A Look Back on Lasts

Then: Excited to ride the carousel

Now: Probably a last ride

My son just graduated from middle school – one of the “lasts” we parents see coming, even if we still can’t believe it. It reminded me of this essay I wrote seven years ago, which still rings true. What about you? 

My almost seven-year-old son duly informed me this week that he’s grown out of Sesame Street. It’s not often you get notice that your child has done something for the last time. Firsts are noted and even diligently recorded: his first steps, first word, first tooth in and first tooth lost. But the lasts usually go out gradually and with such stealth that it’s months before you realize they don’t happen anymore.

When was the last time I was able to carry him around? The last time he wanted help with his socks? The last time I squeezed his chunky legs before they became the beanpoles they are now? It was just a couple of weeks ago when we were taking turns reading chapters from Henry Huggins and he said, “We haven’t done this in a while,” that it occurred to me he was right. I had read to him every night since he was a baby until he graduated to chapter books and started to prefer reading on his own. When did the switch happen? I’m not quite sure. We're happy to see our kids growing up, but can't they tell us when they do?

For the most part the lasts will be unknown but now I am keeping my antenna up. Those evenings he still wants to cuddle next to me with a book, I especially cherish. When he blasts his CD’s from his bedroom, I still ask him to turn down the volume, but it does make me stop and think how quiet the house will be the day he’s old enough to leave the nest. And that makes listening for the hundredth time to the Kids Bop version of Yellow Submarine just a little less cringe-worthy.

I must admit there are some lasts I won’t feel too bittersweet about. The last time he shows me what the half-chewed food looks like in his mouth? I can let that go. The last time he wipes his Dorito orange fingers on his pants? I don’t think I’ll be wistfully sighing at the loss of that particular habit. But the last time he’ll kiss me in public and not be embarrassed by it? That one will be a heart breaker. So just in case, I kiss him twice.

ON MOTHER'S DAY, I THINK OF HER

I recall past Mother's Days when my son would wake me up at 6 AM, proudly bearing the gift he created for me, thanks to a kind teacher: the macaroni pencil holder, the painted rock, the tissue papered baby food jar vase (see photo)... Now that my son is a teenager, gone are the days of handmade gifts (although thankfully the cards keep coming). On the bright side, he sleeps in until 10 AM.

But, like all mothers, I didn’t become a mom because I thought I’d get to sleep in, receive daily accolades or collect a hefty paycheck. That’s not to say I don’t savor feeling extra special once a year. We do what we do because we’re blessed to have children. My blessing was made possible because of another woman’s sacrifice. I was lucky enough to become a mother through adoption.

Especially on two occasions - his birthday and Mother’s Day - I think of her. She lives in Russia and we know few things about her, but I know she must think of him and her heart must ache. I don’t know what led to her ultimate decision and I only venture a guess when our son asks us about it. I have not lived her life and so I cannot know. But there came a time when she had to do what was best for him or her or both of them and then leave the rest up to faith.

Our journey through adoption entailed a lot of research, a pile of paperwork, and months of preparation. And then we had to leave the rest up to faith. What a wonderful parenting lesson to learn so early on: I can’t control everything. Some people don’t know the gender of their child. We didn’t know the gender, race, or age. There weren’t any conversations about whether she’d have my curly hair or my (then) husband’s green eyes or if he’d be as creative as me or as intelligent as him. We couldn’t put any of our DNA expectations on him. From the get-go we had to let this child be whoever he or she was going to be.

It was our second day in Moscow and we were anxiously awaiting the meeting with the Ministry of Education who was in charge of international adoptions. After waiting for over an hour, we were finally led up three flights of narrow stairs to her cramped office. We were there with two other couples who were also adopting children, but she said our name first. She opened the file and the minute she said his name, Roman, I felt he was mine. (We subsequently kept Roman as his middle name.) She pushed a picture across the table, a small one of the day he was born five months prior. She was telling us in Russian what the file said about him and our translator was talking over her in English and all I wanted to do was shout, “Take us to him!” My hand shook as I signed the papers to begin the process.

Another hour in the car and we were at the fairly dilapidated orphanage. It was a sad sight and I was relieved not to have the opportunity to see any of the other children there. We sat in the director’s office with our agency liaison and one of the other couples who was adopting a baby girl from the same orphanage. We were nervous and didn’t say much.  Abruptly, a stout female caretaker came in carrying a baby all dressed in pink. I assumed it was the other couple’s girl so I was wholly unprepared when a few Russian words were hastily exchanged and then the five-month-old child was plopped in my lap. Obviously, blue and pink don’t have the same connotations in Russia as they do here. It was our son and my first thought when I looked down at him was, “How did we get the most perfect baby in the world?” 

He turned fourteen last month and of course he’s not perfect - in fact, he has several challenges - but there are often times I think he is. We talk about his birth mother with love and gratitude. On this Mother’s Day and every day, I send her strength. And I hope she continues to have the faith she had that day, to know that he will always be well taken care of and fiercely loved.

HONORING GRIEF

Have you ever had a friend or loved one have something great happen in their life and they tell you how happy they are? What do you say in response?

A: “That’s great. I’m so happy for you.”

B: “Don’t be happy. You should still be worried about that credit card debt you have.”

C: “You should remember all the starving children in the world.”

I’m assuming for most of you, it’s A.

So here’s another scenario. What do you say when a friend or loved one experiences a life altering event and they tell you how sad they are?

