Letter to My Younger Self

Me with my inspiration...
then

and now.

Today’s inspiration is brought to me by my younger daughter. She is a writer and truly has a way with her words. She blogs when she feels like it and her writing is always insightful.

Dear 18 year old Rissa,

       Soon you will meet the love of your life so please try to stop worrying that you will never find him.  In fact, my advice is to put off finding him for a few years because  you will be married to him for a long time and will probably wish you’d have experienced more of life as a single woman.

       Don’t give up on your dreams of moving to Manhattan or taking that share on Fire Island for the summer. When you make decisions, consider that saying “No,” may be something you always regret.

       You will be a wonderful mother. You have great training. Would it kill you to tell her every once in awhile? You won’t realize until she’s gone how much of a positive influence she’s had on your life.  Trust me, she'd love to hear it from you. What's more is she deserves it. All mothers do.

       Don’t choose practicality over passion. Pursuing an accounting career is fine if that’s what you want for now, but please don’t spend 20 years doing something you really don’t enjoy. A teaching career will be way more rewarding!

       Be patient and don’t rush through life’s stages. Good things truly do come to those who wait and hard work teaches us to be appreciative. Enjoy all the moments, big and small. Be present and always present your best self.

       I could go on and on, but there are things that are best left for you to discover on your own. But the one thing I cannot stress enough is not to hold onto so many things. You may think that they serve as memories. Really, they just clutter up your life.  The memories stay in your heart so throw the stuff out! You’ll thank me in the long run.

       Oh, and one final thing….don't forget to write!

Love,

Me

       

A Stab at a Haiku

Click to View My Haiku

The Process of Dismantling

I can’t throw anything out. Just cannot bear to part with even the most mundane of things.

How can I get rid of these “things” when they represent memories? Memories of my dead parents, my daughters as babies, the beginnings of my love affair with my husband, and of me…… as my former self.

Try as I might to dismantle the stuff, I end up getting stuck. Traveling back in time, I fondly recall each news clipping, photograph, birthday card, slip of paper, knick-knack, or *tchotchke that grabs a special piece of my heart.

Problem is, my entire “back room” is filled with these memories. There are times (Hello August!) when I commit to clearing out the room. It would make a lovely writing space. But as I sort through, I end up getting stuck on one memory or another. And although I do fill up a garbage sack or two, most of the stuff just gets moved around from one spot to another.

Olivia Judson, author of the New York Times column The Opinionator suggests we can’t part with stuff because we just might want (or need) to take another look. In her series The Task, Ms. Judson expresses her own inability to throw out and so…I feel justified by my own. She brilliantly captured my fear of erasing the physical presence of my parents from this earth.

But what about the stuff that isn’t part of my parents’ legacy? As long as it’s around, this crap is causing chaos in my otherwise orderly house and MIND! My refusal to dismantle it is somehow linked to the curious reasons for my attachments. And until I figure it out, my crap keeps me in a state of limbo.

*Urban Dictionary.com defines a tchotchke:

5 Things I Know For Sure – Observations of a Clothes Horse (Inspired by the monthly column in the Oprah Magazine)

1.   Fashion history repeats itself.  If you know what works for your shape and your style, chances are that a timeless favorite can be updated with the look of the season.  I always make room in my closet for my best-learned clothing secrets. All it takes is a new spin on something old to make it new again.

soft neutrals with touches of mustard at Club Monaco

2.  Don’t be afraid to have mostly neutral clothes in your closet. Neutrals are the key ingredients of any color palette.  They allow flexibility in putting outfits together and promote a classic style of dressing. Rather than buying staples that reflect the color of the season, why not add color through accessorizing? It's a more practical and economical way of building your wardrobe. 

3.  Take risks. If you think there’s even the slimmest chance 2 pieces will go together, give it a try! People notice when you pair unexpected things together in a way that works. If your attitude is confident, your outfit goes further!

4. Black will always be the new black! And it goes with everything. Even navy or brown. There is no more luxurious combination than black with camel. A navy sweater with a black pencil skirt is pure glam!

5. Chunky baubles have their place but delicate jewels carry the message of understated elegance. 

If I Didn't Ever….I Might Never

     *If I didn't ever fall in love as a freshman with a junior who was taking a high school 
      bookkeeping class, I might never have majored in accounting

    

        *If I didn't ever major in accounting and taken a CPA review class immediately upon  
      graduating from college, I might never have met my husband

     

       *If I didn't ever meet my husband, I might never have 
      been blessed by my two very beautiful and now very 
      grown-up daughters

   

    *If I didn't ever have those two girls, I might never 
    have worked from home as a bookkeeper for my husband’s CPA practice

     *If I didn't ever work for my husband, I might never have had a schedule that permitted me to volunteer for the PTA activities in their elementary school

      *If I didn't ever get involved with that PTA, I might never have become the treasurer on its executive board

      * If I didn't ever serve on the board, our principal might never had known me from  any other mom in his school

      *If I didn't ever work closely with the principal, I might never have become a teacher
   
     *If I did not ever become a teacher, I can’t imagine becoming.

Boudoir

“Violet! For the last time, come up here and help me zip my zipper.” Her tone took on the sound of desperate frustration as Violet's mother reached up and down her back to find that damn zipper. Violet, not easily distracted, was fixated on a rather chubby green caterpillar in the garden. Wanting to create a cozy home for her new pet, she wondered if she could sneak up to her room and past her mother to fetch a shoebox. Removing her flip-flops, the girl crept upstairs and was rounding the corner into her bedroom when she heard her mother who had been once or twice accused of swearing like a sailor cry out,  “Bloody hell, I’ve broken a nail, damn it.” “Violet! I need you NOW,” she pleaded.

VAN CLEEF & ARPELS BROOCH DAISY , 1964

Tentatively, Violet entered her mother’s bedroom. If it weren’t for that poor, homeless caterpillar, Mother’s boudoir was her absolute favorite place to be in the whole wide world. She’d spend endless hours watching her mother dress for dinner parties, the theater, a charity function, or the opera. Violet would thrill in helping her choose the perfect pair of high-heels and just the right evening bag. Of course Violet was ready when Mother needed  her help to fasten the clasp on her glamorous pearls or to carefully position a brooch in place.

“Violet my angel, please pull my zipper up. And don’t forget to hook the hook.”  Zipper and hook firmly fixed, Violet set about to find a suitable home for her caterpillar, which she hoped, was staying put where she carefully positioned it before the hasty departure to save Mother’s manicure.

Saturday Morning Coffee

I smell it brewing. I wonder if he’s using the imported from Italy coffee. Weekends are special that way. He wakes up before me. Unlike workaday weekdays when I use the domestic coffee and I begin my day at 5am.  On Saturday, after I let the dogs out, I put the puppy back to sleep, Ralph goes into his doggie bed at the foot of mine and I slide under the rumpled but still warm covers dreaming of Italian coffee and frothy milk. 

On Saturday, he takes care of our morning kitchen rituals like emptying the dishwasher, feeding the dogs, and getting the coffee started. As I fall back asleep, I dreamily recognize the clatter of our routine; sections of the paper scattering over the table, cabinet doors opening and closing, dishes stacking, silverware tinkling, dog food scooping, and water running from the tap for the coffee.

Each sound so obvious, every smell so familiar; I can tell what is for breakfast as I dreamily doze back to sleep.  Definitely the imported coffee…..

According to popular myth, coffee was first discovered by a goat herder named Kaldi in Ethiopia in the 9th century.