When you don’t work outside the home any more (thank goodness), vacation takes on an entirely new meaning. We don’t go on vacation to get away from anything. Honestly, life here at home is almost too restful. I have to work myself up in order to vacuum, for God’s sake. So a vacation is an excuse to get my metabolism moving. Because, when we go to North Carolina for a family reunion soon, we are filling up the car with stuff to do. Here are the sorts of things we are bringing.

  • A bubble machine and bubble solution. You know, for the grandkids.
  • An entire Bingo game set, and I am not kidding–it’s professional. We got it from a church supply place.
  • Three dozen Bingo daubers. At least a hundred Bingo cards.
  • Beach towels, in case the proprietors of the house we are renting thinks four beach towels are sufficient.
  • Bingo prizes, including two of my books. Never miss a promotional opportunity.
  • Golf clubs.
  • A high chair.
  • A Pack and Play play pen, for Birdie to sleep in. She knows how to climb out, so that should be interesting.
  • Two inflatable beds.
  • Twenty five personalized tote bags-we expect 50 attendees at this family reunion.
  • Assorted new toys from the toy store. Grandmas always bring gifts; it’s a law.
  • Luggage.
  • Sheets and pillows for the inflatable beds.
  • Games.

I am not sure this is enough, but I still have a few days to plan.

We will need rest after the trip. Thank goodness we are retired.

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Why do people do the things they do? What causes a person to make what seems like a completely outrageous decision? Like getting purple hair?

I saw a woman in Los Angeles about two years ago. She was in her thirties, decidedly on the side of youth. Her hair was lavender. I was so struck with how beautiful it was, I had to stop and talk to her about it. She said that her original hair color was light brown, and in order to go lavender, she had to bleach all the color out of her hair first. That gave me pause, because that sounded extreme.

When I came home, I asked my stylist about it. She concurred and told me that because my hair is so dark brown, it would be a huge thing to bleach it all. And it would damage my hair. So I gave up on the idea.

But I didn’t. I continued to see purple hair, and it just looked so good on the people who had it. These women looked stylish, unafraid, bold, and chic. None of which I am. So I kept on with the dark brown, getting my roots (which are snow white, by the way) touched up every month.

But hold on a second. My roots are white? White, as in the absence of dark brown? I could hardly contain myself. As soon as she put the cape around me, I barraged my stylist with questions: If my hair is mostly white, wouldn’t it be easy to go purple? Would purple hair be permanent? Could we do it?

Her answers: It may look like it, but your hair is predominantly dark. Yes, going purple would be easy, but we would have to bleach my hair first. Yes, it would be semi-permanent, just like the brown dye we use now to cover the white hair. Yes, we can do it, but “You need to start out conservatively, so that your friends won’t think you have lost your mind.”

The results are above. I love the purple. However, it is not purple enough.

I have lost my mind, apparently.

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Whenever I have blog writer’s block, which is today, I fall back on my go-to topic: books. I read so many books that I forget most of them the second I have finished, but a few stick in my mind.

Here is a list of great ones that I have read recently:

  • You Should Have Known, by Jean Hanff Korelitz. This is a new author to me, and she writes brilliantly about smug people, and then brings them DOWN. Now being made into a series (HBO, I think) featuring Nicole Kidman.
  • The Wife Between Us, by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen. Beach reading–such a great story!
  • Eligible, by Curtis Sittenfeld. I resisted this for a long time, as it is the retelling of Pride and Prejudice, set in Cincinnati. But it is so good.
  • Have You Seen Luis Velez, by Catherine Ryan Hyde. You cannot miss with her books, and her latest is the usual tremendous story and renewal of one’s faith in humanity.
  • Kissing Games of the World, by Maddie Dawson. I love all of her books. So just pick one, and then read all the others.
  • The Mother-In-Law, by Sally Hepworth. Twisty and fun.
  • Ghosted, by Rosie Walsh. You make a real connection with a man, and then he just disappears. Another great vacation read.
  • Someone, by Alice McDermott. Literary fiction at its best.
  • Watching You, by Lisa Jewell. Oh, boy. Where do I begin? Plotty, twisty, weird folks. Loved it.
  • Sometimes I Lie, by Alice Feeney. She wakes up in the hospital, locked in. Need I say more?

Happy reading. See you next week.

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Last week’s post was confusing. What was supposed to be about my cat was construed to be about my husband and me. Looking back at it, I can see the confusion. We do take things slow–but sixteen plus hours of sleep a day is too much, even for us.

Let me continue with my observations about cats. Note: I am truly an expert, as I have had cats virtually my entire life, and I have had but two dogs. Dogs and cats are certainly different, but I think cats get a bum rap from the world at large, and social media memes have enhanced this “fake news” about cats.

