So I know that I stole the title from a children’s book that I read to my kids when they were little. But after the day I had, I couldn’t think of anything else.
Sonora was my daughter’s rabbit. She had bought her on a whim and loved the fact that the bunny kept her company in her small college apartment. She was white, fluffy, and sort of mean. I soon realized that my daughter knows me too well.
When my daughter was heading off to study abroad she admitted that she had a problem concerning the rabbit. I received a phone call one day and she explained that she couldn’t get anyone to watch Sonora while she was away so she was just going to sell her on Craig’s List. Outraged, I immediately reminded her that our family did not sell pets on the Internet and that we would care for the rabbit. She knew I would have that reaction.
We dropped our daughter off at the airport to launch her study abroad adventure and our rabbit responsibilities commenced.
We moved to the country about three months before and I was excited to have what I considered a farm animal. My husband and I ventured to the Feed and Fuel store on Main Street to purchase the necessary food, rabbit treats, and hay. I soon discovered that Sonora loved to hop around outside so we would leave her in the yard and she would nestle under a small bush and enjoy the warm sun on her back. Catching her became quite a challenge when it was time to get her back in the cage – but who could blame her?
One weekend in mid-September we were excited to host our nephew and his girlfriend for a few days. Early Sunday morning I let Sonora out to roam and we made coffee for our guests. The weather was beautiful so we decided to take a long walk and I headed out in the yard to catch the rabbit. She was nowhere to be found. I gathered the troops and we all started looking and calling for Sonora (I don’t think she knew her name – but somehow it seemed to make sense at the time). After about 10 minutes of searching, my husband pointed down the road to the two little girls next door. They were carrying Sonora back up to our house. I shouted down to them “Hey, how did ya catch her?” As the words were still hanging in the air, I realized that Sonora wasn’t moving as she lay in the oldest child’s arms. I strolled down the road to meet them and one of the girls stared at me with a stunned look and said that they had found the rabbit in our yard. I looked down and Sonora was limp. The girl continued by explaining that they had taken the rabbit home to their mom and it had died in her arms. Their mom then told them to take the rabbit back to me.
Whoa. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond other than the fact that I couldn’t believe that any mother would instruct her child to bring a dead rabbit back to the neighbor’s house. So I gently took the lifeless rabbit into my arms and looked up the hill to my bewildered husband and guests and announced that Sonora was dead. We all stood around and evaluated if the rabbit was actually dead by moving her limp body and calling her name (Again, the name calling wasn’t helpful but what the hell did we know – we were city folk). My husband reminded me that we now lived in the country and things like this happen all the time. We gently placed her in a bag and decided to go on our walk.
Of course we spent the better part of our stroll discussing how the rabbit must have died. Did it have a heart attack in our yard when another animal approached? Did the girls take it back to their house and let it play in their yard with the other animals? Ironically, the girls next door had a rabbit as well but we all agreed that Sonora was more of a Paris Hilton sort of bunny than a country rabbit and hanging with country animals would have indeed been dangerous. We also had to make a pact that no one would tell my daughter. I figured that since she was living in Europe for the semester that we would wait to tell her until she arrived back home. No need to share news that would make her sad so far away.
Our walk took us about two miles away from our house. In the midst of our conversation I swatted what I thought was a fly and caught it in my hand. Unfortunately, the fly was actually a bee and it stung my finger. I know that I have a low tolerance for pain, but it really, really hurt. I felt a little faint as my husband instructed me on the proper method of caring for a bee sting. I disagreed and just squeezed my fingers as hard as I could – cutting off all blood circulation to my hand and brain – but it seemed to curb the sting. I tried not to cry when I realized that I was going to have to walk the two miles back home. I grumbled that I was OK and that we just needed to continue. Everyone had a suggestion for how to stop the pain – which just got irritating after a while. What seemed like a two hour sojourn, we arrived back home and I iced the finger and my hand for another hour.
