"Happy Birthday to Me!"

Every birthday has some meaning to it. Some are a mark in childhood: the very first birthday, becoming a teenager at thirteen, womanhood at "sweet" sixteen, entering adulthood at eighteen. Some mark special moments in adulthood: legal to drink at twenty-one, marking a quarter of a century at twenty-five, reevaluating those childhood goals at the dreaded Three-0! 

In between, birthdays are your own personal Christmas with the opening of presents, gathering with friends and family, having special meals...personalized cakes, and just a great reason to party! After these, birthdays can often take on a less celebratory tone and more as evidence that time passes by too quickly...the big Four-0, the bigger Five-0, the biggest Six-0! There's retirement at sixty-two, Medicare at sixty-five, withdrawing from investments without penalties at seventy, three-quarters of a century at seventy-five, remembering so many of your relatives passed away at eighty...ninety, and then joining the small group of centenarians at the rest home!

For me birthdays, all of them, are special and I've always wanted to mark them in someway. From big parties to quiet gatherings, from dinner out at my favorite restaurant to picnics in the backyard, from inviting family and friends to just my husband and I, birthdays are the next best thing to Christmas. 

Today I turned sixty-one and Manuel was the first to sing me the birthday song and mark it with a wonderful lunch at the Lincoln Cellar Wine Bar. My sister and mother sent me well wishes and gifts, and my niece Jenny and I will be having a birthday pedicure this weekend. Its been special with well wishes from Facebook buddies, AARP, Google, colleagues, and friends. Growing old...I don't recommend it, but the sting of it is greatly lessened by good family, good friends, and good cake!

(Photographs were taken at my second birthday party, September, 1956. It looks like I had a great time, and I got my first tricycle! A tricycle that got me into big trouble. One morning when I saw friends going off to school, I got on my tricycle and followed them. Mom was frantic, getting the neighbor to watch my baby sister while she went looking. I was found around the corner on the steps of the elementary school. When my mom questioned me, I said, "I'm ready to go to school!")

Sincerely, Kathleen

"Cozy Mysteries...Like a Box of Chocolates."

Do you know the feeling you get when you walk into a candy shop and the aroma of chocolate is so overpowering you feel weak in the knees? The different combinations are so numerous that you can't make a decision? You might even compromise by opting for a two-pound box of chocolate-covered cherries, toffee crunch, peanut butter cream to satisfy your cravings all at one time. Well, that's the wonderful frustration I'm experiencing since I discovered cozy mysteries. My two-pound...twenty-pound box of cozies is full of delicious stories, characters, adventures, and recipes, but I feel like Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate factory. Every day I find there is another wonderful book to read, another series in which I can get involved... then another... and another... and another...

Mysteries have always been my "candy shop," and cozy mysteries my "sweet." My sweet tooth first developed when I became a fan of Nancy Drew with The Secret of the Old Clock was my first introduction to the genre. I couldn't wait for Fridays when the Bookmobile arrived at our school, and I could check out another adventure; the librarian always made sure she had another book ready for me. I loved sitting in my dad's big chair picturing myself in the lead trying to determine the answer to the mystery before the last page. In sixth grade I even tried to pen my own "cozy." The Secret Behind the Eight Ball by Kathy Fowler was a hit with my Language Arts teacher. I tried to produce it as a "Show and Tell" play, but I struggled to write, direct, and star in the production.

While enjoying Hallmark Channel's Christmas and detective movies, I discovered that many of the stories were based on cozy books. I took to exploring iBook and Kindle apps discovering thousands of cozy mysteries. I began judging book covers and reading synopses finding two very intriguing books. It was at that point I became a cozy-holic. Spying in High Heels by Gemma Halliday and On What Grounds by Cleo Coyle would be the first of many "sweets" in my box. Facebook, iBook, and the Kindle app have become invaluable as I "Like," "Friend," and "Follow" various authors and bloggers, sign up for several newsletters and email alerts, and join cozy reading groups. I discovered that many of my favorite authors are often responsible for their own PR promotions offering giveaways, prizes, fun videoes, and Facebook events to connect with readers. Over the past few months they have connected with me! And in return I've been a very lucky recipient of several giveaway books and prizes as well as building a fun and inspiring texting relationship.

Join me by leaving a comment. What are the "sweets" in your box? Are you an "...holic"? 

