Contrary to popular belief, I do more than just eat, sleep and make art.

I’m in the throes of a kitchen renovation right now; hopefully, it’ll be done within the next decade.

Because I have an artistic sensibility, it’s been hard for me to narrow down my preferences. I can appreciate super rustic looks featuring a lot of dark wood as well as sleek contemporary styles bordering on sterile.

In the midst of this project, I had the chance to go on vacation with my son over his spring break. We traveled to Treasure Island, Florida where I literally sat on the beach painting mermaids for a week.

Now I am back home, trying to avoid making difficult decisions about stupid things like countertops and drawer pulls.

Here is what my kitchen used to look like:

Just kidding.

Here is what it looks like as of today.

I have no appliances, so if anyone wants to invite me over to dinner, I’m available.

I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

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Last night, I shared with a new friend how someone hurt my heart this weekend.

I explained how I’d been dancing on the beach, basking in the sunrise, grateful for the opportunity to plant my feet firmly in the sand and be so close to the ocean. “I selected the spot carefully,” I said. “Off to the left of the only sunbather on the beach.”

I told him how I’d popped in my headphones, so I could tune out the world and tune into my body.

Fifty months ago, in the throes of acute benzodiazepine withdrawal, my body was in continuous pain. Unable to walk or talk, or take care of any of my most basic needs, I was confined indoors (mostly) for over a year.

I never thought I’d heal.

So there I am, quietly expressing gratitude to the Universe when this woman ~ this stranger ~ tells me to move myself down the beach. She tells me I’m distracting her.

“Your ass is in my face,” she says.

Obviously, she didn’t know about what I’d been through ~ but it felt terrible to be shamed for feeling being myself, for expressing my joy.

“Aw babe,” my friend said. “Don’t cry. All that’s over now.”

The rabbis teach that to truly know another person, we must not know only their pleasures and their successes but also the sorrows they bear.

Burying my face in my friend’s shoulder, he stroked my back. “If you need to cry, it’s okay,” he said. “Cry long and hard.”

The moment he gave me permission to share my sadness, my burden was cut in half, and I didn’t feel like crying any more.

I don’t know if he realizes the gift he gave me, but I do know these tiny interactions are what life is all about.

And I believe it is our charge to remember to do that for someone else every day.

Be on the lookout for someone to help today.

Who/what helps you feel better when you’re feeling low? 

1. He Has Shpilkes.
What? You don’t know Yiddish? Don’t worry; I’ll help you. The dictionary defines “shpilkes” as sitting on pins and needles. Well, that doesn’t really capture it, does it? When you say someone “has shpilkes,” it implies that person has a nervous energy, an impatience. Simply put: Hubby can’t sit still.

While I slept late on morning two of our vacation, Hubby got up and rented a truck. His goal? Transport two humongous palm trees to The Happy House. But that’s not all. He dug two huge holes, added soil, and rolled the huge trees into our backyard.

Then he mulched and watered.

Then he golfed 36-holes.

Thirty-six.

After that, he bought a mountain bike and went zipping through unfamiliar terrain. When he came home – in the dark — he showed me his ripped up his legs.

“The trails are awesome!” he gushed. “But I should probably get a helmet. And a headlamp.”

During vacation, Hubby burned 8,673,412 calories.

I burned 17.

2. He’s Losing His Hearing.
Apparently, I’ve started speaking at a decibel that only dogs can appreciate.

3. He Snores.
At home, I’ve got ear-plugs. But I forgot to bring them to The Happy House. Let’s just say, that’s been rectified. They’re there now.

4. He Relaxes. Eventually.
It takes my man a bit of time to switch from work mode to relaxation mode. On our last day, after he’d watered his new trees, unplugged all the electronics, turned down the hot water heater, and adjusted the air conditioner to AUTO, he gathered up all our garbage and drove it to some gas station where he filled up the gas tank of our rental car.

When he got back, Hubby brought his breakfast outdoors to the lanai. Putting his feet up on a wicker table, he shoveled spoonfuls of granola and yogurt into his mouth.

