, he was looking for an extra pillow, too. The workman turned out to be a contractor pulling wires through the ceiling and was vacuuming up popcorn from the hallway that, presumably, he dropped earlier. The three of us ended up rummaging through the housekeeping supplies, first unable to open the linen closet, then unable to locate the pillowcases. The clerk eventually found us and gave us what we sought.

It was totally bizarre, but I was happier to go through that than have to anyone knock on my door. After finishing some work emails, I headed out to dinner, which was lovely.

What was not lovely, but was further unsettling was that when I returned from dinner, there was a patrol car in front of the hotel entrance and the officer belonging to the car was parked in the lobby.

Sweet dreams are made of these.

For the birds

Over the weekend I was doing laundry, like a typical exciting weekend at my house, which involves walking from my kitchen door (under the carport) to the detached garage 10' away.

It's not a long walk, but in wind, rain or snow it's unpleasant...and gets my heart pumping a bit faster with my quickened pace.

This weekend, however, my pace was faster due to the potential for another substance raining down on me: poop from 200 or so starlings.

Yup, the trees around and on my property were reminiscent of a scene from "The Birds." It was eerie and awesome all at the same time. Half of me wanted to be Weezer from "Steel Magnolias" or was it the dad or the brothers that tried to scare away the birds with a shotgun from the wedding? Anyway, the other half of me just wanted to protect my laundry and myself from a shower of uncomposted crap.

I know, logically, that these birds eat bugs and spread seeds and probably do other important and ecologically important things, but they are also a total nuisance. Have you ever awoken to the cacophony of a flock of starlings? Have you ever walked through a neighborhood lousy with them? They are creepy and disgusting. They are also the product of a misguided attempt to populate the Americas with Shakespearean birds.

I'm over the starlings. I don't want them over me.

Checking (account) in

You know things are looking up when you realize that the paycheck you just received will not immediately get redistributed to utilities, wireless provider, internet provider, credit card companies and mortgage company.

I frequently review my bank statements and account information, and even though I keep steady track of what goes in and what comes out, I have somehow managed to maintain an unaccounted for surplus in my checking account. Last year I went through 1.5 years of statements with my banker, and neither of us could figure it out. I'm not complaining. I am totally cool with having a cash cushion, I just wish I knew why.

I mean, has someone failed to cash my check(s)? Did I accidentally send in an extra mortgage payment when it was switched to a third provider? Is someone secretly sneaking funds into my account without them showing up on my statements?

The whole thing actually reminds me of the first year I lived in my house. I didn't have a lawn mower for the first month, and it was spring. May, to be exact. That means rain in Nashville. Lots and lots of rain. And that means the grass grew to knee-length.

I managed to get a 2nd hand mower for $30 from a neighbor's yard sale and got the suburban savannah down to nubs, but I was working crazy hours and didn't get a chance to do it very often. The grass grew more quickly than I could get to it, and I started to feel like that neighbor who is bringing down home values due to yard neglect.

Living across the street from Richland Creek, I knew that the odds of finding a literal snake in the grass would grow with said grass, so I had incentive, although not availability, to keep it short. Thankfully, one of my neighbors did have the availability.

I would come home from long days and nights to a mowed lawn. Just the front, but still...it was something! It kept up for a little over a year. I never knew how did it, so I started referring to the kind soul as the Lawnmowing Fairy.

It was only after a driveway conversation with one of my elderly next door neighbors that it was revealed that her husband was the Lawnmowing Fairy. He had been out on his riding mower and decided that since he was already on it, he might as well take care of my yard, too.

Like the experience with my neighbor, I just say a quiet, but heartfelt thank you. Regardless of how the money got into my account, I am grateful. I'm grateful not only for the extra I didn't intend, but for the extra I am able to put aside for when I need it.

I'm grateful for that extra so that I can surprise Grandma with flowers, treat my niece to a yoga class or plan a trip to see some friends. Let's hope it lasts that long.

Professor Longhair(cut)

Just before the tresses got trimmed.

I haven't had my hair cut in over two years.

It's not that I didn't want it cut. There have been days when I looked in the mirror and thought, I do not want long hair. I do not want medium length hair. I want short hair!

You may be wondering, "But Miriam, the photo you have here IS with short hair." Yes. That's true. It's also from Spring 2011. I was also the thinnest I've been since the year 2000, when I had mono. Things change.

When I got that haircut, it was the shortest of three or four I got from a great hairdresser who was recommended to me by a handful of other girls with curls. As someone who has received completely unflattering haircuts in the past from scissor-wielding hair care professionals who didn't have the first clue about curly cut etiquette, I tend to stick with the person who frames my face and allows me to pull my hair off of it when necessary.

As it's gotten longer, my hair has become what my mother used to deem it: the Wreck of the Hesperus. Not sure that was the most appropriate analogy for her to draw a line between, but it was frequently tangled, as it is so often now. Each day is a struggle to turn it from a matted clump into the pleasant spirals I know it can be.

