Fave photo of the week

My bloggin' friends Tammy and Tracey are far better photographers than I am (and they know how to use Photoshop!), but I thought I did a pretty good job with this photo I took with my little point-and-shoot in my front yard last week.

I like the juxtaposition of the green of spring emerging in the background, while the ice of winter occupies the foreground.

Today's question:

What's a sure signal for you that spring is finally on its way?

My answer: The chitter-chatter of the birds. We have numerous trees surrounding our house, and as the days warm up, the birdsong increases. My favorite: the solemn song of the mourning dove.

10,000 hours

I'm loving watching the Olympics. It seems it's all I've been doing. I've not been reading the things I want to, writing the things I need to. No, all Jim and I do each night is watch the Olympics. We even eat dinner downstairs in front of the TV, something we typically do only on Friday nights.

But, like I said, I'm loving it. And I'm not even a very sports-minded person. The passion, sweat, determination, dedication, perseverance and years of training culminating in those brief moments to prove one's excellence are fascinating. And heartbreaking for those who stumble during what could have been their moment of glory.

(SORRY... THIS VIDEO LOST IN BLOG MAKEOVER)

As I watch the Olympics, I can't stop thinking of Malcolm Gladwell. No, he's not some champion athlete that you're not remembering. He's a writer. And he wrote the surprisingly interesting -- no, fascinating -- book called Outliers: The Story of Success.

In "Outliers," Gladwell posits that practice makes perfect ... in any and all pursuits. Success comes to those who work at it, regardless to a certain degree of their innate talent. Those who have the money and opportunity to work at their passion/pursuits day in and day out, for hours and hours (10,000 hours, to be exact), will indeed succeed. Mozart did it, the Beatles did it, Bill Gates did it, Michael Phelps did it.

Gladwell can explain it better than I can (obviously), so watch his interview with Anderson Cooper (I heart AC!). It's pretty interesting stuff:

My only question: How can I tally up the hours and hours I've put into writing to see how close I am to success? And do the hours I've spent thinking about writing count? And reading about writing? And dreaming about writing? Maybe if I add ALL of those hours together, maybe -- just maybe -- I'll find that I'm within just a few short hours of 10,000, of success, of hitting it big.

Maybe?

Today's question:

In an average day, what do you spend the most hours doing and is it what you think you SHOULD be doing?

My answer: Reading -- blogs, magazines, the newspaper, books. What I really should be doing is writing more ... and more ... and more.

Becoming Mama

On Sunday morning, Valentine's Day, the phone rang and it was Megan (I love caller ID!). Awww, I thought, she's calling to wish me Happy Valentine's Day.

I pick up the phone and here's what she says: "I'm just calling to let you know that I'm becoming my mother." All said with a slight smile ... and an obvious tinge of disdain.

"Oh, really?" I asked cautiously. Could it be that she's beating the hell out of Bubby with a hanger? Feeding him crushed glass for breakfast? Zipping up his tummy in his sleeper or dislocating his elbow as she put on his clothes? All things I did to the girls, of course, warranting the tinge of disdain in her voice.

(Okay, yeah, I really did do the last two but it was so totally by accident ... and left me horrified at the time, guilt-ridden for years ... and afraid of dressing my children during cold-weather months when the clothing is bulky, tight and zipper laden.)

"I'm making pink heart pancakes for Valentine's Day breakfast," Megan replied.

Oh, THAT horrible kind of thing that I did on a regular basis. It's crystal clear now and I can so understand her disdain and fear of becoming her mother.

Ha, ha, ha. We laughed about it. And we laughed about the ways we're both a little concerned about becoming our mothers.

Which is fairly common, of course. I remember my mom telling me and my sisters, "If I ever become like my mother, you better tell me." It's something I now say to my own girls after doing the spider hands gesture or the "If I Were A Rich Man" jig. (Not that I don't love ya, Mom! But you know how it is ... !)

Nothing new there. We've all read it, heard it, said it countless times before.

The thing that I find interesting about every woman's fear of becoming her mother, though, is that there's also the desire to do everything just like grandma. Books, blogs, newscasts and more mention doing this and that "just like Grandma" or following the sage advice that "Grandma used to always say ...".

Our grandmas are the wise women of the clan; our mothers are those wacky women rife with idiosyncricies that we'd rather die than imitate.

But I'm both. I'm a grandma ... and I'm a mother.

So which is it?

And at what point do our crazy mothers become our venerated sage-meisters, the women we want to cook like, clean like, love like? And not just on a personal level, but on a societal level, as a collective?

I don't get it. And I don't know whether to just bite my tongue and bide my time until I reach the sage-meister stage of life. This part of motherhood vs. grandmahood has me flummoxed.

You go ahead and ponder that and let me know your thoughts. In the meantime, the homemade heart-shaped muffin I was warming in the microwave just dinged and I'm ready to dig in to my leftover Valentine's Day breakfast.*

Today's question:

What's one way you're like your mother? And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

My answer: When I'm in a group of strangers or people I don't know very well, I talk ... way too much. And say stupid things. My mom is a talker, which is fine and good and ensures there are never any uncomfortable silences at any point ... ever. But I'm generally a much more introverted person who appreciates silence a whole lot more than I appreciate babbling just to fill conversational gaps, so I internally kick myself each and every time I do it. Which means, I guess, that, for me, it's a bad thing.

*I didn't really make heart-shaped muffins for Valentine's Day breakfast -- but only because I realized at the last minute that I didn't have any cupcake/muffin liners and the festive suggestion from Grandma Lizzie wouldn't work without liners. There's always next year!