“Look at those palm trees,” he said, admiring his handiwork. “Now it looks tropical down here.”

{you know, as opposed to before, when we could only admire the stand of palm trees on the far side of the man-made pond.}

“Did you have a good time?” Hubby asked.

I nodded.

Because how could we not have a good time? The Happy House was made possible by my husband’s hard work. Hubby is a worker bee and, truth be told, he’s happiest when he’s busy. He works hard, so he sleeps hard. He thinks the beach is boring. Plus, he’s practically an albino, so even SPF 1000 doesn’t quite do the job. And nobody likes a sunburn.

But you know what?

5. He’s that guy.
After all these years, he still carries my suitcase to the car. He holds my boarding pass and watches my bag when I have to pee. He’ll buy the curtain rod, and then return it because his crazy wife decided it wasn’t right, and then he’ll go back and buy it again because his crazy wife screwed up and, yes, that first curtain rod was right after all.

When she was pining to leave Oz and return to Kansas, Dorothy Gale closed her eyes and said: “There’s no place like home.”

How many people are lucky enough to have two places that hold their heart?

And how many girls are lucky enough to know home is wherever we are, as long as I’ve got my ear plugs we’re together?

What little things drive you bonkers about your partner? What things do you love the most?

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Happy anniversary, Hubby. Eighteen years. You knows I loves you. Do you think we can get stock in ear plugs? Is that a thing? If so, maybe we should look into that.

I’m not known for having the most incredible sense of style.

Y’all know I live in a sleeping bag coat for most of the year.

When we bought The Happy House and the task of decorating a second home fell to me, I kind of vomited in my mouth a little.

Luckily, our place in Florida is situated near two HomeGoods Stores.

{If you’re scratching your head going, What is HomeGoods?, it’s like Marshall’s with a delicious TJ Maxx filling.}

After we bought mattresses and basic bedding, we decided to tackle the foyer.

Because, you know, that’s the first thing people see when they walk in your house.

And we all know first impressions stick!

Anyway, I was adamant that The Happy House needed to be filled with joy, which for me means lots of bright colors and lots of whimsy.

One day while shopping, my friend Jan pointed at this awful table.

“That’s a cute table,” she said.

I looked at it, nonplussed.

Because it was gray.

Where was my color? Where was my whimsy?

But it was made well enough, and it was cheap the price was right.

So we jammed that sad, gray table into my rental car.

I figured it could always be returned.

That afternoon, Hubby bought a couple cans of spray paint.

Everyone knows a fresh coat of paint can transform a room.

Why not a drab piece of furniture, right?

Duh.

Thirty minutes later, Hubby killed the can of spray paint.

And I was dancing in the middle of the road.

(Sorry, new neighbors.)

But that table?

Totally awesome sauce.

Inspired, I forced Hubby to take me to Sarasota Architectural Salvage: nine jazillion square feet of crap treasures like old lobster traps and wooden oars, brass ship lamps and carved wooden mermaids, concrete urns and gargoyles. I could go on. The place is huge. We picked up a couple of knick-knacks, and voila.

Our foyer is on its way.

Now, if only we had some window treatments so the gators out back don’t see us walking around naked.

What Do-It-Yourself Project have you done where you got it right?

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After being cooped up inside the airplane for thirty minutes, a cabin filled with passengers learned we would not be taking off.

“We can’t seem to locate the pilot,” the flight attendant announced over the loudspeaker.

Everyone groaned.

“We’re doing our best to remedy the situation. In the meantime, sit tight.”

Sit tight.

Is there really any other way to sit on an airplane these days?

The man next to me had claimed the armrest and, as he began to snore, his legs relaxed into a wide stance, his knees encroaching into my tight space.

I thought about the Good Ole Days.

Before we had to take off our shoes. Before we had to be patted down and swabbed. Before we had to be x-rayed and scanned and probed.