A: “I’m so sorry. That is really hard.”

B: “Don’t be sad. Think of all the ways you are blessed.”

C: “You should focus on everything you have to be grateful for.”

If you’re honest, it’s not always A, is it? In fact, more often it’s probably B or C. People who care about us don’t want us to be sad. It makes them sad and possibly uncomfortable. So they try to whisk away our feelings and replace them with positive catchphrases. The intention is to help their grieving friend feel better, I have no doubt. However, saying something like (B), “But think of all the ways you’re blessed,” dismisses valid feelings of loss and sadness. Saying something like (C), “You should focus on everything you have to be grateful for,” only shames us for our feelings.

The fact is, in order to move forward, we need to be allowed to grieve. Every therapist will tell you that: Don’t stuff your feelings. So why is it so often our instinct to be intolerant of others’ not-so-happy feelings?

Since the end of my 25 year marriage, I have come across a host of responses to my process of grief. Some friends haven’t been in touch with me in the past year since I’m no longer part of a couple, making me recognize I had a lot more friendships of convenience than I realized. On the flip side, the relationships that remain have deepened and new friendships have emerged. 

I don’t marinate in my grief nor would I ask my friends or family to wade through a constancy of sorrow. But that doesn’t mean they dismiss my feelings, either. I have several friends who have been through a divorce, and hearing, “It’s dark now, but it gets better,” has been tremendously helpful. It acknowledges where I am, but gives me hope -- simple and effective. I also have several friends who lift me up by unexpectedly pointing out the things they see me doing well during my difficult circumstances. These kind gestures are infinitely more encouraging than being told that I need to only focus on the good things in my life. What we are going through may warrant us to feel overwhelmed at times. So, tell us we’re brave. Tell us you admire our grace. But don’t tell us not to feel how we feel.

  

My sisters tend to empathize by echoing my feelings. I think some people might be afraid that agreeing with a grieving person might make us feel worse. If we’re telling you that we’re upset/stressed/overwhelmed/sad, we already know we are. You’re not putting those thoughts into our head. We’ll move through it eventually, but for now, it helps to have validation from those we love that it’s ok to feel the way we do.

Just as being happy doesn’t mean we don’t still have concerns and worries, grief is not a mutually exclusive emotion either. I can still be grateful for the good things in my life. I can still feel blessed to have my health and my son. I can even still feel joy doing things I love, but at the same time, I can be processing my loss. The good news is, emotions are never static.

The next time someone confides their sadness to you, I hope you will pause your instinct to offer a positive spin. Instead, consider honoring their feelings – just as you would if they were happy - and allow them the authentic space to move through their grief so they can truly heal.

VALERIE BERTINELLI: MY FAITHFUL MAKE-BELIEVE FRIEND

Today I’m changing up my daily routine of throwing on my work-out clothes when I hop out of bed and exercising as soon as I finish my breakfast yogurt. It’s a snowy Sunday – a day that whispers get comfy - so I’m allowing myself to ease into the day with a cup of coffee. (That's after starting a load of laundry – let’s not get crazy.) 

Since I’m going for comfort, I turned on the Food Network and caught Valerie Bertinelli’s cooking show for the first time. I’ve made a few decent meals from cooking show recipes, but I mainly watch for the hominess of the shows, and frankly, whether they could be my make-believe friends. I like to watch TV personalities I'd hang out with...if, you know, they knew I existed. So, yes Ree Drummond, probably not Giada. Yes Trisha Yearwood, probably not Ina Garten. Yes Nancy Fuller, probably not Katie Lee. And definitely yes, Valerie Bertinelli.

You know what I like about her? (Beside the fact that we could totally hang out.) She turned out to be who I wanted her to be. I watched her as a teenager on One Day at a Time and she was rockin’ and cute, and sweet and relatable. And then in real life, she appears to be all the things I thought she was when we were younger. As an actor, she had no obligation to live up to her TV image, but I'm grateful she managed to keep my childhood nostalgia intact. 

I grew up in the 70’s, which meant television – and the people on it – were a big part of my childhood. Coming from a family of six children, I was close to living the life of The Brady Bunch…except, of course, my parents were nothing like Carol and Mike Brady. (Whose were?) As a young girl, I couldn’t poinpoint the traits I now know made Mary Tyler Moore so appealing to me. And, of course, there were all the boys I had crushes on: Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, Willie Aames, Paul Michael Glaser, Robby Benson, and both Cassidy brothers. Alas, we all grow up, some of us not as successfully as others. The fact that Mary Tyler Moore was even stronger in real life than she appeared on her show makes me happy. That Paul Michael Glaser is as bad ass as he was in Starsky and Hutch makes me feel like my daydreams about him were worth my time. The fact that Scott Baio is an unenlightened dolt, not so much.

It shouldn’t matter to me how these celebrities turned out, but somehow it seems a reflection of my childhood sensibilities. It doesn’t necessarily taint my memories, but for some, I’d rather not know what became of them. This also applies to my actual childhood friends, not just the pretend ones on TV.

I moved away from my hometown when I was sixteen, back before the internet kept everyone bound for life. It wasn’t until thirty years later, through the creation of Facebook, that I had contact again with the kids I grew up with. When you remain friends with people your whole life, you’re able to negotiate the departures in your lifestyles naturally. However, the only thing binding those of us who suddenly plopped into each others’ lives was our collective memories. A few of these long lost friends I’ve reconnected with in a meaningful way. Some of them I simply enjoy hearing what they’re up to. But there are others who have polar opposite life views than I have, which makes it difficult to isolate my childhood memories from the adults we’ve become. It’s bittersweet to know that I have little in common with people who once had starring roles in my life story. A certainty of my childhood is now tattered.