  • Cats are not standoffish. They are bundles of soft, purring calmness. They are sedatives that you can become addicted to. I am sure there are aloof cats. But I have met many an aloof dog. So there.
  • Cats are heat seeking. So having them in the winter time is a cost effective way to lower your thermostat. They will keep you warm.
  • Some cats enjoy conversation. This is especially true for Siamese, who love to chat.
  • They say dogs are good judges of character. I will give them that. Cats mostly just like their own families. However, there are certainly “hail fellow well met” cats.
  • Oh my gosh. Cats are SO easy to maintain. No walks. Just scoop the litter. Done.
  • Cats love the indoors. I hate the outdoors. A match made in heaven.
  • Cats don’t need baths. They never stink unless they are ill or have run-ins with neighborhood unsavories. Keep them inside, and this will never be a problem.
  • Cats are beautiful. Graceful. They land on their feet. Egyptians worshipped them.
  • Kittens are way cuter than puppies.
  • Cats hang around you. Just like dogs. Try doing some exercises on the floor, and just wait until the cats arrive to supervise.
  • You can train cats to do tricks. I can’t, but you could.
  • Cats catch vermin. Dogs don’t do that.
  • Even the tiniest of tiny homes can host a cat. They don’t need much room.

The above photo is of one of my two cats. His name is The Keeper. He was dumped on the side of the road. He is the fluffiest cat in the world. He likes to sit behind me on the sofa and purr in my ear. I lean back against him occasionally and rub my cheek against his fur. He seems to appreciate that. My other cat, below, is named Macintosh. He was rescued right after a truck ran over him narrowly missing him. He was a tiny kitten. My daughter Annie pulled over to the side of the road and ran into a field after him. He came to her, running and purring. He was near starvation. He is the most loving and appreciative small soul. But sometimes, he thinks he is an owl…

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We take it easy around here. No hustle. No bustle. As far as we are concerned, too much activity is harmful to one’s mental health. Everything in moderation. Exercise is fine, as long as it is interspersed with resting. Stretching the muscles afterward is a must, so that one does not cramp up.

Sun is also beneficial to older joints. Soaking it up at least fifteen minutes a day is recommended. Napping in the sun is fine also.

After this, one should go upstairs, find a cozy corner, and take another nap.

Tuna is also a good thing.

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The first time I went to New York I was seventeen. It was also the first time I had ridden on a plane, and the first time I went anywhere by myself. I was visiting a friend. It was January, snowy, and I had to walk to meet him what seemed like twenty miles. I was carrying my suitcase and freezing. Nevertheless, I was enthralled by the city. He took me all over. We visited another, older friend and her husband in their loft. It was barren and huge. I bet that same loft today would be worth millions. I wonder what happened to that couple. I never heard of or from either of them again.  The boy I visited became famous as a musician and lyricist. He had shows on Broadway.   Ever since that trip and multiple trips after, I have (as you know if you read my blog) had a fantasy of living in New York.

Our recent trip to the Big Apple only intensified my desire.

At the same time, my publisher has asked me to write my fourth novel. He has major expectations, and he and I have been working on a plot. The characters are all alive: their names are Orla, Edward, Letty, and Bink (her name is Aurelia, but she was dubbed Bink as a baby, and it stuck). I begin the real work of writing next week, once the holiday is over.

And guess what? I took a huge step. I booked an apartment on the street above in New York for two weeks in September to work on the book. By myself. All alone. It took me 60 odd years to work up the nerve, but I will finally experience living in New York. I am both excited and a little scared. What if I sit down to write and nothing comes out? What if the book is trash? What if I get lost on the subway? But then again–the shopping, the High Line, Central Park, and bagels. New York bagels. 30 Rock and pizza.

Wish me luck. Send up a prayer to the fiction gods to be good to me on this one. A lot is riding on it. I will keep you posted.

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I still love New York. But seeing it through a child’s eyes is to see New York in a whole different way. Charlie brought his book about New York and a “bucket list” of things he wanted to see. We did all  of them.

The Statue of Liberty was so exciting. We discussed why her dress was green. We got a commemorative coin that was copper and the exact thickness of the copper on her dress. Charlie wished we could go up inside, but we were unable to get tickets for that. The boat ride was so exciting, and Charlie and his parents went up on the top deck in the wind and rain. Grampa and I stayed inside.

Charlie loved the Empire State Building. He went with Grampa and his mom. I am too afraid of heights, so Birdie and I napped.

One of their favorite things to do at night was to perch on the windowsill and whisper to one another as they watched for their parents to come home from a dinner meeting. They saw a pigeon land on the roof of the bodega below and spent at least ten minutes imitating the bobble-headed walk. And of course, we all danced to Baby Shark until we were exhausted.

FAO Schwartz still has the big piano. Charlie danced on that. 30 Rock is the most beautiful place. We looked down on the diners sitting in the moonlight, sipping wine. My daughter remarked, “That will be us in twenty years. None of those people have kids. I want to be down there.” She said that right before Birdie ran off and nearly dashed into the street.