Sincerely, Kathleen

"Happy Birthday, Dad!"

Everett Leland "Lee" Fowler Memorial 

1933-2013

Friday, November 15, 2013

I was watching a television show this past week when ironically the main character lost her father. In efforts to console her she was told, "The best way to keep your father's memory alive is to talk about him...tell me some stories."

Here are some stories:

The stories about my father make him out the trickster: from disassembling and reassembling the principle's car onto the second floor of the school, staging his own death in the middle of the campus quad, or trying to eat a train car full of bananas and never being able to look another banana in the eye again. 

As you may have noticed from the photo montage of my dad's life, he once had long hair combed back with a handful of Pomade...very Elvis. Obviously, as we all know Dad with a buzz haircut, it wasn't a permanent look. After he had his high school graduation photo done, he and some buddies decided to buzz off their hair, but he was the only who followed through with it. When my grandmother saw it, she was horrified by what he had done, and banished him to the backyard. It was summer, so his suspension was more like camping than prison. She finally got used to it, and knew the look was Dad.

My dad's sister Shirley's excellent voice prompted my grandparents to encourage her talent. Not to be left out, they asked if there was an instrument Lee might be interested in learning to play. "Sure," he said, my grandparents hoped for a budding Benny Goodman in their midst. "The ukulele," he announced. Curiously they bought him a beautiful ukulele and he applied the effort to play it. It was a great novelty that my dad could play the ukulele, until my sister sat on it, and since my dad and sister aren't here to refute my version, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

My dad was more than a sports enthusiast; he played and excelled in baseball and football. Grandpa proudly talked about the high school game in which Dad kicked a 25-yard field goal only to have it voided due to a penalty. He kicked it again at the 40-yard mark, and it was good, but due to another penalty he would have to kick it again. Everyone groaned believing there was no way he could kick a 55-yard successfully; Grandpa may have confidently made a bet or two. It was too bad Dad's efforts only counted for 3-points, but a win is a win!

Golf was also one of his passions. He played often sparking the same passion in my brother and me for several years. In the early 70s he and some of his buddies, families in tow, made the trek to an annual golf tournament in McCall, Idaho. I loved watching his swing; in some ways it resembled Jack Nicholas. During his rounds us kids took on the role of "ball finder." If anyone missed the fairway and hit the ball into the woods, we were on the hunt. I was never really sure that off-course balls weren't somehow on purpose.

Dad's competitive nature always kicked in, whether it be Yahtzee or Liar's dice. And when my brother was big enough to pick up the game of golf, "friendly" head-to-head matches ensued and incentives were provided. "The day you can beat me," my dad said, "is the day I'll give you my clubs." The day it happened we all got all kinds of different perspectives of the match. I'm not sure Doug ever got those clubs.

From black licorice to Vienna sausage sandwiches to mince meat pies, his dietary choices could be weird. However, he hated vegetables and so did my brother, my sister, and I. It was a great retort, when broccoli was served, that "if Dad didn't have to eat it, why do we?" We, however, evolved to enjoy a variety of green foods, but I don't believe many green things every crossed his lips.

It is strange to realize that Dad is gone, his chair empty, and Dink and Socks at a loss of what to do. I told my students about losing my dad; telling them I might be a little slow. I was in a kind of fog. After several hugs, and smiles, and "I'm sorries," we got through the morning. As we were lining up for lunch, one of my "little monsters," one who I spend all day trying every strategy to get him to pay attention and listen to directions, came up to me and said, "he's in a good place." I broke down and hugged him tight telling him he was right. My dad is in a good place.

I sure hope heaven is like Hawaii. Heaven has to be like Hawaii...Dad would love that.

"Social? Media"

Do you remember what your mother said? If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Well, apparently many "Facebook posters" and "Twitter tweeters" need a reminder.

My interest in all things social media has been a journey often pleasant, thought provoking, and uplifting. There is reading tweets, viewing posts, pinning pins, liking signs, and weeping at videos. I have tweeted about my Giants, posted photos of my pedicure adventures, pinned over 4000 interesting pins, blogged about brussel sprouts, "like" photos galore, and shed a few tears watching that little girl giving up her lunch money to a local homeless vet. In general, I love "social media!" 

