Pumpkin Guts

Braces for Halloween and a Formal Apology

Halloween brings out the scary in me.

And, no, I’m not talking about a scary costume. What’s scary is that I morph into someone I don’t even recognize.

Allow me to explain. For the rest of the year I (mostly) avoid sugar. I don’t put sugar in my cappuccino or my tea. I don’t eat sugary cereals. I am careful with desserts.

But on Halloween … I go all out.

I have to try one of everything. And sometimes two, or three. I am not joking. I once wrote a Halloween blog post entitled “What not to eat on Halloween”, which basically listed every piece of candy I ate that night. The title of the post was a joke (ha, ha) … What not to eat on Halloween? The candy wrappers. That was my lesson.

Then there was the one year we bought two huge bags of candy (for a total of 10 pounds) and hid them high on a shelf in the laundry room until Halloween night. Except that on Halloween night ... Where's the Candy? Only 5 pounds left, and this was before trick-or-treating. Now, in my defense I didn’t eat all that candy, and there were other guilty parties involved, but still.

Another year was the tootsie roll year. I don't know what-in-the-heck was wrong with me, but I think I ate ... well, I won't tell you how many tootsie rolls I ate, and I wasn't picky: the big fat ones, the long skinny ones, and the small bite-sized ones all called my name. According to Google it takes a 1/4 mile run or 550 steps to burn off one small Tootsie Roll, so it took quite a while to burn off that tootsie roll binge.

Last year, to help me get a grip, I did something smart. Well, brilliant, if you ask me. On Halloween morning, bright and early, I scheduled a dental appointment. Why would I do such a thing? Well, let me tell you. After cleaning, scraping, buffing, and flossing I wasn't letting anything near those pearly whites.

I was the Queen of Moderation, the Resistor of Temptation, and the Epitome of Steely Resolve.

This year I decided to do something similar except instead of scheduling an appointment with my dentist, I made one with our orthodontist. Yes, I am an adult who is getting braces (or rather,  invisalign). So after enduring all the prep work before getting my invisalign trays on Dec. 2 (a consultation, an x-ray, and in-depth photos) I am very conscious of my teeth and have no desire for any candy. Brilliant, yes?

Finally, here is a totally last minute Halloween costume formula, which works whether you're eating candy or not ...

formal attire + I'm sorry name tag = a formal apology

(ha! get it?)

(btw, those are my mother's wedding gloves)

The Public Library and Community Outreach

Last week I visited the Van Gogh exhibit at the Columbia Museum of Art. After a lovely afternoon wandering around the museum, we then walked across the street to the Richland County Public Library. My sister, Laura, who is the Assistant Director for Information Services at the University of South Carolina School of Medicine Library, wanted to show us an example of the new age of public libraries which focuses on community outreach.

I was blown away. The Richland Library, with its dramatic and exciting architecture, is a public library in the heart of downtown Columbia. It offers 240,000 square feet of creative spaces to help patrons learn and grow while strengthening the connections that bring them together as a community. Some of their services include:

1- Business, Careers and Research Center (with access to computers, advice from a career coach, practice interviews, and resume assistance)

2- Makerspaces and Studios (offering free workshops such as woodworking,  jewelry-making, movie production)

3- weekly Farmers' Market

4- public art displays

5- cafe` 

6- auditorium and theater

7- Social Work Department (to help area residents seek reliable information on healthcare, housing and food) (they even host a flu clinic)

8- Children's Room/Teen Center

And then there was this genius idea:

9- Book Club Sets (in which you can check out multiple copies of a book to host a Book Club) 

The Richland County Public Library is beautiful, bright, clean, welcoming, and enlightening. The programs and services offered are amazing, and in an age which has seen the decline of the public library, the Richland Library is a shining example on how the public library can still be the heart and soul of a community. 

The Timothy Pantry

"Mom, you seriously need to go shopping," Timothy announced yesterday. "The pantry is empty."

Well, empty it was not, so he clarified his statement.

"What I'm talking about is a Jonathan-is-coming-home pantry," he explained. "Now that's a full pantry. I also like the Jonathan-is-coming-home meals that you make."

Busted. There is also a Nicholas-is-coming-home pantry, but it's a little less frequent because he lives in Arkansas. I freely admit that before the older boys come home, my tendency to stock the pantry and refrigerator is akin to the father offering the fattened calf to his prodigal son. And Timothy knows this all too well. Last month, after an especially big grocery store haul, I excitedly showed him the pantry. The shelves were packed with sodas of all kind (which we never get), chips, cookies, pasta, cereal boxes (everything from Cheerios to Fruit Loops), and Little Debbie cakes (a real treat). Timothy looked at the pantry and with a touch of irony said, "Jonathan is coming home this weekend, isn't he?"