Birdie got into:

  • My deodorant
  • Lip balm
  • Her crayons and marked on the sofa
  • The drawer in the kitchen with the corkscrew
  • The baby wipes; shredded about a thousand of them all over the apartment
  • The folding chairs from the card table and used them as impromptu jungle gyms
  • The toilet and the fact that an entire roll of toilet paper will really clog it up. So fun!

We had delicious food. Thanks to Lyft, I was able to go shopping all alone and not worry about how to get to Fishs Eddy, Marimekko, and Bloomingdales and back to the apartment. I felt like a native.

I have decided that I could most certainly live in New York. Caveats: I would have to be wealthy, live in a brownstone with a garden, have a much better wardrobe than I do now, enjoy eating outside despite pigeons and intrusive little sparrows, have a different husband–mine would never consider living in a big city, enjoy noise, and tolerate this factoid: when you are in NYC, no matter where you are, there is a rat within six feet of you.

Hello, DAYTON!

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I would like to reinvent myself. First of all, the name. Let me introduce myself: I am Norah Henderson.

I am thirty, single. Lithe, with perhaps spiky, lavender hair. I ride my bicycle everywhere, as I am so concerned with the planet. As a result, I have very firm calves and could crack walnuts between my knees. My eyes are keen, and my teeth sparkle.

My Abyssinian cat, Harold, resists walking on a leash, but I keep trying. Harold and I love tuna, and we have it for dinner once a week. Harold and I binge watch Game of Thrones. He hides his eyes with his paws during much of the violence.

I am a poet. Non-rhyming variety.

Although I hate to garden, I have very good luck with orchids. The windowsills in my New York apartment are lined with them. Just an ice cube in the pots once in a while does the trick, and my friends are dazzled by the display. I have dabbled in African Violets, but with little success. I have two pots of edible grass in the window by the tub in my bathroom, for Harold. He nibbles away at them, and then he barfs. Good for the digestion, I hear.

I almost got married last year. However, Bart’s dog Skid seemed to want to eat Harold. It was Bart or Harold. A no-brainer. Actually, Bart’s obsession with veganism was starting to wear thin. So Bart loaded his mushroom collection and Skid’s memory foam dog bed into the back of his PT Cruiser and headed out of town.

I love New York, but the noise and grime does wear one down. Harold wants to move to the country, where he would consent to leash walks. I think he is lying about that. But I have been scanning the listings, and there is a small, gray bungalow with moss green shutters that I keep coming back to. It says “cozy, all furnishings included.” The pictures of the living room alone are a riot of chintz and polished hardwood. The kitchen has a soapstone sink and a fireplace. The price is within my range.  Also, Harold’s soulful staring from the living room window at the park below as he mutters to himself–that bothers me. I think he might be right. I dream now about cross ventilation and bird feeders.

I told him that if we moved, I would want to get a small dog. Harold is considering it.



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The moment I met each of my own daughters, I was swept away with the wave of love that came wrapped up with them. It was like a tsunami that with my first, was so unexpected I nearly went into emotional shock. I expected it with my second and was not disappointed. Instant, overwhelming love.

However, actually raising a child isn’t all joy. Any parent will tell you that at times, the desire to get away from one’s own children is almost as strong as the love they engender. I had too many days of exhaustion, frustration, worry, and impatience to count.

I know I am not the first grandparent to be astonished by this one: having grandchildren brings floods of joy and love that you feel guilty about not having had in terms of their parents, your own children. It’s a fact. Grandchildren are even better than one’s own children. Ask any grandma, and she will confirm!

The first time I was referred to as “Bee” by little Charlie, I was so thrilled that he knew me as a separate person in his life, important enough to name, my heart nearly burst. When he got older and added “Grandma” in front of the “Bee,” it was as if I had been given some sort of very special commendation. I never once questioned or cared where the “Bee” came from; I just loved my new name. Hearing a small piping voice call out “Grandma Bee? Where are you?” was music. Sheer music.

We are going to New York in a couple of weeks to spend time with little Charlie and his adorable baby sister Birdie. We will be the babysitters as their parents conduct business there for a week. There will be an apartment, picnics on the floor, hilarious bath times, maybe a tantrum or two, but certainly more joy than I can even imagine. We will be worn out, I am sure. But the fact that my husband will be the person to take little Charlie on his first excursion to see the Empire State Building? Priceless (also, thank God I won’t be included in that one–fear of heights–whew). Central Park. New York pizza. Hot dog vendors. Strolling around Gramercy Park with the two of them.  Watching Frozen at bedtime on the iPad for the thousandth time. These will be the things I am sure I will revisit and relive as I am on my deathbed, thankful for my life with my own children and so grateful for the children who called me “Grandma Bee.”

I am taking my knee brace, ibuprofen, a handmade doll I ordered from Etsy, the Berenstain Bear books, a scary Transformer or two, fruity Tic Tacs, and probably, if I can fit it in my suitcase, the heating pad.

It will be an epic trip.


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