Social media has become very "social" for me. When I retired, I was concerned I'd lose that connection with colleagues, but I have found that I know my Facebook Buddies better now then when I was working. My Pinterest boards rival any professional cookbook, nostalgic photo album, Rick Steves' travel brochure, or entertainment guide. I have also met many fellow online travelers and enjoyed the challenge of a Scrabble match or detective mystery, and with the texting, I love the occasional banter. I am "tweeting," "iMessaging," and "blogging" my way around the 'net. However, all is not well in the land of cyberspace.

I am a proponent that language is powerful; "the pen IS mightier than the sword." I have been appalled and personally offended by the language choices by many who also "tweet," "message," and "blog..." Oh, my! Pablo Sandoval, a key figure in the Giants three championships and a fan favorite, was bombarded with four-letter descriptives when he decided to move on. Curt Schilling's daughter was insulted mercilessly because her father publicly congratulated her on her accomplishments.  Hillary Clinton, in trying to explain her email choices, received a barrage of unflattering and borderline pornographic comments. Would you say these things if you were face-to-face with the person? NO, that's where the bravado ends.

When anonymity seems secure, hidden behind a screen, often miles and miles away, tweeters, messagers, bloggers feel free to say anything without impunity. Sticks and stones break bones, but these words...destroy what I call humanity. Sandoval tried to ignore the fans turned foes; Schilling hunted down his daughter's "word-tackers" and exposed them; Hillary chalked it up to the dirty side of public service. So, how can this method of communication, veiled as free speech, be deterred? Can this ever become extinct? 

In a free society, I see no fair solution. Foul, distasteful language will continue to plague our discourse for as long as we communicate. My hope is that people will not ignore, but strike back by unveiling those Internet bullies and letting them shrivel in the exposure. It used to be "turn the other cheek." It should now return to a golden rule of thumb, "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you."

Remember when your mom asked you, how would you feel if someone said that to you? Think about that...next time.

Sincerely, Kathleen

"Serenity Now!"

"Do you pop in your earbuds with soft flute music? or lie in warm jasmine bubbles midst flickering candles? or do you sit by the window savoring a nice Bordeaux? Maybe, you lotus your body chanting "oommmm?"

When everyday life becomes a traffic jam of boss's demands, reports due yesterday, "to do" lists that only get longer, it is essential to take a moment or sixty to rest and recharge. Before my retirement it seemed impossible to find a time to relax, even the weekend had its own "to do" list. Relaxing meant doing nothing, and there was too much to do...no free moments available. What I didn't realize is that all along the answer was on the tip of my...toes. Pedicures. Pedicures are the answer, and although my experiences are limited in number and very diverse, they all have one thing in common: no computers, no cell phones, no demands, no responsibilities. 

My first pedicure was more celebratory in nature; my neice had reached a notable birthday. Opting for the full treatment, we were ushered into a private room away from the hustle and bustle of the spa's popularity. From a brisk cleaning and exfoliating exposing the refreshed pink skin to a relaxing scented massage that broke down the tightness in my...neck? Oh, yes...the massaging of my feet brought on a relaxing tingle running all the way up to my neck. But, instead of an introspective repose, my neice and I shared the moment by catching up and bonding as adults. We never stopped talking once, and it was enjoyable...

My second pedicure was also celebratory as I reached my own notable birthday. Any new senior citizen deserves being treated to a pedicure! I sat in a small comfortable room, soft lighting, quiet music, allowing me a little more peace and quiet to contemplate my new AARP status. The young lady knew my step-mother, so some of the hour was spent talking about family. However, as she focused on the task at hand...I guess, task at foot, I was able to close my eyes and enjoy the bubbling soak, the massage chair (Can I get one?), and again the wonderful tingling sensation relaxing my shoulder and neck muscles. I am starting to understand the necessity of taking those moments for oneself...

My third and latest pedicure was one I was greatly anticipating. The day spa was known for its tranquil environment, quality Hungarian products, and I had previously enjoyed a wonderful soothing facial, so I knew that I would receive quality treatment. Entering I was enveloped by such pleasing scents and soft music, dimmed lights, the trickling of water, and everyone speaking in soft tones. I sat comfortably; my feet soaking. I soon closed eyes; my body relaxed. Oh...the invigorating exfoliating scrub, the radiating massage, the heated wrap... What was I suppose to do today?...I forgot.