Clearly by this time my husband started feeling sorry for me. The rabbit under my care was dead, I had to strategize on what and when to tell my daughter, and my finger was swollen with a damn bee sting. He announced that we could go to the Feed and Fuel store to see if there were any rabbits for sale. We agreed that we wouldn’t purchase one that day, but that I could hold the baby rabbits to make me feel better. I agreed that was a good idea – we really should never rush into a pet decision but I needed something to lift my spirits.
The Feed and Fuel store had a limited number of rabbits but we quickly found ourselves holding two very cute black and brown baby bunnies. As we were holding them I kept scratching an itch that had been bothering me for the past 30 minutes or so. I asked my husband if there was anything on my cheek and he sheepishly looked up at me trying not to make eye contact. Actually, he said “Yea, I’ve been watching it for about 20 minutes and it seems to be getting bigger and bigger!” I think he was afraid I was going to explode. “It looks like you might have been bitten by a spider.” He quickly tried to move the conversation back to the cute baby bunnies but to no avail. “Are you kidding me?” I shouted as I could feel my eye start to swell shut. “Uh, no,” he responded and then gingerly signed to sales girl to help us put the bunnies back in their cage as he quickly ushered me out the door and back to the car.
Well, I eventually survived. We told our daughter about the fate of Sonora when we visited her in Spain and we bought two new rabbits (one for me and one for our daughter) that never wander outside on their own. Now I’m just waiting to get some chickens.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Bodega Babes
Eight girls sat nervously on the side of the bed waiting for my mother to enter. My parents had driven a carload of girls up to Eureka, California to cheer on the high school football team and we were staying in a hotel room on our own. We had been warned to keep all boys out and we had clearly violated the rule. Moments earlier, the hotel room in Eureka, California was filled with nearly 20 boys who were also visiting town for the game. When my mom stopped by to check on us, the look on her face was nothing short of complete distress. She stood at the door in her robe and slippers and pointed to the boys to leave. There was no way out of the situation. We steadied ourselves in preparation for the tongue lashing we anticipated and deserved.
When the last boy cleared her post, my mother quickly crossed the threshold and turned to us. She stared in our eyes for a brief moment and then leaned over and started laughing. Between giggles she exclaimed, “That was so embarrassing!” At that moment, we all started laughing.
Little did we know that we would be telling and smiling about that story thirty years later.
We all need friends in our lives who knew us as kids. Those friendships remind us of a humble beginning when we weren’t quite sure of our destiny. Somehow, when I get together with my high school buddies, I become 16 again – with all the freshness and excitement of a less complicated time. We play songs from 1978 and miraculously know all the words. We laugh about high school dances, boyfriends, and teachers we didn’t like. Pages of yearbooks are examined and we wonder about faces we knew and haven’t seen in many years. Reminiscing about the past seems to bring the present into focus as we realize the irreplaceable value of those life-long friendships.
Three years ago, my high school friends decided to rent a house for the weekend in the tiny harbor town of Bodega Bay on the Sonoma coast. Our teen years were spent driving to the beach for a variety of celebrations so it seemed like an appropriate venue. We hadn’t really seen much of each other in the years since graduation. While we had occasionally met for dinner or a holiday celebration, life had kept us all busy and this was our chance to catch up.
The weekend turned out to be a remarkable journey. We laughed until we cried and re-enacted stories from years past. The joys and sorrows of our current lives emerged as highlights in our conversation and a warm embrace seemed to fill the air. Life had delivered significant changes in the decades since those carefree days of our youth - some more painful than others. But something important had remained steadfastly intact – our commitment to one another. As giddy teenagers, we trusted each other with our deepest, darkest secrets. In Bodega, we realized that nothing had changed. That high school friendship had just matured into something much more meaningful and significant. Years of experience had brought new insight, advice, and support. We learned how to tell each other to forgive and forget and how to comfort and congratulate. Friendships can be complicated, but at that moment in Bodega, the true essence of friendship was absolutely natural and complete.
The Bodega babes continue to get together to share stories of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. We have however all promised to censor the pictures that we share with our family from our weekend retreats!
