Nip It in the Bud!

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I was out raking leaves the other day—a nice break from chaining my butt to my chair during deadlines—and while I breathed in the chilly fall air and cleaned up the gardens a phrase popped into my head: Nip it in the bud.

Maybe it was the appearance of roses still on one of the bushes that got me thinking about buds. More likely it was my subconscious working overtime, always trying to figure out ways to improve myself. When it comes to my brain and the things it conjures up, I have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy; but I’m glad it tossed out the “nip it” idea regardless.

I’m already thinking of the ways nipping it can alleviate a lot of the stress I cause myself. Like when it comes to small injustices that inspire me to fight instead of back down. My grandfather was of the mind that “if it’s only money, it’s not worth it.” My husband feels the same. But I’m dogged when it comes to unfair situations, like companies that have been incompetent or unethical. I’ve cried writing three-page letters detailing work gone wrong or unfounded overcharges. I spent countless hours on the phone dealing with my medical insurance and bills not covered when I went through breast cancer treatment. Have you dealt with the health care industry these days? It’s a lot like running in circles, and it made me exhausted and upset during a time when I needed to heal. Wish I’d been smart enough then to just to nip it in the bud by settling things quickly.

Another stress-inducer: my looooong memory. My husband remarked the other morning, “You don’t forget anything, do you?” Okay, not much, which is one of my problems and a big reason I need to practice more nipping. I can recall conversations verbatim from decades before. I remember the good and the bad, people I’ve loved and who’ve done me wrong, those who’ve lent me a hand and those who’ve torn me up with lies. I’d like to blame my hyper-retentiveness on being a writer. We’re a sensitive lot with skin not near as thick as we’d like. We seem to want to swim through our emotions instead of taking the bridge across them.

That’s why this whole “nip it in the bud” idea rocks and I’m applying it as we speak to a friendship that’s recently gone in the crapper. It’s sad, because I’ve known this pal for years, but we’ve been drifting apart for awhile now. I kept thinking I could build some kind of tunnel to re-connect us, but it just ain’t happening. Some people appear in our lives when we need them most and eventually they travel on their merry way. That’s actually a wonderful thing when you think about it. So I’m nipping this one in the bud, too. I’m not dwelling on it any longer. I’m accepting the situation for what it is, and I’m packing away my fond memories so I can proceed with a peaceful heart and a smile. Ah, it’s like breathing in that chilly fall air again: liberating and refreshing.

I truly admire folks who don’t wallow in emotion, who don’t rehash ill-fated relationships or frustrating conversations nightly in their dreams. My husband has a very healthy “live and let live” attitude. He doesn’t hold grudges. He doesn’t sweat the small stuff. I wish I could be more like that, but I probably never will, not entirely.

I tend to let more people into my circle than he does, and I give folks a chance, even when I’ve heard whispers, like, “don’t trust him” or “she’s a self-absorbed twit.” I’m inclined to form my own opinions. The trouble ends up being that the warning whispers were right on target. It’s then that I usually step in a mess trying to back my way out; but, Lord, how those messes can linger, like dog poop on a shoe tracked all over a houseful of wall-to-wall carpet.

But, from this point on, I’m gonna nip it in the bud. I will see that untrustworthy self-absorbed twit for who he/she is, realize I cannot change him/her like a misguided Mother Teresa, and I will gracefully walk away. Doesn’t that sound good?

Now if I could just nip this latest deadline in the bud, I’d be in great shape.

Susan McBride

Susan McBride’s YA series debut with Random House, THE DEBS, features four prep school seniors in Houston clawing their way through their debutante season. A Fall 2008 Kid’s Indie Next Pick, THE DEBS has been called “Gossip Girl on mint juleps.” The second DEBS book, LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS, will be out in June of 2009, and Susan’s busy writing GLOVES OFF. Susan has also penned five Debutante Dropout Mysteries for Avon, including TOO PRETTY TO DIE and BLUE BLOOD. She’s recently signed with HarperCollins to write a trade paperback women’s beach book called THE COUGAR CLUB, about three forty-something women who date younger men. Visit her web site at http://susanmcbride.com/ for more scoop.

The Long of It!

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When I was a child I wanted my favorite books to go on forever – the longer the story the better. Short books were like eating one potato chip – tasty but not enough to satisfy. I wanted to get lost in a book and stay there for days. And I hated reading books piecemeal. Someone was always telling me to turn out the lights and go to sleep, put down the book and go play outside, or warning me that I was ruining my eyes with all that reading.