Once upon a time, people loved to travel by air. Folks even dressed up to look nice in the airport because air travel was for the elite. Cheerful clerks gave us our boarding passes, tagged our bags, and placed them gently on the conveyer belt. So long as our suitcases didn’t weigh over eleventy-seven tons, we were allowed to check two bags through without any additional charges.

(It’s true.)

In the good ole days, security was minimal. A man could carry a whole case of rubbing alcohol onto the plane if he wanted; no one would have thought a thing about it. No one had to remove his shoes or belts or jacket. We did not have to be x-rayed or scanned or swabbed or probed. Our gels and liquids did not have to be segregated into quart-sized baggies.

Once upon a time, air travel was sexy. Flight attendants were women. We called them stewardesses. They liked their jobs and seemed interested in passengers’ comfort.

In the 1970s, stewardesses had names like Kimberly, Debbie, Julie and Susie. They wore starched uniforms and easy smiles. Tall and tan and leggy, stewardesses looked like life-sized Barbie Dolls.

Appearing quickly at the touch of a button, stewardesses wore starched uniforms and easy smiles, prepared to offer an extra blanket.

But back then, everyone had blankets. And pillows. And if you got on the plane early enough, there were even magazines to borrow. Good ones.

(It’s true.)

People rarely needed anything. After all, our bags had been checked and were out of the way, so we read books or napped. No one walked around admonishing passengers to turn off their electric devices because those things hadn’t been invented yet.

Once passengers buckled up, they started to think about the meal they were going to receive because for a time, every major airline served 4-course meals. And these meals were gourmet.

(It’s true.)

The Transportation Library archival collections at Northwestern University lists scores of old airline menus. United Airlines’ coach class meals included salads, desserts, sandwiches and beverages, with menu items such as “Broiled Tenderloin Tips a la Deutsch” (1973, Chicago – San Francisco) and Continental boasted ” Breast of Chicken Vodkaliano” (1979, Washington to Denver).

My husband remembers United Airline’s Sunshine Flight that departed daily from Rochester, New York to Florida in the 1970s. “Everyone got crab legs and a slice of key-lime pie,” he says with a faraway look in his eye.

I remember airline meals coming on silver trays with cloth napkins and real cutlery. Everyone was given knives. And no one worried about getting stabbed.

On my recent trip to Florida, I felt fortunate to have received my tiny pouch of pretzels and half can of soda.

While we waited for the pilot to be located, the woman on my right read over my shoulder as as I typed my words. “I see you’re writing about the way air travel used to be.” She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. “There used to be a lot more legroom.”

She’s right.

Once upon a time, there was more legroom.

And more space between seats, too.

And they never misplaced the pilots.

What do you remember about flying in the Good Old Days?

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“Being happy never goes out of style.” ~Lilly Pulitzer

 When I was in middle school, the pretty girls took off their Fair Isle sweaters in May. They sloughed their turtlenecks with the little whales on them and switched up the covers on their Bermudas bags. Spring meant sunshine and tulips and daffodils and lovely lightweight dresses.

One day, I dared to ask a pretty girl where she found her colorful sleeveless shift.

“It’s not from here,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her very flat chest.

“But where did you get it?”

This particular pretty girl – let’s call her Courtney — flipped her hair and caught it in one hand, a move I could never master.

“It wouldn’t work on you,” she said. “It’s a Lilly.”

That night, I consulted my Official Preppy Handbook. It showed a photograph of a similar looking dress to the one Courtney had worn in school that day. The handbook stated that Lilly Pulitzer clothing was a “must-have” item for all “preppy” women.

In middle school, I didn’t care that my mother made kick-ass matzah balls.

I just wanted to be a prep.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I thought about Courtney’s words. A little Jewish girl with a big nose, I’d never look good in a casual shift dress. I’d never rock pale pink lip-gloss. At summer camp, when I got off the sailboat, my hair was a frizzy triangular mess. I’d never look like I’d spent the day relaxing on the yacht. Who did I think I was?