So yesterday I listened to Timothy lament the state of our pantry, and because I felt little sorry for him, poor neglected thing that he is, I asked him what Jonathan-is-coming-home meals he would like me to make. Just like that he rattled off a list: tuna spaghetti, chicken and polenta (the one with the tomato sauce), that spicy beef with the mashed potatoes, breaded Italian chicken, and homemade pizza which, evidently, I haven't made in a while.

"That's a whole week right there," he said helpfully.

I looked at my growing boy. Earlier, when he came downstairs for breakfast, I demanded that he stop growing because there was no way my baby could be six feet tall. When he told me that I needed to add two inches, I said uh-uh no way so he pulled out the tape measure to prove he was right.

My baby is officially six feet, two inches tall.

And that baby was still standing there, grinning, and looking hungry. So fine. I made chicken and polenta for dinner.

And today, since my menu planning is complete thanks to you-know-who, I'll go grocery shopping and stock a Jonathan-is-coming-home pantry ... all for Timothy.

Speak to Me Sunday: Fuzzy Slippers

This morning I was going through my emails when I noticed that Amazon had sent me a list of recommended reading. Number one on the list was How to Make a Living as a Writer.

Huh. I cannot even begin to tell you how serendipitous that was.

Just a few years ago, Joe was doing our taxes and made an interesting discovery. Our eldest son, who had an engineering internship during the summer and another one over the Christmas holidays, actually made more money that year than I did as a writer.

On one hand we were laughing and saying, "Yay, Nicho!" (especially my engineering husband who expects our sons to contribute financially to their college education); on the other hand, I was like ... DANG.

I love writing, but for all the heart, soul, blood, sweat and tears I pour into it, there's not a lot to show for all the work.

Sometimes this bothers me. I mean, who doesn't like to get recognized for the work they do? It's nice being told you are getting a raise, or given a bonus for finishing a project, or called up on stage to receive an award. It's nice being told you did a good job, or that you are making a difference.

But whenever my thoughts go down that road I pause and think of those who work hard, sacrifice to make ends meet, get up early in the morning or work late into the night, and who do all this without expecting anything in return except good health in order to get up the next day and do it all over again. In a society in which popularity is measured in Facebook likes and Twitter shares, and where recognition is given for throwing a football or for the latest hit song, the Real World is full of those who do what they need to do and that's it.

Hard work is not always celebrated. Or recognized. Success is not always measured in dollar signs.

So in the end, I am perfectly okay with the fact that my taxable income isn't indicative of my hard work, or that when people ask what I do and I say writer ... they still want to know what I do.

Besides, I get to do what I do while wearing my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. So it's all good.

illustration from

An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses

A gondolier, a baseball player, and Mrs. Clinton walked into a bar ...

Actually.

They walked into my house.

Last night I hosted Halloween Bunco and Timothy, who was home and therefore pressed into taking our group photo, commented afterwards that we know how to have fun. (He also might have used the word "crazy" but he meant crazy-fun.) (At least, I'm pretty sure that's what he meant.)

But it HAS been crazy-fun with these gals. We've gathered together once a month now for almost 17 years (I know this because, as the youngest of our children, Timothy is our "Bunco Baby"). We've laughed, cried, and celebrated one another. We've watched our children graduate high school, then college. There have been weddings and births. Half of the group came with me to Italy earlier this month, and the other half cheered us on. We're all different, with unique talents, but we have the common bond of friendship.

Anyway, a gondolier, a baseball player, and Mrs. Clinton walked into my house. Along with several witches, Robin (Batman's sidekick), and a girl from dia de los muertos with the most expertly applied Halloween makeup.

And what was I dressed up as? I wore a formal dress with "I'm sorry" written on a name tag. A formal apology ... get it?

See? Crazy fun.

In Which I was Caddie for a Day

Yesterday I went golfing with Joe.

Wait. Allow me to clarify: yesterday I drove a golf cart while Joe golfed. 

It was actually my idea. My plan was to play caddie, drive the golf cart, and take photos of the fall foliage around the golf course. 

But the weather did not cooperate. 

It was foggy, very damp, and the fogginess and dampness did a number on my hair--FRIZZY out to there (even Joe commented on the state of my hair). It was also chilly (I drove the golf cart wrapped in a blanket) and everything was gray--the sky, clouds, fog, and even my sweater and blanket. No colors, just drabness, so no pretty photos.  

But I rallied and did my best to be a good caddie for Joe. I was very helpful. In my opinion, golf is too complicated and involves too much math and too many clubs. Really, one should only need three clubs: a driver, putter, and 7-iron. That's all I use when I play which, strangely enough, works for me. So in my role as caddie, whenever Joe wasn't driving or putting I helpfully advised him to use a 7-iron. 

I was also ready to look for balls, but Joe is a pretty good player and all his balls landed on the fairway. Well, except one which landed in the lake. I couldn't help him with that one.

Finally, since I was the official scorekeeper, I dutifully recorded pars, bogeys, and birdies. But I also used the little squares on the scorecard to draw smiley faces and hearts. 

After 18 holes, Joe's golf card was pretty.