As I got older I read faster so I could get through more of the story without being interrupted. In college one of my favorites was Stephen King’s The Stand. The original hardback had 823 pages. I’ve read all the Tom Clancy books, lugging them through airports like fat infants straining my arm muscles.

I loved Carl Sagen’s Contact and Colleen McCullough’s The Thornbirds, but at just over 400 pages they were practically short stories compared to two of my later favorites: Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove weighing in at 864 pages and a book that remains in my top ten – Antarctic Navigation by Elizabeth Arthur.

This 798 page book fascinated me. The heroine, Morgan Lamont, had been obsessed with Robert Scott’s 1910 Antarctic Expedition from childhood. The author takes us through Morgan’s early days and her quest to visit the South Pole and retrace Scott’s footsteps. By the time you finish the book, you feel like you’ve made that icy journey with Morgan. It’s not a book that will appeal to everyone. Elizabeth Arthur has been to the South Pole and she uses her knowledge of that remote locale. She makes the South Pole and its harsh weather a major “character” in the book. The plot is dependent on the place as much as Morgan’s need to achieve something Robert Scott did not.

From a recent discussion on the DorothyL internet group, I’ve read with great interest reader opinions on “long” vs. “short” novels. Many seemed to find places in long novels that “sag” or move forward only sluggishly. I confess that with some of Tom Clancy’s descriptions of the inner workings of ships and subs, I only half absorbed the paragraphs the first time through (yes, I’m one of those people who read books over and over.) But Clancy’s books have great plots and more often than not, the technical information he conveys lends depth and atmosphere to his thrillers.

I’m a fan of Nelson DeMille’s books. I just finished his newest, The Gate House. DeMille is great at creating interesting tough-guy characters and exciting plots based on real events. Sometimes the backstory runs a little longer than suits my taste, but as with Clancy’s books, I know the payoff will be well worth the slow bits. My favorite DeMille book remains the first one I ever read, The Charm School – a book I picked up in a hurry in an airport bookstore. A mere 544 pages long, it’s a true page-turner with a Cold-War plot. American MIA pilots from the Vietnam War have been taken to Russia and installed as unwilling teachers in a KGB “Charm School” for Russian agents. Two U.S. diplomats find out about the school and the game is on.

Short books are wonderful and fun – but for books you can literally lose yourself inside, give a longer book a chance.

Evelyn David

Another “Tastes Like Chicken” Blog

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Nothing gives me greater joy than seeing a brand, spanking-new grocery store opening up in the area. Here in our town, we’ve got two rather old and not so great stores to choose from: one offers great prices but not too much in the way of innovation while the other is a little newer, a little more upscale, but infinitely more expensive. (I have heard about the shopping Mecca referred to as Wegman’s and pray that someday they will move downstate so I can experience the wonder of this store. So far, nothing doing. ) So, as I drove home from a work visit the other day and saw a Stop and Shop with streamers wafting away from its brand new storefront, I nearly drove off the road. I was armed with a new recipe and decided that the time was right—despite the fact that the store had only opened seconds earlier—to give it a try.

I love food, think about food, eat a lot of food. And Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and I and my Stiletto gals have been talking about food in our emails back and forth to each other. (I still have to make Southern Evelyn’s apple cake, but promise I will!) I tend to stay toward healthy things and am constantly trying to amaze my family with my culinary prowess. If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that that is a challenge. I’ve got one picky eater, one vegetarian, and one who only likes a few vegetables and nothing really of the root variety, which I love to roast with olive oil, salt, pepper, and some herbs. But while drinking my coffee the other day—and with a great big thank you to Rachael Ray who published this recipe in my hometown newspaper—I seem to have hit on something that everyone loves (with the exception of the vegetarian who I have now turned onto breaded flounder, which can be picked up in the freezer case of the new Stop and Shop just inside the front doors of the building). Let me give you this one roaster, easy-as-pie chicken dinner that will take all of the guess work out of “Mom! What’s for dinner!?”

You will need:

To preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

One (1) whole cut-up chicken in a package. Take out all of the chicken, rinse and dry. I also cut the breasts in half so that they were more of the same size as the other pieces of meat. The chicken I bought cost about $9.00 and fed the family for three nights.

Get a bunch of fingerlings, red potatoes, purple potatoes, or any other kind of small potatoes that you like and wish to use. Cut them in quarters.

Strip the leaves of three stalks of rosemary and coarsely chop.