Maybe that’s why watching a grown-up, still rockin’ and cute-as-a-button Valerie Bertinelli brings me contentment. She remains the make-believe friend she always was. On a lazy day with my boy and our cat, combining food with childhood nostalgia is as comforting as a Sunday morning gets.

2017 NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION: LET'S NOT CHANGE

Heading into the new year is usually a time of reflection for me, as it is for most of us. I choose a new word each year that I try to keep in the forefront of my thoughts as a guide. The word alone doesn’t make anything magical happen, I just keep it as a reminder of my intention. One year my word was CREATE. By keeping that word in my thoughts, I also brought it to action more than I may have otherwise. I ended up doing a lot of it that year, creating a tribe for myself and writing a novel. Last year my word was CLIMB because I was very low and I knew my year would be difficult, I wanted to remind myself not just to keep going, but to rise as I did so. These past weeks, I have to admit, I have been putting off thinking of a word for 2017. With all the transitions I’ve faced in 2016, I hardly wanted to put in any more time reflecting. So, naturally, I turned to Facebook memes to show me who to be in 2017.

This makes me want to add: Don’t let others tell you what to do! 

Not that any of us feel compelled to live our lives according to a meme, but they do represent our collective mindset. We take in the Nike advertisements, we watch motivational speakers, we put “bungee jumping” on our online dating profile even though our interest is reading. We buy into all of this because at some level we are at least dissatisfied, at most unhappy. We all want change of some kind and so we look for these incentives as a catalyst for change. But I think we’ve been selling ourselves short. Change is not enough.

Let this be our new year’s resolution. In 2017, let’s not change. Let’s grow.

The difference between change and growth lies in where we start. If you're willing to try out a "word" this year, the one I invite you to use for 2017 is ACCEPT. Even though this wasn’t my word for 2016, it’s a notion I’ve embraced all year long. Accept what is. It might seem wishy washy compared to those other, more dynamic action words. It might even seem counterintuitive to growth. Stick with me.

Even though you may DO NEW THINGS and BE BRAVE, do you still find yourself where you’ve always been, only more tired? Sometimes those well intentioned sentiments don’t allow us to acknowledge when we feel weak or sad or powerless. We skip this step in order to BE FIERCE, SMILE MORE, and SAY YES TO EVERYTHING. We contort ourselves trying to fake it ‘till we make it. Those pithy proverbs promise us that if we can just be everything we haven’t been, we’ll be happy! 

If we have the blueprint thrown in our faces every year, why haven't we made lasting changes? Maybe it's because the things we are trying to change are unchangeable. I know, blashphemy in the age of self empowerment, right? Does this mean we should sit and marinate in our problems? No. What it does mean is that we must first receive the truth of them.

Try this: Sit with yourself and think about whatever the situation is you would like to make better. Then utterly, down to your core, accept it wholeheartedly. Accept it without any what if’s or if only’s or should have’s. Accept it without thinking, Life is unfair or Maybe if I did this or This wasn’t how I thought it would be. Accept it without any excuses or wishes, without giving or taking blame. Accept it because it is, without any qualifiers at all. 

This may not come easy. It most likely will not be a one-time event. My son has challenges I wish he didn’t have to face. I have to renew my acceptance every day or else I’d get stuck in the if only script. And from that position, I couldn’t do what I need to do to help him reach his potential. But I also have to accept that I’m not in control of him reaching his potential; I can only do my part. That’s an even harder acceptance, but just as crucial. That is where the peace lies. I don't expend my energies trying to change the problem. That fight doesn’t exist because I accept what is. I can focus on myself and how I grow from this and become better at helping him. The change is concentrated on where it needs to be, my own growth, not the unchangeable situation. 

Your unchangeable situations might not be as permanent as my example. It may be a job you dislike or where you live or a relationship. When you fully accept any of those things, you will feel less desire to change them and more desire to look inward. You won't simply be grasping at change, going back and forth like saloon doors. You will build your foundation of growth, which ultimately may change those outward circumstances.

Change is good. Change your hair style, change your shoes, change your toothpaste brand. But for lasting change? First root yourself in acceptance and grow from there. Because we are who we are, and we should accept that, too.

BUSY, BUSY, BUSY

 

When other people say how busy they are, I translate that to mean how important and productive they must be and how much stuff they must get accomplished on a regular basis. I rarely feel as busy as everybody else is. Maybe because “busy” for me means sitting all day in sweatpants in a writing haze periodically feeding my muse with peanut m&m’s. I’m not out in the world like all the rest of the busy people getting it done. But today – a Saturday, no less – I found myself very busy for a change. So I decided to dissect my day so I can give myself some recognition for everything I’d surely gotten accomplished. Maybe a Type A personality has been hiding all this time under the comfy Sherpa blanket I use while binge-watching Bravo. Maybe busy is the new me!

Well, let’s see. This is how today went down:

7:00 AM. My 12-year-old son, Harry, wakes up on his own, ergo I should be awake, too, so he plops on my bed. Carl the cat joins us. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a page of The Napping House.

Harry feeds Carl then announces he’s doing his math homework before breakfast “to get it done.” I suspect aliens have switched my son, but I like this version, so I go with it.