And so, I have made an appointment to have it taken care of. One of my coworkers at my main job (the one with the most hours and benefits) is a hairdresser who has been itching to get her mitts on my noggin for many moons. Last week, I relented. I'm ready.

I am ready to release my bum-length tresses that, when removed from a ponytail, cause me pain. I am ready to reduce my conditioner and finishing product budgets each month. I am ready to wear my hair down all the time, without reaching to plait it into braids or pull it off my face and neck and into a foot-long mane dangling past my shoulders within an hour or two.

I am ready to feel the breeze on the back of my neck, to turn over in bed without being strangled by my hair, to put on a shirt or dress or coat without having to remove a layer of locks stuck inside of it. I am ready for a haircut.

What's funny, is that the men in my life love my hair long. I see it as a lifeless mass of unmanageable fluff. I'm not sure what they see in it. It is definitely not my most feminine feature.

The women in my life know that if I don't like it, it will grow back. It's just hair. My mom and sister have both had short hair for at least 20 years. Grandma, too. Of course, my hair is curlier. I don't dye it. Half of it is definitively turning white, and soon I will look more like Cruella Deville than a brunette, but hey, it's all part of looking more distinguished. Right?

I told my coworker/hairdresser, that I don't mind if she needs to cut it short, as long as it is healthy again, and it looks good. Otherwise, I'm not that picky. I mean, I like my hair. I play with it when I'm bored, like a few weeks ago when I made a full beard and mustache with it. I like the way it looks in two braids. I like to wear it long. I also like to run my fingers through it, which cannot happen when it is long.

Newly shorn and showing off.

Bring on the scissors. Bring on the plastic cape. Bring on the head massage and the conversation. Bring on the haircut!

All trick(ling)ed out

Last week was cold. I mean, I know it was late January, and that means winter, but this is Nashville, known more for rainy winters and miserably humid and horrendously hot summers. This winter has everyone in Nashville up on arms, declaring this to be the worst winter they've ever seen. Really? This is the worst?

I mean, it's cold. Yes. But, remember, it is winter. Single digit temperatures aside, I'm a little bit glad it's been freezing for several days in a row. The colder it is, the better it is for the plants in the spring and summer. These temperatures kill off bad bugs that eat my vegetables, the beetles that kill the pine trees and hopefully any diseases lurking in the soil.

One of the things I do worry about in this kind of weather is frozen pipes. As a homeowner, I have to deal with any number of home repairs, some of which I can do on my own, many of which I'd rather call a professional. Carpentry, major plumbing and electrical are the top three.

While in the shower one particularly cold morning last week, the water pressure dropped dramatically. It was still coming out, just as a drizzle rather than a deluge. Having just put a large amount of conditioner in my hair, in my daily attempt to untangle my tresses, I was a bit concerned I'd be stuck that way for the day. I managed to finish the shower with creative maneuvering, quickly dressed, grabbed the flashlight my brother gave me for Hanukkah, and headed outside to check out the situation in my crawl space.

Stepping outside, I heard the rumble of large truck engines, I looked to the right and saw several Metro Water Services trucks and an unnatural spring welling up from the bottom of a neighbor's yard 1/2 a block away. I gave a silent cheer and headed back inside, grateful for not having to 1) crawl under my house and 2) not having to be late for work or deal with a plumber for the second time in a month.

Sometimes the little things make all the difference.

Surprise visit(or)

Friday afternoon I had a handful of errands to run in Green Hills.

Deposit at the bank, a few things to pick up at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's, changing my employer discount at Verizon, stocking up on stamps for Valentine's cards, and a drop-in to see Grandma.

I picked up flowers for Grandma at Trader Joe's. It wasn't the biggest bouquet, but it had two kinds of roses and alstroemeria in variations on pink and white. There were some gorgeous calla lilies for sale, too, but I just couldn't bring myself to carry lilies into an assisted living facility. Too close to the funeral home for that there.

It's been a few weeks since I saw Grandma. She, and the entire facility, were sick. Not a little bit sick, they had a raging stomach bug that had the place under quarantine. I cannot get sick. I only have the ability to take off from one of my three jobs, and while I am solvent, I don't have much of a cushion and cannot afford to miss a day, or cash in the time I've banked at the one job that offers benefits.

All visitors (and residents) have to sign in and out, and I was thrilled to see that my oldest niece was already visiting with Grandma. I hadn't see my niece since December, when she turned 18. Hard to believe it had been that long!

The grin on my face so big it was starting to hurt, I knocked on Grandma's door, and niece opened it, greeting me with a giant hug! Several hugs later, a kiss for Grandma, a search for a vase and trimming and arranging the flowers...we all sat down for a chat.

We caught up on all the big news. Grandma complained about the fuss being done to celebrate her 95th birthday in March, and she dropped several hints about how much she'd done all day. I took the hint and made noises about more errands to run and laundry to do. Niece followed my lead, and we left Grandma to her nap, and niece met me at my house for a cooking lesson and some long-time-coming bonding time.

If every day off was like today, I'd be in heaven. Especially because of all the hugs.