When the last boy cleared her post, my mother quickly crossed the threshold and turned to us. She stared in our eyes for a brief moment and then leaned over and started laughing. Between giggles she exclaimed, “That was so embarrassing!” At that moment, we all started laughing.
Little did we know that we would be telling and smiling about that story thirty years later.
We all need friends in our lives who knew us as kids. Those friendships remind us of a humble beginning when we weren’t quite sure of our destiny. Somehow, when I get together with my high school buddies, I become 16 again – with all the freshness and excitement of a less complicated time. We play songs from 1978 and miraculously know all the words. We laugh about high school dances, boyfriends, and teachers we didn’t like. Pages of yearbooks are examined and we wonder about faces we knew and haven’t seen in many years. Reminiscing about the past seems to bring the present into focus as we realize the irreplaceable value of those life-long friendships.
Three years ago, my high school friends decided to rent a house for the weekend in the tiny harbor town of Bodega Bay on the Sonoma coast. Our teen years were spent driving to the beach for a variety of celebrations so it seemed like an appropriate venue. We hadn’t really seen much of each other in the years since graduation. While we had occasionally met for dinner or a holiday celebration, life had kept us all busy and this was our chance to catch up.
The weekend turned out to be a remarkable journey. We laughed until we cried and re-enacted stories from years past. The joys and sorrows of our current lives emerged as highlights in our conversation and a warm embrace seemed to fill the air. Life had delivered significant changes in the decades since those carefree days of our youth - some more painful than others. But something important had remained steadfastly intact – our commitment to one another. As giddy teenagers, we trusted each other with our deepest, darkest secrets. In Bodega, we realized that nothing had changed. That high school friendship had just matured into something much more meaningful and significant. Years of experience had brought new insight, advice, and support. We learned how to tell each other to forgive and forget and how to comfort and congratulate. Friendships can be complicated, but at that moment in Bodega, the true essence of friendship was absolutely natural and complete.
The Bodega babes continue to get together to share stories of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. We have however all promised to censor the pictures that we share with our family from our weekend retreats!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Cactus Taqueria
Everyone seems to have a favorite neighborhood Mexican food restaurant. Judging from the long lines at the cashier, Cactus Taqueria is a popular favorite. With a blend of typical Mexican dishes like burritos, nachos, and tacos mixed with a variety of specialty dishes, Cactus Taqueria seems to offer something for all the individual eaters in our family. My all-time favorite is the order of crispy shrimp tacos. When I’ve experienced a particularly challenging day, I think about the crispy shrimp tacos. The traditional “comfort foods” such as chicken noodle soup, warm stew, or mom’s apple pie reassure some but the Cactus Taqueria crispy shrimp tacos give me the comfort I need at my neediest times. My friends know it. My family knows it. When I grouse about a bad day and swear at the empty refrigerator again, it’s time to get some crispy shrimp tacos. Life is pretty good again as soon as I take the first bite.
At the time, the impending crossroad in our life was slowly emerging. My husband’s long commute - college choices for our youngest daughter – and a job that had its own challenges - all seemed to be pointing to a new direction in our lives. The unspoken fear of the empty nester syndrome and the tension of two tired professionals negotiating through modern parenthood contributed to uncertain times. Those romantic days of gazing into each other’s eyes seem to be faded memories. Life had become complicated and the college sweethearts needed to face a new world of demands.
It became clear that we needed a Cactus fix. My daughter ordered her usual nachos without jalapeños and I ordered the two crispy shrimp tacos this time, as did my husband. All delicious choices and when our order number was called we brought the tray back to our table and began eating and talking as we always did. Chatter about the week’s events and highlights for upcoming plans filled the air. As the meal rounded to a close, and I had inhaled my two tacos, my husband had one more taco left on his plate. We both politely stared at the remaining tacos on his plate and the emptiness of mine. Without saying a word, I glanced up into the eyes of that college sweetheart of mine and he offered to share his last precious taco with me. He rolled his eyes and we both smiled and began sharing the last remaining taco.