About five years ago, I was in Florida shopping with my friend, Jan, when we passed a Lilly Pultizer Shop. I’d never seen one before. We don’t have Lilly Shops in Western, New York. Why would we? We wear sleeping bag coats for most of the year.

Anyway, Jan encouraged me to go in. She may have physically pulled me through the door.

I didn’t think I had any business being there.

But I sifted through the yummy racks filled with whimsical fabrics.

I heard Courtney’s voice in my head.

What was I doing? I was still that Jewish girl. And now I had boobies. Big ones. How was I ever going to fit into anything Lilly? It was ridiculous.

Jan handed me a pile of dresses and commanded I try them on.

And there was this one.

When I came out of the dressing room, the Lilly ladies made a fuss.

{But, you know, they work on commission; they’re paid to smile and coo.}

Still.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and I liked the way I looked.

I’m no socialite.

And I’m decidedly unpreppy.

But I bought it.

Because screw you, Courtney.

It works on me.

Lily Pulitzer passed away last month, on April 7, 2013 at the age of 81. I am confident her legacy of brightly colored fabrics featuring flamingos & seals & peacocks & turtles & elephants & hippoptamuses & flowers & flowers & flowers will live on forever. A believer in the power of whimsy, I like to think we would have been friends.

• • •

May 14th marks the beginning of my 4th year in the blogosphere. Come back next week because I’m giving away a Lilly Pulitzer handbag, baby!

In the meantime, tell me about something you never thought you could wear/do/be, but you did it anyway!

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Many summers ago, our family went to a local art festival, and while I visited another booth, my son found a turquoise and green glass pendant and, though he only had eight dollars in his pocket, he convinced the vendor to sell it to him.

We coined the piece of jewelry my “compliment necklace” because every time I wore it, I received kind words from strangers who gushed over the glass that glowed in the sun.

I loved my necklace like nobody’s business, and I wore it every day.

Recently, while we were vacationing in Florida, the glass pendant slipped off its silver chain and smashed on the bathroom tile.

“NoooOooooo!” I wailed, falling to my knees. “NoOoo! No! NoooOooo!”

Carrying the jagged shards in my open palm, I showed the pieces to my son who happened to be sitting in his brand new rocking chair, reading a book, and eating a slice of pie.

Standing, my boy put one hand on my shoulder. He’s taller than I am now, so he looked down at me a little. Stepping aside, he pointed to his new rocker, not 24-hours old.

“Come. Sit down. Have a little pie. You’ll feel better.” He offered me his plate.

I shook my head. Because I didn’t want any pie.

I wanted my glass pendant back.

“You bought it for me when you were 7,” I complained. “Every time I wore it, I thought of you.”

My son settled back down in his rocking chair. “If we didn’t lose people and things we love, we wouldn’t know how important they are to us.” My son shoveled some pie into his mouth and pointed to his chest. “Anyway, you don’t need a necklace to think of me. I’m right here.”

At home, TechSupport doesn’t let me tuck him into bed anymore. But, the night my pendant smashed, my son let me cuddle with him for a few minutes. As I stroked his spiky crew cut, I saw a silver thread in his hair.

I tried to pick it out, but it was attached.

Turns out, my 13-year-old has a gray hair.

My husband and I have said our son is an old soul. To us, he’s always possessed the understanding, empathy, and kindness of someone with more life experience.

As a youngster he always shared his toys. He was comfortable with rules, and sometimes, as I explained things to him, he eyed me suspiciously, as if to say: Of course we don’t write on walls, or touch hot pots on the stove, or stick fingers in electrical sockets. Of course, we don’t bite our friends. Or push them. Duh.