He refuses to give up his summer wardrobe even though it’s 54 degrees out. The aliens have returned him.

8:45ish. Drop him off at the UCONN program for kids who like engineering. This is the first day and I am shocked we are on time.

Go home and revel in the fact that I am up and showered so early on a Saturday. So now I have 3 hours to get started on the (hopefully) final read-through of my manuscript. Let me just get a couple of things taken care of…

9:15ish. Put a load of laundry in, clean litterbox, take the “new” dehumidifier that’s been sitting in the basement since June out of its box so maybe it’ll get used, pay some bills.

Make myself a nice breakfast since I have so much time. Post a photo of nice breakfast on Facebook.  

Watch 10 minutes of Pioneer Woman. Can’t believe I’ve only seen it twice in the last year and a half and yet I’ve seen the re-run that they’re showing now.

10:30ish. How can it be 10:30 already? Remind myself I was going to start reading my manuscript.

Realize I haven’t printed out my manuscript. Begin printing. Old, slow printer. Try to recycle and use the backs of paper I’ve already used. Paper jam. Fix. Re-start. It prints from beginning. Push every button to get it to stop. Paper jam. Insert page numbers. Re-start. Printed manuscript in hand.

11:00ish. Too late to read manuscript. Run to Olympia Sports for some overpriced heel inserts before picking up Harry. My bum foot will need them walking hundreds of miles at The Big E fair tomorrow. (Ok, maybe not hundreds, but without the insert it will feel like it.)

At Olympia Sports and I suddenly remember that I bought gel inserts when I was at CVS the other day. Also remember that I left the clothes in the washing machine at home.

Run home to stick clothes in dryer.

11:30ish. Search for house key I JUST used to open the door. 

11:45ish. Find house key in the bottom of my sunglasses case. 

Now I'm late. Drive like a banshee to get Harry.

Not late. Pick up Harry.

            Me: “So what did you do for your first class?”

            Harry: “We just made some prosthetics.”

            Me: “Starting off slow, are you?”

Drive all the way to Rockville library, the only library that has a copy of the fiction book he left at school that he has homework on. He looks around for books to take out. He decides to choose only from the oversized section.

1:00ish. Leave with 32 pounds of books.

Stop by a craft fair to see a friend who was selling some products made by Harry’s art teacher. Coasters sold out, but lovely chat with my friend.

1:30ish. Head to Harry’s beloved Swap Shop at the Transfer Station (read: Dump) so we can continue to live in the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s. He picks out albums for his record player, cassette tapes for his recorders, plus movies for his most recent under $6 Salvation Army acquisition: a state-of-the-art 1990’s VHS player. He picks up some classic movies and fills a large plastic bag with stuff he “needs.” I tell him he certainly doesn’t “need” any of it, while asking the volunteer for a box for the Christmas breakables I’m taking home. On the way out, he takes as many old National Geographics as he can carry. (If you’re looking for a Nat Geo magazine from 1968-‘72, we’ve probably got it.)

On the fourth trip from car to house to bring everything in, I wonder if the neighbors will recommend us for TLC’s Hoarders.

2:00ish. Late lunch on the deck. Beautiful fall day in the 60’s. Harry rubs his goosebumps throughout lunch, unwilling to acknowledge he’s chilly in his shorts and t-shirt.

Harry plays with swap shop loot. I text with my sister in NY who just completed her first 5k and finished 2^nd in her age group. She literally just took up running 3 weeks ago. I pause scanning the pantry for dessert and vow to train for a 5k. Ooh, ‘Nilla wafers. What was I saying about running?

Walk to the pond behind our house so Harry can play in the mud with the frogs and I can do some meditating. “Mom, look at this frog.” “Mom, look at this wall of sand I built to make this stream.” “Mom, look at these bugs in the sand.” “Mom, look at…”

 No meditating. 

 

Back to the house to do the rest of his homework. On a weekend! Blasphemous.

4:30ish. Is it nap time yet? 

Fresh air from the open French doors is making Carl frisky. Play time with kitty.

Take the very wrinkled clothes out of the dryer from this morning.

5:15ish. Wonder if late lunch is enough justification for a cereal dinner.

Some computer down time for Harry. For me, wash dishes from lunch and prep for tomorrow’s trip to the Big E.

Guilt and hunger win over laziness. I make fish tacos for dinner.

7:00ish. Loveseat. Sherpa blanket. Harry. Carl. Me.

            Me: “Are we going to the movies to see Storks tonight?”

            Harry: “And leave the house?”

            Me: “You’re right.”

            Carl: “Purrrr…”

Carl, also Type A

BACHELOR IN PARADISE: THE EENY MEENY MINY MOE OF MARRIAGE

       Bachelor in Paradise! How have I never seen this show before? I've been watching it this season because I'm single now and when I go out, it’s only to buy cat food and bird seed, so my evenings are relatively free for new TV shows.

       The show’s premise is this: Some decent looking twenty-somethings from past seasons of The Bachelor/Bachelorette who learned zero relationship lessons on those shows get drunk daily on a Mexican beach together. Every day or two a new person joins them so there is never an even ratio of men to women. If the new guy or girl is cuter than the guy or girl they just spent the day before with, they are suddenly in a new relationship. It's like the whole of your twenties dating life condensed into three weeks. I have to say, being 50 never felt so good.

