Have you ever listened to this album by Miles Davis? It’s one of my favorites and sets the mood for so many things – a romantic dinner, a quiet conversation, time alone with your special someone. Add it to your playlist and thank me later, ok?
Now that you’ve got that going, let me share some of my impressions of Spain, or more accurately, Barcelona.
- The dogs here are rarely on leashes, although their owners always seem to have one slung over their shoulders. The dogs are very well behaved and never run into the street or approach strangers even when a stranger is missing their own dog and more than willing to give a pat.
- Fashion observations: women wear tights and stockings far more than at home. They also rock tight, little leather jackets, while people of all ages have those super light down jackets in a rainbow of colors. Happily, I haven’t seen a single pair of Uggs.
- Far too many people smoke cigarettes, just like in Paris. The only other unpleasant aroma has been a vague sewer smell that wafts around in a mild, yet noticeable way.
- Speaking of smells, it’s weird – the Mediterranean doesn’t have that briny smell that announces its presence like the Atlantic. There’s no “sea air” that I could discern.
- Children seem to be very well loved here. Parents are affectionate and attentive without resorting to that helicopter approach which is so prevalent in the U.S.
- Everyone has either a scooter, a bike or a soccer ball.
- Scarves are oversize and wound repeatedly around the necks of both men and women.
- Running seems to be a pretty big activity here and I got lucky with a boardwalk of sorts and parks super close to our apartment. I ran every day.
- Chefs use a generous amount of salt and pastry is far more delicate than I imagined.
- I’d like to come back here again.
The first week of spring, arguably the finest season of the year in upstate New York, was the worst week Lark + Lily has ever experienced. When I say “crappy,” I’m being literal, by the way. I arrived at the restaurant Tuesday afternoon and encountered the plumbers who were working industriously to unclog one of our two toilets.* Despite their best efforts, we were unable to open for service until 7:30 which means we lost 2.5 hours of service. Not a great way to begin the week.
That lack of business seemed to set the tone for the week and our numbers were dramatically down each subsequent night from previous weeks. I’ve said before that I didn’t buy a restaurant to make a ton of money, but
obsessively looking at my diminishing online checking account was, said the wine bar owner, sobering.
In addition to the poor week at the restaurant, a fierce early spring cold made for a rough week at home. Quinn, who recently was treated for a mean case of strep throat, came down with a dreadful cough complete with a headache and body soreness. The poor guy was just down for the count. Naturally, he required a lot of coddling and cuddling and he generously returned the favor of my attention by sharing his germs with me. Thanks for the cold, Quinn.
As with any week, there were good things, too. The guests we did have at Lark + Lily, including one who I had only previously “met” online (Hi, Bill!), were great and I believe they all left satisfied with their experience. I went to an awesome wine dinner, ran 20+ miles, including once with both of the lunar b*tches, and hiked a peak (more about that experience soon) in the Catskills. We had some beautiful weather with temperatures that invited bare legs and arms to meet the sun and I got in some quality time at the golf course in advance of the takeover on 4/1 by the golfers. Saturday’s family dinner, an early Easter meal, was an effortlessly delicious treat and provided me with the perfect starter for a killer split pea soup. There was even a brief dining room dance party with Quinn inspired by his favorite Ray Charles song, Mess Around.
I guess it wasn’t really that bad of a week after all, was it?
*Ladies – let’s make a deal, ok? You refrain from tossing personal items in the toilet and I’ll remain open during hours of service. Thanks!
Filed under Albany, Boys, Exercise, family, friends, musings, Normanskill, Observations, Restaurants, running, sick, Spring, stress, Uncategorized
Looking backwards I can’t remember exactly when my chest began to develop. If I consider when I began to get genuine attention from males, I could probably carbon date it to somewhere around the age of 13 or so. It was right around the time I ran into my mother in town and she told me it was time to wear a bra. Puberty is so damn awkward.
For years my breasts were my not-so-secret weapon. Unbuttoning an extra button gave me power. They were an accessory to be considered when I shopped for clothing and got dressed. Would they fit decently into a halter or a flimsy top? Wrangling them could be a challenge at times, particularly during the years when my weight was at its highest and I was sporting a bra size that exceeded my age with a cup that had moved into double letter territory.
The consolation, of course, was that my breasts had grown into something more than mere evidence of my femininity – they were now a source of sustenance for my children. I spent a combined nearly 4 years nursing my babies, truly one of the greatest feats of the human body, in my opinion. I still miss those days all these years later.
About 5 years ago I lost a substantial amount of weight. I can’t say exactly how much, because I wasn’t recording my weight and the number of pounds wasn’t really on my radar. I can say that my wardrobe took a huge hit as more and more of my clothing no longer fit. As I began to shop and rebuild my closet, I couldn’t help but notice that the shape of my body had changed dramatically. I now had entirely different options with regards to clothing since I was now sporting a significantly smaller rack. Sundresses worn without a bra became an option for the first time in decades. Pretty underthings were suddenly a possibility and running no longer felt like an exercise in containment with regards to my chest. There was a new freedom and I loved it. But…
Sometimes when I am layering up with Under Armour in advance of a run, I can’t help but notice that my chest looks downright flat. I know it is, in part, the compression from multiple layers of Lycra, but it still leaves me feeling almost as if I’ve returned to my pre-pubescent state. I’m okay with that. Bodacious was fun but not bouncing is even better.