Crush eight garlic cloves.

Put the chicken on the bottom of the roaster, throw in the potatoes, the rosemary, the garlic, and cover the whole thing with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Oh, and don’t forget some sea salt and pepper to taste.

Stick in the oven for about 35-45 minutes or when the juices run clear from the chicken. You will have a one-roaster chicken dinner that everyone (sans the vegetarian) will enjoy. I also picked up one of my new favorite pre-packaged items: microwavable, steamable French beans. Served with the chicken and potatoes, you really have a winner. Tonight, we’re having the exact same dinner because I’ve never served a meal in which every morsel, down to the coarsely-chopped rosemary, was consumed. We may just eat this every night until Thanksgiving when I’ll probably break down and buy a couple of hamburgers so we don’t go on poultry overload.

I’m going to experiment a little tonight and roast some squash alongside the chicken even though I was admonished by the family not to change a thing. I figured I can doctor this up a few hundred ways and everyone will still enjoy.

Next week: a treat. We at the Stiletto Gang will be sharing additional recipes and ideas for the holidays and I, for one, am looking forward to seeing what the rest of my ladies have up their sleeves. Happy eating!

Maggie Barbieri

Oops, Late Again

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I could’ve sworn I had a post already to go–but obviously I didn’t. Of course it might’ve disappeared into cyber space. That happens to me a lot.

My promotion for Kindred Spirits is winding down. I have three more events coming up: a book fair, a day in an antique store, and two days at an art gallery. Of course all this entailed making the arrangements and doing publicity both online and with the local newspapers and sending out flyers.

Once that’s over maybe I can concentrate on the holidays and perhaps doing some writing. I have two (yes two) new books I need to be working on. I have some ideas for one–but nothing for the other as yet. Sometimes I wonder why I’m doing all this–certainly isn’t to make money because I really haven’t. All the story tellers among us will tell you the same thing–we just have to do it.

My daughter invited us (hubby and me and son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter) to come for Thanksgiving in Southern California and we’re going! For the first time in ages I won’t have to cook. You have no idea how I’m looking forward to that.

For all of you as you head into the holiday season, I wish you all the best–and that you take the time to enjoy your family as I plan to do.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

The Art of Entertaining

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The original Evelyn, bless her soul, hated to cook. Maybe a closer truth would be, cooking bored her. That’s not to say that we didn’t have a family dinner every night (six p.m. sharp). It always consisted of some kind of meat or chicken and two vegetables. The original time efficiency expert, my mother would heat two cans of vegetables in a pot of boiling water. Serve the veggies, toss the water. Done.

I was at least 18 before I discovered that meat came in any other color than grey. She overcooked everything, probably because she wasn’t paying attention. Chicken would bake in the oven for hours, seasoned only with paprika, to give it color. But there was always plenty of fresh fruit in the house, lots of store-bought sweets, and the height of her culinary experimentation was to mix two fruit juices together. My family believed she invented orange-pineapple juice — and maybe she did.

But despite the lack of any interest in preparing foods, my mother was actually a wonderful host. She was absolutely right when she insisted that it was the company that was important. She was gracious (she was Southern after all), generous, and inclusive. For my birthday parties, every child in my class would be invited, lest anyone feel left out. When I was in college and would come home for Passover, she would encourage me to invite roommates who might otherwise spend the Seders in the dorm. They were joyous occasions full of love and laughter…and she would order in the whole menu, soup to nuts.

My rebellion was, of course, to love to cook. For me, preparing a new recipe is like writing a mystery — full of the unknown, often some red herrings (figurative ones, though I do occasionally indulge in the fish) — and if put together correctly, a delight to enjoy.

Cleaning out my mother’s apartment after she died, I found no cookbooks or recipes scribbled on cards. I did discover a file of take-out numbers. But of course, she left me with the best recipe for how to entertain. Invite people you want to spend time with; worry less about the food and more about making sure that everyone is comfortable and cared for…and most of all, enjoy the moments when you are together.

It’s easy to get caught up in the holiday season hoopla. Have fun these next few weeks with those you love.

Evelyn David

The Encore Bride Wore Red

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Widowed three years ago, I am over 50 and engaged to be married for the second time. In doing research on “mature” weddings, I discovered that women like me are often referred to as “encore brides.”

I was surprised to find a whole industry out there that caters to encore brides. There are dozens of websites, as well as a magazine with information on everything from dresses and appropriate invitation wording, to etiquette concerning the size of the ceremony and wedding party.