       Of course, this being a Bachelor franchise, there are rose ceremonies hosted by Chris Harrison. This is where paradise turns into hell for the ones who haven’t made a “connection” (i.e., they’re not as good looking as the person who just arrived). They are publicly told that no one wants them, and they are forced to leave Mexico immediately. You have to wonder how many women’s nightmares Chris Harrison shows up in. 

       The ones who are lucky enough to have found their soulmate based on the sheer fact that filming is coming to an end, get the delight of spending their last night in the fantasy suite. This is the show’s way of announcing that the couples will be having sex, which adds to the humiliation of the ones who get broken up with the next day. Because the final day is when they either break up or they get engaged. Because that's what the natural next step is, right? Nineteen days of making out on the beach and then a proposal or else we’re done. As one of the women put it, “If we don’t get engaged, we’re probably not going to make it.” Huh?

       The epiphanies continued the morning after the fantasy suite. One of the guys decided after getting matching tattoos of their combined names that maybe they should think things through a bit more. One woman said, “It was great having breakfast in bed together and finally being a normal couple.” Breakfast in bed is not a normal couple activity. Eating dry cereal for breakfast because the last of the milk is souring in his cereal bowl from the night before is more like it.

       Nonetheless, with Neil Lane handing out free diamond rings, three of the six couples got engaged. With such a solid foundation, I am certain they will make it to the alter and live happily ever after. The update confirmed it. After two whole months, all three were still going strong. As one of the guys said before he proposed, “I thought I knew what true love was in the past. But I didn’t. This is true love.” It’s kind of like what I say every time I start a new diet. “I thought the ones in the past would work out. But they didn’t. This one’s for real.”

       There was one guy who just couldn’t commit to the woman who declared her love for him. He had to break it off because he feels “too damaged to love anyone.” So what happened to him? They announced that he’s going to be the next Bachelor, of course! Why break just one woman’s heart when 28 more have signed up?

MARITAL STATUS: CAT LADY

Out of the 743 concerns parents have when changing their marital status, the major worry is how their children will handle it. We knew after the initial divorce discussion with our son, he would want to know what his life was going to look like. Therefore, we had already started the process of purchasing a condominium for me so he would know where he’d be sharing his time. When we told him about it, his first response was what you would expect any 12-year-old to say: “It’s always good to have more real estate.” Thankfully, he’s a kid who likes to look on the bright side.

After taking stock of our ‘real estate,’ he then realized that he could finally get the cat he always wanted. His dad’s pet allergy had worsened over the years, so cats weren’t an option in our house. I told him we’d have to wait a while so we could get settled in our new place first (and, let’s be honest, so I could enjoy at least a few months of new, non-clawed, hairless furniture). So, understanding that getting a cat was not imminent, he did what any 12-year-old would do: He began selecting potential names for the cat. Every week he comes up with a different possibility, each of them worse than the last. His latest chosen name is Fluffy Puffy.

I’ve always disliked pet names based on descriptions. I can’t imagine my former cats, Ophelia and Franklin, would have tolerated being called Mittens or Whiskers. We don’t name our children by their characteristics, why would we do that to our furbabies? Although, come to think of it, a name concocted from our physical attributes might be useful for blind dating. Then again, with my wild curly hair and middle-aged body, Fluffy Puffy hits a little too close to home.

So I told my son if we get a cat, he’d need to choose a real name for him. I reminded him that he gave his fish the regular names Charlie and Sebastian. He thought about this for a while and finally suggested Mr. Fluffy Puffy.

I’d love to share my son’s bright side attitude, but it looks like I will soon be a fifty year-old cat lady with the only man in my life being Mr. Fluffy Puffy. Maybe we should get a dog…

HERSHEY'S, MARS, & CADBURY: THE CHOCOLATE STALKERS

Valentine’s Day has just passed and I’ve heard the usual complaints about the made-up Hallmark holiday. This on the heels of people grumbling about the consumer driven Christmas season. But not me. My grievance reaches all the way back to Halloween and the sheer amount of chocolate I am forced to eat for six months out of the year. (And by forced to eat, I mean eat.)

I stopped at the grocery store for a few things today and as soon as I push past the customer service desk, my cart almost has a head-on with a display of Easter candy. I sigh deeply and reverse, taking the long way around to the produce section. I’m not about to walk directly past the display where a bag or two could fall into my cart. I just recently vanquished the last of the red and green Christmas m&m’s from our house (and by vanquished, I mean ate) so I’m not about to replace them with pastel ones. Not yet anyway.

Chocolate stalks me from October through April. It starts with going to BJ’s to buy our Halloween candy where you can’t buy less than the bulk bag of 135 fun-size bars. Couple that with the measly fifteen trick or treaters who may come to our door, and that’s 120 leftover promises of fun to be eaten in the month of November. Sure, there’s a short respite for Thanksgiving pie eating, but by month's end, I can sense a full-on ambush by Christmas chocolates.

We tend to get a lot of sweets from our generous neighbors, so there’s no reason for me to buy the Ghiradelli peppermint bark…except that it would be Scrooge-like not to. The Christmas colored m&m’s are required for decorating sugar cookies for my son’s teachers. The surplus of the 42 oz. mega-bag is merely the consequence of my charitable baking.

Thus, we have chocolate-filled holiday bowls all around the house during the month of December. This promptly takes on a gluttonous aura before the shine of the new year wears off. Having that much chocolate in the house when it’s just plain ole’ January diminishes the chocolate haze I’ve been living in. By the middle of the month, I’ve convinced myself I need to get rid of it. (And by get rid of it, I mean eat it.) By the first of February, the house is finally chocolate-free.