Rediscovered loves

My question of the day yesterday asked what is something you love, love, love. It brought to mind some of the things I used to love, then forgot about, then rediscovered. Here are a few of those things:

Walgreens brand Alpha Hydroxy Face Cream -- I used this stuff years ago when I first started worrying about the dreaded wrinkles. It was cheap ($5.99 for 4 ounces), it was readily available. Day in, day out, I used the cream. Then I started making the big bucks. And spending the big bucks on more expensive face creams, from L'Oreal to Arbonne (which Andrea sold for a while). I liked the fancy-schmancy creams and forgot about my first love. Then money started getting tight again and I longed for the Alpha Hydroxy -- but could no longer find it anywhere. I've looked for it for a few years now, always lamenting the $20+ I had to shell out for an itsy bitsy container of some brand-name dewrinkler. Until just the other day. Brianna and I were at Walgreen's and the heavens opened and angels sang and a light shone upon a bottom shelf in the skin care aisle where two lonely containers of my beloved Alpha Hydroxy sat ... still priced at only $5.99 a jar. I bought both -- and considered asking the clerk if she had more in the back so I could stock up. L'Oreal: You're no longer welcome in my house! (Well, at least as long as these two jars last.)

Icees -- When I was about 12 years old, I lived in a small town (the now growing town my mom and sister still live in ... separately). There was a 7-Eleven on the route I walked each day with my BFF on our way to school. We stopped there nearly every day for penny candies (that really were about $.02). My friend's sister, the older-by-a-year, much-cooler Jeanne, stopped there, too. For Icees. My friend and I splurged occasionally, but Jeanne bought lots of the luscious carbonated red goodness, slurping them up regularly -- and saving the little points you cut out of the cup that could be redeemed for prizes. And she actually did redeem them for prizes. I was so jealous, not only of the prizes she got after purchasing and mailing in the points from 362 Icees, but because she could afford them so often. I forgot about Icees until about a year ago -- when Jim realized they sell Icees at the movie theater. Now we get an Icee every time we go see a movie. Mmmmm ... so much more satisfying (to me) than popcorn.

The smell of cut lumber -- Jim and I recently had to do a little lumber cutting around the house, trimming up old (old) doors that wouldn't close correctly because the house had settled over the years and the antique doors stuck here and there. I held the door still on the impromptu "saw horse" on the patio while Jim trimmed from the bottom ... and I was suddenly floored by the glorious scent wafting from the sawdust. I don't know if it brought me back to childhood and watching my dad create some funky wooden road sign with a rooster at the top, a hen below the rooster, then seven chicks below that, all with the label "Roger's Roost" (we were a family of seven kids) or if it brought back memories of when Jim and I remodeled our old house, doing most of the work ourselves and being incredibly proud of our work ... especially considering neither of us had ever worked any sort of construction in the past. Either way, I had forgotten how wonderful wood smells when cut. Now if I could only find a "Cut Lumber" scented candle (and, no, the "Pine" scent doesn't cut it!).

Story of the Day from StoryPeople -- I discovered the magic of storyteller and artist Brian Andreas during a family spring break trip to a small tourist town more than 10 years ago. I fell in love instantly. I bought a print. I later ordered prints for each of the girls for Christmas. I signed up for the e-mailed Story of the Day. Those stories made my day, made me smile, made my heart squish up in wondrous ways. I bought a print for our new house (actually, it was purchased for the folks we bought the new house from ... then when I saw the absolutely disgusting mess they left for us to clean, I kept the print for myself) and I love this print. It looks like this:

And it says this:

There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other's cooking & say it was good.

Did it squish up your heart?

But then my e-mail box was filled to the brim each day and I had to cut what I didn't have time for. StoryPeople was one of those cuts.

I have a little more time now, and a little more need for some serious heart squishing (in the good ways), so I recently signed back up for the StoryPeople story of the day ... and became a fan of StoryPeople on Facebook. I love this stuff. Once again, it makes my day.

Flannel nightgowns -- From the time I was about 15 until I was nearly 30, I wore flannel nightgowns. They were comfortable ... and comforting. Then I started feeling like an old lady and decided I needed more hip, cute, fancy, appealing nightwear. During a bout in the hospital, I received a silky pajama set from my little Girl Scouts (Daisies and Brownies!) and decided THAT'S the kind of luxurious jammies I need to wear. So I purchased another silky set from Victoria's Secret (not the kind Jim would have liked, but the kind I liked, that could be worn around the kids!). Then, for some reason I can't recall, I moved to the capri sweats and tank top kind of jammies ... then flannel pants and T-shirt jammies. And I'm sick of them. So this past weekend I decided to go ahead and be the old lady I am, and I ordered a flannel nightgown from JCPenney. Weird thing is that the only flannel nightgown I could find was a "nightshirt" -- for men! What kind of man would wear such a thing? I would kick Jim out of bed, possibly even out of the house, if he ever dared to wear a nightshirt -- flannel or any other kind. We're not THAT old! But I can't wait to put one on myself.

So there you have it: my rediscovered loves of late.

Today's question:

What long-lost love you have recently rediscovered?

Fave photo of the week

My valentine!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Today's question:

Other than family and significant others, what's one thing you love, love, love?

My answer: I love, love, love settling into bed at night: crisp sheets and heavy comforter pulled up to my neck, a good book propped on the throw pillow on my stomach and my crazy cat Isabel snuggled up on my shoulder as I read a few pages before falling asleep.