Some of the “tips” I uncovered for older second-time-around brides were really amusing. For example a segment on The Today Show featured shorter, fuller dresses for older women “who still usually have nice looking legs and should show them off.” I guess the announcer was trying not to say that many of us are not quite as shapely as we were years ago, and need to avoid the strapless, skin tight gowns that are popular among today’s younger first-time brides.

My etiquette education also included the fact that it is acceptable to wear white again, but choosing color is advised as we mature brides are apparently not blushing–and need to brighten up our sagging faces. How about the idea that most of us just feel bolder and more confident over 50, and want to wear something that reflects that?

While surfing the net, I came across a not-so-short, bright red dress that caught my “starting to develop a cataract” eye. I thought, “How cool would that be? A bold red dress for a new beginning!” I printed the picture and showed it to a friend who is my age.

“You can’t wear red when you get married!” she shrieked. “You need a nice ivory or tan suit that comes to just above your ankles.” A dull colored, long suit??? I don’t want to wear something from the Hannah Montana collection, but I don’t want to look dead either.

One of the best things about being over 50 is that you are no longer afraid to do what you really want to do. So who says this encore bride can’t wear a bright red wedding dress? Just watch me! How about some sparkling red stilettos to match? And I might even finish off the ensemble with a big bangle bracelet, dangling earrings, and ruby lipstick.

Melinda Richarz Bailey
(Mad Dog)

WOOFers Club Blog

That’s What I’m Talking ‘Bout

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WOOF!

Arf arf arf. Wag!!! Bark bark, grrrrr.

No, wait. Reminder to self: Not everyone speaks WOOFer.

It sure seems that way though, since the advanced launch of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty. At book signings, there’s no lack of ladies who speak the language. And, sometimes, as I’m chatting with a woman, describing the contents of the book (topics such as night sweats, mood swings and hot flashes), she looks at me like, until that moment, she’d been adrift in a wasteland, and at long last an oasis has appeared—another woman who understands exactly what she is feeling and saying.

Sure, plenty can be found online, in magazines, on TV talk shows, you name it, about women’s issues, especially menopause given the massive boomer generation. But there’s something about one middle-aged woman standing face-to-face with another 50+ woman that makes it more relatable.

And maybe it’s easier to talk about certain issues with a stranger, a woman who has stepped into being a book author at this phase of life. Not that I’m any expert, but I’m at least not afraid to talk about it. And perhaps therein lies the bond.

Mary, Melinda and I wrote the humor book for ourselves. Naturally we hoped it would catch on with other women. Still, who knew that even before its official release date, it would take on a life all its own.

But, why not? Women are intuitive—reading between the lines and interpreting the unspoken word. Using language in inventive ways.

For example, you’ll probably never again hear woof! without thinking of women embracing maturity—Women Only Over Fifty!

Diana Black
—d.d. dawg
WoofersClub.com
Diana-Designs.net
WendleWordsworth.blogspot.com
WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty
WOOFers Club Blog
Diana Black’s Blog

What Would You Tell Your Younger Self?

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What would you tell your younger self? That question was asked and answered by Gwen Carpenter Roland, author of Atchafalaya Houseboat, in a PBS special documenting her experiences living in the Louisiana Swamp with companion, Calvin Voisin.

I tuned in out of curiosity since Book Three of my Cynthia’s Attic series, Curse of the Bayou, was partially set in the Louisiana Swamp. But, thoughts turned quickly to the fact that she was asking a very important question to the “over-fifty” set. Not only was I completely hooked by her gentle, descriptive voice, I was transported through photos taken by C. C. Lockwood’s tranquil National Geographic pictures. I swear, my blood pressure dropped 30 points.

But, back to my point. Ms. Roland’s question. What would she tell her younger self? One thing was to stop thinking she’s fat. Which is quite funny because the young Gwen and the older Gwen are beautiful, inside and out. She’d also tell her younger self to stop worrying about what other people think. Oh, could I have used that advice as a teenager! And, as a forty-year-old!

That’s a pretty universal feeling with women over fifty, isn’t it? What I’d tell my younger self is to stop worrying about not being the most popular (or prettiest) girl in school. I’d tell my younger self that, no matter how I try, I’ll never please my mother. Don’t take it to heart. She’s doing the best she can. I’d also tell my younger self to be myself. I was, and still am, a pretty darned good person, but it’s only been in the last 10 years that I’ve realized I can’t be something I’m not.