Over the years, I’ve complained when he’s been overlooked for awards. It kills me each Friday when his middle school publishes its list of “Great Kids of the Week,” and his name never makes the list. Meanwhile, he doesn’t care. He tells me he doesn’t need his name announced over the loudspeaker or his picture posted in the hallway. He knows about his good deeds, and that’s enough. A stellar student, he doesn’t like me to mention his grades. When he was bullied in elementary school, he refused to retaliate. Even when his father and I gave him permission to kick the bastard who was bugging him in his cahones, our son told us he believed in nonviolence. Like Gandhi. How did he even know about Gandhi in 5^th grade? Though middle school can be an unhappy time as teens jockey for popularity, Tech has maintained a core group of smart, kind people who are loyal to each other.

Our son has never been interested in material things.

He has simple requests.

A bed.

A book.

A rocking chair.

A slice of pie.

That one single silver strand of hair on his head confirmed it for me: proof positive that my kid is an old soul — unusually understanding, wise and empathetic beyond his years.

Don’t get me wrong: he’s a teenager, too. He eats constantly, hates putting away his laundry, and making his bed. He laughs at dumb YouTube videos and would play Minecraft all day, if we let him.

But he knows how to talk me down when ants are crawling across the kitchen floor. Or tonight, while I held my stomach as I listened to the news, crammed with voices, the President talking about justice and violence and terror — again.

This is the world I brought you into, my son. A world where things are always breaking. And nothing is solid.

But he has the right words. Reminds me that most people are good people. That G-d hears prayers and love transcends zip codes and time zones.

“Kinda makes you realize your necklace wasn’t such a big deal,” he said.

What will I ever do without him?

Have you ever lost a sentimental something? Do you put on a strong front for your children? Or do you let them see you cry?

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I am not known for my shopping prowess.

My mother-in-law considers me picky.

She isn’t wrong.

I suppose I am selective.

I like to surround myself with things I love, and sometimes it takes a while to find those things.

I would rather go without something than purchase an item that doesn’t feel right.

It has to feel right.

However.

Hubby has put me in charge with decorating The Happy House.

For many women, this would be a dream come true.

For me, decorating a 2^nd home is a bit of a chore.

Because we need so many things.

And I want them to feel right.

After many long days searching for the right rug, I started playing around on the Internet.

I found a site called Company C.

And then I saw Yukata.

He was just what I was looking for.

I could tell.

I drove a long way to be sure.

I tried to play it cool, but you know how it is with love.

You can’t fake it.

I fell in love with a 6 x 6 inch square of wool.

Like head over heels.

But it was such a production.

Yukata was not ready.

I would have to be patient.

I made arrangements to receive Yukata 6 weeks later.

This is how men waiting for Internet wives must feel, I decided.

Because my desire was real; my longing excruciating.

The day Yukata was scheduled to arrive, I put on my lip-gloss.

{Okay, it was Chapstick with sunscreen, but still.}

I sat in the driveway for hours, waiting.

Finally, I heard a low rumble and saw the brown UPS truck heading in my direction.

I met the driver at the curb. He hoisted Yukata over his shoulder and followed me to my front door.

Once inside, I noticed the plastic had been slit at the top.

Oh no. I panicked. What if he is damaged? What if he has to go back? I’ve waited so long.

The deliveryman sliced open the plastic.

I thought he might shiver on the cold floor.

But Yukata laid still — waiting for my fingertips.

From the floor, Yukata revealed his beauty.

And it was good.

What’s your mojo when it comes to decorating your home? Is it easy for you? Tough? How do you know you are making the right purchase? Have you ever made a costly decorating mistake?

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I did not receive any compensation from Company C for this post. And that is a darn shame. But I’d love another Company C rug. Or a pillow. Or some fabric. Frankly, everything they sell is gorgeous.

You left such positive comments about my recent post regarding our second home, I felt I needed to let you in on a little secret.

You know how I told you my husband fell in love with a sandy lot?

It’s true. The lot was nothing but sand when he first saw it.

But he also saw this:

Now you see why we call it “The Happy House”!

Talk about *erecting* a house.

What other construction related double-entendres can you think of?

Wow, I’m really *opening myself up* for this one.

If it helps, imagine you are building a home in Florida.

Speaking of which, I wonder if it is *warm and wet down there*.