My oldest child turned nineteen this weekend. I think the child that makes a man or a woman a parent is the child who is more closely observed, documented and measured than any additional children. As a family expands, it just isn’t possible to continue the almost obsessive attention that is paid to a first child. When there are two or three other humans demanding that their needs be fulfilled, things like growth charts become extraneous.
The literature suggests that first born children have a lot of pressure upon them to perform and I can concur on that. As far as my own child goes, he eventually internalized the demands he felt from his parents, teachers and early intervention providers. He now (self) imposes a timeline of expectations, and what he considers necessary progress, even more rigorous than the one promoted by the medical experts we felt so wed to when Liam was an infant and toddler and receiving services designed to help him catch up to his peers.
But, what if it isn’t really a race? What if we each reach the next step on our path in precisely the amount of time we’re supposed to? Maybe all those expected outcomes and definitions of normal are more generalizations than a reality for which to strive. From my vantage point of nearly fifty years old, it seems perfectly clear that life and how we experience it, is more individualized than something that can be easily plotted on a growth chart or measured in expectations and achievements.
As my son begins his last year as a teenager all I want for him is acceptance of who and where he is in life – his own acceptance, that is. I’d like for him to understand that it really doesn’t matter how many classes he takes or how quickly he progresses through college. It doesn’t make a difference if he is on par with his cohort; it’s his journey and no one else’s. Milestones may be indicative of progress but they shouldn’t ever be allowed to weigh a person down.
I’m a little ashamed for thinking, much less saying, this but … I really kind of detest the science fair. It isn’t because science isn’t really my thing, or that I’m opposed to exploring a topic of interest, it’s just that it turns into so much work without much reward. It’s hard to be excited about a process that comes with as many demands as a science experiment. Eh, maybe it’s just me.
Part of the science fair process involves observations which must be documented. In the spirit of research, I’ve got a few observations to share from my weekend. They’re in no particular order.
- I’m not a bad feminist because I like Bernie more than I like Hillary.
- The same is true when it comes the fact that I think it’s ok for a woman to want to look pretty when she leaves the house.
- A winter walk with a friend and the dogs at the golf course makes for a perfect afternoon.
- On a related note, lipstick has become my friend in a way it wasn’t until I was in my 40s.
- Wearing a hat can be a real act of bravery. I’m not talking about a baseball cap, I mean a more bold chapeaux – something in a vivid colored felt or a generously proportioned straw number.
- I don’t completely understand why folks get so uptight about getting older. I kind of think of adding years like putting another notch in my lipstick* case. It’s an accomplishment.
- Recently, Delaware Avenue has been interesting to walk on, but scary to drive on. People really need to slow the hell down and stop being so aggressive behind the wheel.
- In theory, I love brunch. What’s not to like about day drinking and someone other than me cooking and serving a meal? In reality, though, I just don’t have time for day drinking and a big meal midday. Maybe on vacation?
- I thought the ribs I made on Saturday were pretty banging until I ate ribs at Jay and Karen’s. Never mind.
- I’ve got an idea for this year’s science fair which just might be fun. I’d say more but don’t want anyone co-opting our experiment. Hint: it involves soda.
*what’s my obsession with lipstick?
Filed under aging, Albany, Boys, Delaware Avenue, DelSo, Exercise, Local, moms, Observations, Random, Schools, Uncategorized, winter
You know how they say “Never say never?” Well, despite that old adage there are few things in life that I personally never want to do. Let me give you a couple of examples…
Despite this snow-less winter, Jeter and I have been spending a lot of time at the golf course. Instead of skiing, though, we run over trails and on paths which I’ve never explored before without my skis. It’s been a good consolation for a frustrated cross country skier and a dog who loves water, be it liquid or powder.
The route we’ve been taking to the golf course varies but a favorite path is the yellow brick road. There’s something about that road, whether I’m going up or down it, which inspires me to be optimistic and positive. I mean, that brick was covered by asphalt yet has still managed in places to break through and remind the observant of its presence. To me, it’s like the sun refusing to allow the clouds to prevent it from radiating. It never fails to lift my spirits and motivate me to invite the good stuff to come out, to allow my inner light to shine. To be love, shall we say?
It isn’t always easy to commit to freely sharing the good stuff. In all honesty, it’s kind of a new state of being for me and I have moments when I struggle with releasing the gifts of my soul without mentally measuring the anticipated return. I think it’s human nature to consider and weigh the risks involved with giving love to the universe without any expectation, don’t you? Allowing one’s self to be open and vulnerable is scary as hell, but you know what? There’s no punishment in this world for loving too much and, when I think about those crumbling yellow bricks peeking through the black top designed to cover them up, I feel brave. I’m going to let it shine.