As one WOOFer said at a recent Book Festival, “Being 50 is very freeing.” Can’t argue with that.

So, what would you tell your younger self?

Gwen Roland’s book, Atchafalaya House: My Years in the Louisiana Swamp, available on Amazon, or from your favorite bookstore.

Mary Cunningham
(Milkbone)
Mary Cunningham Books
Cynthia’s Attic Blog
WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty
WOOFers Club Blog

Introduction to the WOOF Pack

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From Oprah to Ellen to our water aerobics instructor, it’s All about the joys of aging! How 50 is the new 30!

Whatever!

Some of us are hounded by middle-age. We’re dog-tired, Wrinkled as a Sharpei and barking like a bitch. Enter: WOOF: For the over-50 woman itching to howl at The aging process.

From issues of graying hair, expanding waistlines and Wrinkling tattoos, to embracing triumph over personal Tragedy, WOOF raises four paws to our past Accomplishments, present realizations and future dreams.

Are you up to it…dogtrotting alongside this sisterhood Taking the second half of life by the tail? We know you Are. After all, the past 50 years you’ve gained freedom! You’ve gained power! You’ve gained wisdom!

(Don’t tell us you think weight is the only thing you’ve Gained. Oh, you so need WOOF…)

“A howl a day keeps the scowl away!”

d.d. dawg, Milkbone, Mad Dog
(Diana Black, Mary Cunningham, Melinda Richarz Bailey)

[Note from the Stiletto Gang – Join us all weekend for new posts from the WOOF Pack!]

Little Miracles

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I’m the person whose fast food order is never right. I used to love McDonalds’ coffee – the kind they served after the lady burnt her thighs and before the Starbuck’s wanta-be varieties appeared at the Golden Arches. I especially liked their coffee after they began putting the cream and sugar (i.e. Equal) in the cup for you. And surprisingly, they usually got the number of creams and sugars right – for a large coffee, I preferred 3 creams and 3 Equals. Most of the time I got 3 of each. Then as seems to be normal, all good things come to an end. McDonalds added café lattes and cappuccinos’ to their menu and the staff could no longer count. I never know from one day to the next how much, if any, cream and Equal will end up in my coffee.

Life is full of disappointments. I can’t abide Thousand Island dressing on anything, much less my Reuben sandwich. By the way, who thought of doing that? Did someone just wake up one day, find their mustard jar empty, and improvise? I ate Reubens for years without a hint of salad dressing. Then seemingly all at once, restaurants started dumping copious amounts of the pink stuff on my corned beef and sauerkraut. Every once in awhile when I’m feeling lucky, I take a chance and order a Reuben asking for no – absolutely no – Thousand Island dressing. My success rating at getting it the way I want it is about 30%.

Little miracles happen every day… I guess. They just usually don’t happen to me. Or maybe they do and I don’t know it. Is it a miracle if you don’t know it? Kind of like if a tree falls in the forest and no one… Well, you get my meaning.

Last night I spent about 3 hours on the floor running my fingers through the carpet in my living room. I’d lost a contact lens. I wear rigid gas permeable lens and no, they are not the disposable kind – they are the “$190 a pair” kind. I looked until I couldn’t look any more without giving into the urge to vacuum. Nothing like staring at dust bunnies at eye level to get you in the mood to clean! But I didn’t. Pulling out the vacuum would have been abandoning all hope. Instead I did the CSI thing – using my one good eye, found a flashlight, turned out all the lights and searched for a glint – a reflection – something that didn’t’ belong on the dark carpet. Nothing. Well, at least no contact lenses. I did find a missing sock under my computer desk and several ink pen caps.

At 11:00 pm I gave up my quest for the missing lens, left a message on my optometrist’s voice mail, and began going through my old lenses hoping for one I could still see something through. Reading … Distance… something. Found one that had me able to see general shapes if not faces. It would have to do.

The next morning I went to work and managed to squint my way through eight hours of mining business.

When I came home I took another quick look on the patch of carpet in the target range.

Nothing.

I ate dinner then settled in front of my computer. I need to write a blog for Thursday. It was gong to be on the topic of lousy customer service – see my first two paragraphs above. Then it happened.

I looked down at my feet, pondering the spelling of sauerkraut (just ask my co-author, spelling is not my strong suit.) And there it was.

Right where I’d looked a hundred times.

A little miracle.

I can see again.

Life is good. Tomorrow I might even get a cup of coffee the way I want it.

Or not.

Evelyn David