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NOTE: This was my 469th post. You can’t make this stuff up.

 

Several years ago, after too many hard winters spent shoveling too much snow in Western New York, Hubby decided to look into purchasing a vacation home somewhere more south. We made an offer on a foreclosure property and figured we’d have an answer within a few weeks.

But months passed and as the papers changed hands for the fourth time, someone suggested we consider building a new house.

I was horrified. Why would we build when there was so much real estate available?

I insisted we dig in our heels and wait.

In reality, I needed time to adjust to the idea.

Growing up, I knew people whose parents owned second homes. They were rich kids who were not always nice. My brother and I were raised in a modest home in a neighborhood where no one had vacation houses. I grew up with the implicit understanding that people with multiple mailing addresses were frivolous, obnoxious and ostentatious. I internalized this message.

To my very core.

I was okay with waiting to find another place.

Forever, if that was what it took.

When the bank accepted our offer, Hubby hopped on a plane to inspect the home that we had seen eighteen months prior.

Since it had been unoccupied for quite some time, the house had become a bit of a fixer-upper.

Bushes, once carefully maintained, grew wild and now covered the windows. The exterior required fresh paint. The roof needed to be replaced; the same for the air-conditioning unit. Oh, and the carpet in the master bedroom needed to go.

Because there was bat guano in there, you guys.

From 1250 miles away, Hubby called to tell me he was killing our offer.

Oh well, I thought as I wiped down the kitchen table with a paper towel. Que sera sera.

“I’m going to check out lots.”

“Lots of what?” I asked absently, paying slightly more attention to a sticky area on the table than my husband on the other end of the line.

“You know, to build on.”

I balled up the paper towel in my hands and sat down on the floor crisscross applesauce.

It had been hard enough for me to consider buying a second house, but I could justify it (somehow) if it was a foreclosure property. If the house was in foreclosure, I reasoned, we would be helping to revive a blighted neighborhood.

Building a second house seemed crazy.

But my husband fell in love with a sandy spot and took a leap of faith.

As the foundation was poured, we promised to keep things on the down-low.

And we were doing great until Hubby told his friends about our secret project.

That’s when people started  asking questions that made me uncomfortable. I felt invisible stabby fingers pointing at me, accusing me of being “mean” or “snobby.”

Many months ago, I read Mary Ballice Nelligan’s post “Hiding In Plain Sight” where she explores her aversion to receiving expensive gifts. She wrote:

“Whenever I get a gift, especially one I’ve wanted and will treasure, the critical voices-in-my-head work overtime to ensure I don’t overdose on joy. While some people flaunt their gifts or humbly receive them, my first reaction is to hide. And withhold.”

Yes! I thought! That’s it exactly. That’s why I haven’t been telling anyone about the house.

Because the message screaming in my head was: “With all the people struggling in the world, who am I to get a new house? A second house? I don’t deserve it.”

And yet.

Owning a second home somewhere warm has been my husband’s dream for a long time. He has worked hard for decades. Together, we have saved to make his dream a reality.

And guess what?

The three of us just spent some time in the Happy House, and I want to be able to write about our adventures there without feeling ashamed.

As Mary said:

“Withholding good news or bad stunts my ability to connect and feel intimate with another human being.”

You have seen me at my lowest: when my computer crashed and I lost everything. You have read about my darkest sorrows.

So today I am sharing a bit of my joy with you.

I hope you will not think of me as being a braggart. I still squirm a little, feeling that having this Happy House is inappropriate, somehow. But I am proud of my husband for dreaming big and working to make his dream a reality. He inspires me to continue to write hard so one day I create something worthy for my readers. {That is my dream.} And I hope you are encouraged to believe that if you work hard, it is possible to achieve the results you desire. Oh, and if someone invites you to share their greatest happiness with you? For goodness sakes, enjoy it. Without shame.

Today, I ask you to share something you feel really good about. Go ahead. You have my permission. I’d love to hear about your joy.

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