This lasts a whole week, because Valentine’s Day is fast approaching and red boxed chocolates are everywhere. I find myself having to walk through Candy Land just to pick up a prescription at CVS. Just walk through the aisle, I tell myself. But it’s not the same red and green m&m’s I’ve been eating since Christmas. Now they are pink and red. How does one pass up an entirely new species of m&m’s? What's the use anyway? I still have to buy my son some Valentine’s chocolates and then follow that up by being a good mother and not letting him consume too much sugar. Every mama bear will sacrifice for her child. (And by sacrifice, I mean eat his chocolate).

Which leads me to today, four days after Valentine’s Day, when I almost collide with the display of Easter candy. Chocolate is relentless. It changes its color with each holiday. It stakes its claim months before your little black dress is too tight to wear to the office Christmas party. It laughs in the face of your half-hearted New Year’s resolution. Just when I’ve made a pact with myself to no longer succumb to Mars and Hershey, out comes chocolate’s cleanup hitter, Cadbury. This is when I realize that the fun-size bars of a distant Halloween were just a warm up to the grand finale: Cadbury’s giant chocolate bunny. 

By the time we fully thaw out here in New England, the last of the solid bunny ears have been gnawed, digested, and commemorated on my hips. The chocolate laden holidays are finally over. Lucky for me, it’s just in time to think about bathing suit season…and chocolate’s deliciously nasty cousin, ice cream. 

THE TARNISHED GOLDEN GLOBES STILL HAD SOME SHINING MOMENTS

I started writing a Facebook post about an aspect of last night’s Golden Globes that bothered me, but when I realized my rant would be much longer than a simple post, I took to my long-neglected blog.

Let me preface this by saying that I am not an expert on movies, television, or awards shows. I see about two movies a year that aren’t made by Pixar or DreamWorks, and my television viewing mainly consists of PBS and Bravo (although I try to remember which night The Grinder is on, because that show is freakin’ funny). And I might’ve missed the Globes from 9:00 to 9:50 because Downton Abbey was on at that time. And I didn’t watch the last half hour because it was past my bedtime. HOWEVER, this will not deter me from giving my (non-expert) opinion about the show, because this isn’t a Vanity Fair article or even a Huffington Post one. This is what a blog called Korina’s Take is made for.

That being said, I will start my Golden Globe stream of consciousness writing at the beginning: with Ricky Gervais. He is a guy who usually makes me giggle the minute I see him, even before he says anything that I know is going to be hilarious. I love his style and I love his laugh, and I thought he was extremely funny in past years. But this year he seemed to relish too much in his identity as being the nasty host. He made more jokes about being mean-spirited than he did mean-spirited jokes, but it still had the same effect of putting the guests on edge. I felt like it was the school bully bragging about being the bully. Who wants to see Jeffrey Tambor afraid?

After the monologue, it was all a blur, maybe because I was bopping back and forth between the awards show and The Real Housewives of Atlanta. So I’ll just throw out my thoughts.

I appreciate Jonah Hill trying something cheeky. It is the Globes, after all. If Jack Nicholson could talk out his butt on the Golden Globes stage back in the day, then Jonah Hill can dress up like The Revenant Bear. Or so one would think. Alas, I love Jonah Hill’s movie work, but at the Globes, he and Channing Tatum looked like two frat boys who accidentally got asked to speak at the grown-up party. Jonah Hill, you’re no Jack Nicholson.

Everyone, in fact, seemed to be trying too hard to keep up the Golden Globes' reputation of being the boozy, good-time awards show in comparison to the Oscars. Jamie Foxx was under the impression that he was doing stand-up, which left poor Rose, I mean Lily James, to stand beside him nervously chuckling. And why, oh why, are they still doing the outdated, demeaning, misogynistic Miss America-type thing introducing Miss Golden Globes? (Beside the fact that it seems like a direct reference to her breasts.) Every year they pick an actor’s daughter to present herself and show how pretty she is so she can be in the business, too. And Jennifer Lawrence wonders why there’s a pay gap between actors and actresses.

I think they should just go ahead and take the Globes all the way down the path of being the Oscars’ naughty brother. The Golden Globes should be the Eric Roberts to the Oscars’ Julia. If Ricky Gervais is going to stand up there with a beer and Jonah Hill is going to put on a bear head, then why not go all the way with it? Why not put in a bunch of Barcaloungers? If they have to scooch between chairs to run up and accept their awards, let them wear sweats and sneakers. Serve Doritos and beer, so when the camera pans to the crowd, their bored and rude behavior might seem more warranted.

The whole thing was just so down the middle that it didn’t work in either capacity. The ‘We don’t care, let’s just party’ attitude was not believable. These people make their living in front of the cameras. No matter how many swear words they used, they knew millions of us were still watching at home. (Or some of us were still watching. It was 9:00, time for Downton Abbey.)

Of course they care. They care so much in fact that they’re allowed to put any movie or actor in the comedy/musical category, even if it’s not a comedy, just to better their chances of winning. Just because your drama has a few light moments in it doesn’t make it a comedy, the same way having a movie score doesn’t make it a musical. The producers from The Martian should’ve been embarrassed to be up there “winning.” I would berate Matt Damon, too, except for the fact that he was up against actors in other non-comedies. (And he’s sweetie pie Matt Damon. You can’t berate Matt Damon.)