Our daughter watched us intently as we nonchalantly finished the taco together and continued chatting. At the moment of the last bite, she announced, “Now I get it…it’s all about sharing the taco!”
Of course we laughed and agreed that “sharing the taco” should be the motto for good marriages, true friendships, and a life of reaching beyond ourselves and into our community and our world.
At the time, the impending crossroad in our life was slowly emerging. My husband’s long commute - college choices for our youngest daughter – and a job that had its own challenges - all seemed to be pointing to a new direction in our lives. The unspoken fear of the empty nester syndrome and the tension of two tired professionals negotiating through modern parenthood contributed to uncertain times. Those romantic days of gazing into each other’s eyes seem to be faded memories. Life had become complicated and the college sweethearts needed to face a new world of demands.
It became clear that we needed a Cactus fix. My daughter ordered her usual nachos without jalapeños and I ordered the two crispy shrimp tacos this time, as did my husband. All delicious choices and when our order number was called we brought the tray back to our table and began eating and talking as we always did. Chatter about the week’s events and highlights for upcoming plans filled the air. As the meal rounded to a close, and I had inhaled my two tacos, my husband had one more taco left on his plate. We both politely stared at the remaining tacos on his plate and the emptiness of mine. Without saying a word, I glanced up into the eyes of that college sweetheart of mine and he offered to share his last precious taco with me. He rolled his eyes and we both smiled and began sharing the last remaining taco.
Our daughter watched us intently as we nonchalantly finished the taco together and continued chatting. At the moment of the last bite, she announced, “Now I get it…it’s all about sharing the taco!”
Of course we laughed and agreed that “sharing the taco” should be the motto for good marriages, true friendships, and a life of reaching beyond ourselves and into our community and our world.
I Love a Good Day
Marriage is full of joys and challenges. Children fill your life with love and challenges. Careers fill your days with growth and challenges. Friends come and go in your life. Even pets leave a mark on your heart. As I approach the mid-mark of my life, I spend more and more time reflecting on the joys of my life and the times that make and made a difference.
I don’t remember much these days but I am starting to care less about impressing others and more about the simple joys that life seems to bring every now and then.
Last spring I was organizing my life’s possessions when I came across a note that my daughter wrote when she was young. “I love a good day” was scribbled across a page in all capital letters. I’m sure she was trying to write, “I love you and have a good day” but somehow, reading that note all these years later, loving a good day seemed like a middle-aged woman’s mantra. At the time, I had spent about three weeks preparing to pack up the house I had lived in for nearly 20 years - raised my two daughters, and witnessed some of life’s most precious gifts and experienced difficult times that would leave an indelible mark. I suppose I wasn’t just saying good-bye to a building – I was bidding farewell to a lifestyle - A lifestyle that included friends, neighbors, career, and a history of experiences. The neighborhood I lived in was rebuilt after the Oakland Hills fire in 1991. We moved into one of the first homes constructed after the fire and our new life reflected the metaphor of the phoenix rising theme that emerged after the devastating disaster. We were building a new life as a young family much like the neighborhood reinventing itself.
As I shifted through an attic worth of boxes and separated the goods into piles of save, give-away, and throw-away, I felt a wave of melancholy flow through my body. At that instant, I faced a moment of truth. Had I made the right choices in my life? How in the heck had I gone from a care-free cheerleader to a middle-aged wife and mother cleaning out a house and getting ready to move to a completely new community without friends or family? Had I peaked with my accomplishments or was the best still yet to come? It sounds so cliché, but you just never seem prepared to face the reality of aging. I certainly wasn’t. Preparing for the move had become my perfect storm.
My two adult daughters had moved out of the house. My husband was working an hour away and was anxious to move closer to work and I was leaving what seemed like a lifetime of memories. More importantly, I was approaching my 50th birthday and seeing the signs of aging daily.