After each pedicure, I experienced a level of euphoria that lingered for hours; I seemed to sleep better for a few nights; my feet maintained a smooth, pinkish glow; and the tinted toenails continued to solicit a little childish giggle. Obamacare should include monthly pedicures...For mental health, they're very medicinal!

"You're Sorry...Really?"

"You’re like the thief who isn’t the least bit sorry he stole, but is terribly, terribly sorry he’s going to jail."             Rhett Butler - Gone with the Wind

Rhett's admonishment of Scarlett pretty much illustrates my views on the "I'm sorry," and as everyone chimes in on Alex Rodriguez's letter of apology, it seemed a good time to reflect on whether there is such a thing as a sincere apology. Too often I have seen the "I'm sorry" being given with the same ease as one would say "hello" or "goodbye," or used to diffuse a situation, acknowledge an accident, or used as a "get-out-of-jail-free" card. Whether it is sincere, or offered out of habit or attached with exemptions, it is a curious expression of regret.

The "Forced...apology" is most unreliable, and often used by parents and teachers as a "teachable moment" for those children who need that shove toward accepting responsibility for their actions. It is an important learning experience knowing when and why to offer apologies, however, at some point, especially for the chronic troublemakers, a more consequence-based approach may need to be consistently employed. "If it happens again..."

The "BUT...apology" is used often...I had to, I had siblings! Once you know when to apologize, it is harder to accept why you need to without deflecting or qualifying your actions. Sorry for pushing my sister, BUT she was bugging me. Sorry for denting the fender, BUT the other driver was so slow. Sometimes the "buts" are more to avoid hurting someone's feelings, almost altruistic. Sorry, I would go out with you, BUT I'm going out of town. Sorry, I didn't tell you, BUT you're so touchy. The "Sorry, BUT..." apologies are really hard to take seriously.

The "habit...apology" is more a common courtesy than an admission of regret. Your brother is howling with a stubbed toe...Sorry, I didn't see you standing there. A friend is frowning at you...Sorry, I didn't know you wanted to join us. A familiar face stands before you...Sorry, I forgot your name. Ooooh! Sorry..."habit" apologies occur so often, that even if there is a kernel of truth or regret, they are often overlooked or dismissed.

The "honorable...apology" is harder to give because they actually require an action attached, proof that feeling sorry goes beyond the words and into behavioral changes or atonement, making sure it will never happen again. 

So, A-Rod knowing what you know now...if you could go back in time, would you say no to the PEDs or would you just do a better job of covering your tracks?

Mom's Motto, "You Want Dessert? Eat Your Vegetables!"

Growing up my mother was a good cook serving many meat-and-potato type meals to satisfy my meat-and-potato type dad, however, she knew greens were an important part of the well-rounded plate. And that's where the "ick" would begin. I liked green beans and salads, but using variety, broccoli, brussel sprouts, and cauliflower would find their way on the menu. It wasn't enough that my dad didn't like those veggies, she knew what was best for growing children, and "do as I say, not as 'your father' do" was the ultimate response.

Fast forward to college where I made my own choices for a well-balanced diet. Confronted with pizza parlors, fast food drive-thrus, and dormitory cafeterias, I opted for lots of side salads and green beans, maybe green peas...it isn't green, but corn is a vegetable, right? So, my limited use of the unholy three would be reduced to only if they were raw and slathered in Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing. And brussel sprouts? NEVER!

Then enters post-grad era and a "I've got a great recipe" roommate. Suzanne was the kind of cook who preferred a lighter, natural fare. She made the best roasted chicken and grilled sole, but it was the sides that changed my life. I remember peeking in the kitchen at the broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots on the counter, and spying the ranch dressing in the fridge to help rescue me. Oh, no...oh, yes! They were delicious...steamed to a perfect aldente, lightly sprinkled with her own mixture of spices or just a little salt and pepper. At one bite, I was hooked...but, brussel sprouts? No! Well, maybe...

I am not sure of the exact circumstances when brussel sprouts revealed themselves to me, but I know that it was most likely a situation I found difficult to say no or the napkin was way too small to hold what my brother called "little lettuce heads." I do remember that I was hooked, and even sought out recipes of my own to put brussel sprouts on my plate. From roasting them with squash and mushrooms to sauteing with olive oil and Italian seasonings, these little darlings have become my favorite go-to side. 

My mother's face as I voluntarily and happily served brussel sprouts one Thanksgiving...priceless.