However, I can berate David O. Russell, because American Hustle was so good that his next two films have been way overrated. Silver Linings Playbook might’ve seemed like a good movie unless you read the book. If we’re honest, Joy was on par with a really good TV movie. Besides, I don’t want to see the same four actors in a bunch of different movies. I like Jennifer Lawrence but he’s made her overexposed. But that’s not the real issue. The Golden Globes has a distinct category for comedies and comedians so that they can get the recognition that the drama-filled Oscars denies them. Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t need to sneak into the comedy section to get a little recognition. They need to keep the comedy category for TRUE comedies. Spy was hilarious. Train Wreck was funny. Melissa McCarthy and Amy Schumer should’ve been the two favorites vying for that award. And if it ever happens that Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t make a Golden Globe-worthy drama one year (like, say, this year, for instance) then she should bow out and allow an actress in a comedy to win the award she deserves. Hopefully all the funny women in Ghostbusters will push out any actress who happens to make a joke or two in her drama for next year’s awards season.

Ok, enough ranting. Let’s get to the happy stuff.

Sylvester Stallone. I loved him and I loved Rocky. I loved the story of him making Rocky and winning three Oscars for Rocky. Sylvester Stallone was the 1976 version of Good Will Hunting’s Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. It was like getting to see an old friend be happy. It was my highlight of the night.

Dwayne, The Rock, Johnson and Jennifer Lopez. My TV actually had an aura around it when they were on. Together, they were almost too beautiful.

Eddie Redmayne. Let’s just have a moment of silence to sit quietly and reflect on the beauty that is Eddie Redmayne.

America Ferrerra and Eva Longoria. Eva Longoria was funnier in her bit than Jennifer Lawrence was in her movie.

Tom Hanks. He’s one of those guys that when you see him, you smile. I hope he lives forever.

Denzel Washington. Why aren’t there movies written just for Denzel? Hopefully this will remind directors that they should leave the action movies to Vin Diesel and give a meaty drama to Denzel.

Christian Slater. Isn’t he one of those young actors you figured would go the way of Judd Nelson or Corey Feldman? How nice it is to see Christian Slater in a hit show and looking so good. Even if his wife is young enough to be his daughter.

Melissa McCarthy. Svelte!! (And robbed.)

Jim Carrey. For the first time he was, dare I say, restrained. And funny. as. hell. We’ve missed you, Jim.

Mozart in the Jungle. Whaaa?? I have to admit, I wasn’t even aware of 95% of the shows in the TV category. But this one looked so intriguing that I looked it up so I can start watching it. Then I found out it’s on Amazon. Um…Isn’t Amazon where I order my hair products from? This is when I realize I am one of those technically challenged old people. All I want to know is which channel is Amazon. Whaaa??

Cate Blanchett. How can someone be mesmerizing just by sitting there? She is.

And lastly, it was brief, it wasn’t scripted, it was just a quick shot before a commercial break: Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio, with her arm on his shoulder, talking closely, together again. My happy ending is realized. Finally, I have some closure. 

What did you think about this year's Golden Globes?

DOWNTON ABBEY: THE DAY I GOT TO SEE THE REAL THING

Me at Downton Abbey (Highclere Castle)

            As the car wound its way through the rolling hillsides dotted with fat sheep, I could barely tamp down my excitement. We slowed and pulled to the side for each approaching car as the lane was too narrow for two vehicles to safely pass each other.

            “No wonder Matthew was run off the road and died,” I said.

            “Who died?” My eleven-year-old son asked in alarm.

            My husband clarified, “Remember the show we told you about? Downton Abbey? One of the characters of that show was driving on this lane fast and was accidentally run off the road.”

            “Oh, so nobody really died,” our son said, relieved. “It was just a show.”

            Just a show?

            My husband David and I came upon Downton Abbey a full four seasons in. We heard the hype but never had the time to start from the beginning so we kept putting off watching it. Finally, I borrowed season one from the library and we began to watch. We needn’t have worried about the time factor. We watched the entire season in one weekend. Seasons two, three, and four immediately followed, although we paced ourselves a bit better so we could prolong the experience of immersing ourselves in that house, those clothes, the Crawley family, and their servants. Timing was on our side, because as soon as we finished watching the last of the DVD’s, the new season was just beginning on PBS. After binge watching every prior episode, it seemed highly barbaric having to wait an entire week between shows. Of course, that was nothing compared to the period of mourning we endured after the final episode, knowing we would be waiting a year to experience the final season of the series. Just a show?  Not quite.

            We weren’t driving up in a jaunty convertible Rolls Royce or 1911 Renault. It was a nondescript taxi and we didn’t get to pull up to the castle with Carson and his servants lined up to greet us. We made it only to the car park (the parking lot), but my excitement was not dulled whatsoever, because I had already gotten my first glimpse of Downton Abbey, a.k.a. Highclere Castle. It was more beautiful in person than they could even make it look on television. I couldn’t stop staring at it.

            Highclere Castle is open to the public on a limited basis (about 60 to 70 days each year), because the Countess of Carnarvon and her family make it their full time residence. Because of this, I expected it to be teeming with tourists. However, the grounds are so vast, we only saw small groupings of people here and there. We almost felt like we had been invited to one of the Crawley garden parties. 