So there, I said it. It really wasn’t about the move, the memories, the family or friends. It really was about the aging process and all the seemingly traumatic emotions that come with it. As I packed the boxes, I realized that the move represented just another one of those life choices…all along life’s very long journey. We’ve heard the phrase that life is short. While it’s difficult to believe that the mid-mark of my life is quickly approaching, ironically, I’m also realizing that life is really, really long. Since it’s so damn long, we need to learn from our mistakes and make life choices that truly give us happiness. Now, that doesn’t mean that life is one big happy party or that we will never experience loss, regret, or challenge. I suppose it’s all those things that make life complicated that shouts out to us that we can’t do it alone.
Through my reflections recently, I’ve realized that to truly enjoy a good day – to make it through this long life - you have to reach out to others to share in the joys, heartaches, and triumphs.
I received an orchid as a going away gift when we moved. Miraculously, the blooms stayed on the stems for over six months. Quite an accomplishment for someone who struggles to keep even the most drought resistant plants alive (OK, I admit, I didn’t water it much – my husband took loving care of the plant). When the last bloom dropped to the floor, I decided it was time to truly start the next leg of this journey.
I don’t remember much these days but I am starting to care less about impressing others and more about the simple joys that life seems to bring every now and then.
Last spring I was organizing my life’s possessions when I came across a note that my daughter wrote when she was young. “I love a good day” was scribbled across a page in all capital letters. I’m sure she was trying to write, “I love you and have a good day” but somehow, reading that note all these years later, loving a good day seemed like a middle-aged woman’s mantra. At the time, I had spent about three weeks preparing to pack up the house I had lived in for nearly 20 years - raised my two daughters, and witnessed some of life’s most precious gifts and experienced difficult times that would leave an indelible mark. I suppose I wasn’t just saying good-bye to a building – I was bidding farewell to a lifestyle - A lifestyle that included friends, neighbors, career, and a history of experiences. The neighborhood I lived in was rebuilt after the Oakland Hills fire in 1991. We moved into one of the first homes constructed after the fire and our new life reflected the metaphor of the phoenix rising theme that emerged after the devastating disaster. We were building a new life as a young family much like the neighborhood reinventing itself.
As I shifted through an attic worth of boxes and separated the goods into piles of save, give-away, and throw-away, I felt a wave of melancholy flow through my body. At that instant, I faced a moment of truth. Had I made the right choices in my life? How in the heck had I gone from a care-free cheerleader to a middle-aged wife and mother cleaning out a house and getting ready to move to a completely new community without friends or family? Had I peaked with my accomplishments or was the best still yet to come? It sounds so cliché, but you just never seem prepared to face the reality of aging. I certainly wasn’t. Preparing for the move had become my perfect storm.
My two adult daughters had moved out of the house. My husband was working an hour away and was anxious to move closer to work and I was leaving what seemed like a lifetime of memories. More importantly, I was approaching my 50th birthday and seeing the signs of aging daily.
So there, I said it. It really wasn’t about the move, the memories, the family or friends. It really was about the aging process and all the seemingly traumatic emotions that come with it. As I packed the boxes, I realized that the move represented just another one of those life choices…all along life’s very long journey. We’ve heard the phrase that life is short. While it’s difficult to believe that the mid-mark of my life is quickly approaching, ironically, I’m also realizing that life is really, really long. Since it’s so damn long, we need to learn from our mistakes and make life choices that truly give us happiness. Now, that doesn’t mean that life is one big happy party or that we will never experience loss, regret, or challenge. I suppose it’s all those things that make life complicated that shouts out to us that we can’t do it alone.
Through my reflections recently, I’ve realized that to truly enjoy a good day – to make it through this long life - you have to reach out to others to share in the joys, heartaches, and triumphs.
I received an orchid as a going away gift when we moved. Miraculously, the blooms stayed on the stems for over six months. Quite an accomplishment for someone who struggles to keep even the most drought resistant plants alive (OK, I admit, I didn’t water it much – my husband took loving care of the plant). When the last bloom dropped to the floor, I decided it was time to truly start the next leg of this journey.
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