            To balance the flow of traffic inside the castle, there are two ticket times, one morning and one afternoon. Our afternoon ticket was not in effect for another forty-five minutes or so, but we were allowed anywhere on the grounds before that time, so we took advantage of it. As you know from the show, the grounds are stunning. I always notice the trees when I watch, mostly because they’re usually incongruous with whatever season it’s supposed to be. (Sure enough, they had just wrapped shooting the Christmas episode the week prior when everything was in full bloom.) The trees are magnificent and enormous. You can get a sense of the scale with this photo of my son standing under one of the trees.

My son under one of the enormous trees

            We immediately recognized the path that is often trod when two or three of the characters are walking and talking outside.

The often seen path

We followed it around the perimeter of the castle. The grounds behind the castle lead to a meadow of wildflowers and a brick walled garden of roses and topiary bushes in the shape of arches. 

 

A greenhouse chock full of blooms stood adjacent to the garden. When we walked to the coach house later on, which is now a café, tea house, and gift shop, we saw several people buying their potted flowers. At the back of the garden we spotted a wooden sign that read Secret Garden, so we opened the wrought iron gate to reveal a winding path of countless varieties of flowers. How many adjectives can I substitute for the word spectacular? That’s all it was. Spectacular.

              

          Even so, 1:00 arrived and the castle awaited. We made our way to the front of the castle and waited a few moments for the short line of people to filter in. My only disappointment of the day was that there was no photography allowed once inside the house. To be honest, I am known to break this rule in certain places and just don’t use a flash, but because this was someone’s home, I felt I should respect the request. 

One of the front doors

            It was at this point that I felt a slight trepidation. I recalled the moment I first saw Dorothy’s ruby red slippers at the Smithsonian and was disappointed that they merely looked like the kind of red sequins I used to use for craft projects pinned to a shoe. What if, up close, Downton Abbey turned out to be Downton Shabby? To add to my fears, the first room we would be seeing was the library – my favorite room.

            I stepped into the room and caught my breath. It was even more stunning than on television. It was precisely the same but somehow better. The mahogany paneling, the rich red curtains, the desk, the columns, the fireplace hearth, the long windows, and the books. All. Those. Books. (Fun Fact: There are 5,650 books in the room.) Oh, how I wanted to sit on one of those red velvet couches and be served a proper tea. We lingered in the library for quite some time, but no one pulled the chord for tea service, so we moved on.

            The drawing room where they are sometimes seen gathering before dinner was also a favorite. The green silk fabric on the walls gave the room a soothing feel. An impressive collection of ancient Chinese furniture and artifacts were also displayed in this room.

            As we toured each of the rooms – the music room, the smoking room, etc., the only differences I could decipher from what is shown on TV is the removal of all the framed family photographs and the repositioning of some of the furniture. “That side table should be over there,” I muttered to myself. Three other obsessive fans women in the room nodded in agreement.

            We went up a set of back stairs to reach the second floor. The first bedroom we saw was where the Turkish diplomat Pamuk was carried back after he died while bedding Mary in season one. We also poked around all three daughters’ rooms and Cora’s, plus a few other bedrooms that are not seen on the show (or maybe they are but I didn’t recognize them). We were told that all of the bedrooms are currently used by the family. I’m sure it’s amazing to live at Highclere castle but judging by the bedrooms, not all that comfortable for sleeping. The beds looked lumpy and the bathrooms were not updated. Plus there was no air conditioning. But you couldn't deny that the views from every room were magnificent. Here at home, I often sit in a different area of the house to change up my view when I’m writing. I couldn’t help but imagine all the different spots in the castle from which I could write without replicating the view.

            The hallways connecting the bedrooms overlooked the central saloon and led to the oak staircase. (This is where Rose had the jazz band play for Lord Grantham’s birthday.) Wow! The 50-foot vaulted ceiling makes the space even more majestic. I was wishing I’d brought a veil so I could fling it down the grand staircase as Edith had done after her non-wedding. Before descending, I took a peek behind one of the upstairs doors that led to the servants’ stairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I had to at least get a little taste of the “downstairs.” Tom Barrow must’ve been outside having a cig, as I did not hear him plotting with anyone on the stairs. I took my time stepping down the sweeping red carpeted staircase and noted one of the secret servant doors at the bottom of the steps.

            The last room we saw was the dining room. It unfortunately wasn’t set for dinner, and as it was early in the day, I doubted Carson had yet decantered the wine. (Although I did get to view some of the silver in a showcase before leaving.) As I walked past each dining chair, I easily imagined one of the first scenes of the series where Lord Grantham is seated at the head of the breakfast table while reading a telegram about his cousins being on the Titanic.

            Although the castle guides often told us about the painted portraits or the furniture, most people asked about the show. Apparently, one of the perks of being a docent is that they get to stick around for the shooting of Downton Abbey. “What was it like?” we all asked them. The guides concurred, “Extremely boring. Every scene took forever. We had the hottest day of the year last week and the poor actors were sweating buckets in their winter costumes.” 

            I guess I’ll have to stick to the glamour in my imagination.

            The “downstairs” part of Downton is filmed at another location, but we did get to glance at the real servants’ kitchen and sitting and eating rooms as we exited through the basement, although they were now being used as overflow tearooms.

            Just before leaving the castle, the hallway offered one final gem: the wall of servants’ bells. The bells were no longer present, but each room was labeled under the circle where the bell had once been. There were A LOT of bells!

            Servants’ bells begin the opening credits and it’s where we reluctantly took our leave. We stopped for tea at the coach house and walked the grounds one last time before finally departing. Even without a footman in sight, it was an extremely satisfying visit to Downton.