It’s all about the accessories
Looking at the photo of a pint-sized me, I cannot escape a clear realization: My appreciation for accessories and coordination goes WAY back. I recognize that my mom may have had more to do with the outfit in the picture than I did, but I like to imagine otherwise. I prefer to think I’m the one who pulled the accent color out of the romper and chose the red shoes, pairing them with light blue socks to pick up the main shading of the ensemble. My sassy stance says that I know this look is working for me! I just had to have been responsible for choosing it.
Back in my twenties I worked briefly for a very nice women’s clothing store in the 50th-and-France area of Edina, MN. The store was called Dana’s and I observed something important about accessories. When women saw an outfit on display and tried it on without the jewelry, belt, etc. it had been shown with, often they weren’t excited by it when they had the outfit on. Part of what had caught their eye was the complete look, accessories and all. Without that, it looked plain in comparison. If they grabbed the pieces shown with it to try on, more often than not, they bought it all. To this day I still advise family and friends who are buying clothes as a gift to buy the accessories, too, because the entire visual aspect is what initially grabbed their attention.
My love of accessorizing continues to this day in the way I view the world and the world views me. Literally. A few years ago my annual eye exam came with an unexpected bonus: a prescription for bifocals. Woo hoo! Who doesn’t love to get that news? But I made lemonade out of that lemon and decided I was going to have fun with the fact that I was aging and needed what I had always assumed were old-people glasses. I work at the front desk of a surgeon’s office. Everyday I am lucky enough to wear a uniform of comfy black scrub pants with a black medical jacket. I wear different color tank tops under the jacket every day for a little splash of color. My lemonade in this case was to purchase a few pairs of glasses, in different, fun colors to coordinate with the tanks. The next year I purchased a few more–now I have a great wardrobe of funky, interesting eyewear. I don’t feel sad and old putting on the glasses each day. I look forward to choosing the pair that best coordinates with the color of the tank I’ve chosen that day. The glasses have somewhat become my trademark among the patients, with many commenting on the frames of the day. It’s my way of putting my own little stamp on my uniform and making that love of accessories work for me.
My younger daughter has her own twist on accessorizing. At a very early age, Maddi decided it was silly to stress over pairing up matches in her sock drawer and began to wear mismatched socks. While she does have some print socks, her favorites are bright, vibrant colors to match her personality. Her habit is quirky and adorable, just like her. As long as her socks don’t match she is happy. I would be stressed all day knowing my socks didn’t match, but Maddi would be stressed if hers did. To each her own!
My favorite part of getting ready for an evening out is choosing the shoes, purse, jewelry, etc. to go with my outfit. I have always loved being a girly girl and putting on those last pieces feels like the crescendo in a dramatic phrase of a favorite symphony. One last look in the mirror to give a final approval to what I’ve chosen and I’m good to go. Because while it may no longer be red tennis shoes and baby blue socks, for me it’s still all about the accessories.
Peace Love Libertyville
Sometimes the greatest love affairs are not with people, but with places. Maybe a place you can only dream of visiting, maybe a place you visited and fell in love with…or maybe a place you lived that never left your heart.
From ages nine to fifteen, I lived in Libertyville, Illinois; for me it was the ideal place to grow up. Granted, that is a fairly carefree age bracket, and it was a simpler time. My friends and I could jump on our bikes, leaving in the morning and returning for dinner without our parents having to worry much, if at all. But it was more than that. Libertyville was a beautiful old suburb, with century homes, century buildings full of shops in the downtown, churches on many corners, a local lake, a movie theater many of us could walk to, a historic train depot, a community pool, and parks galore, including one in the center of town with the library and a founding father’s historic home as the focal point. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect town. My description can’t possibly do it justice. Libertyville of my youth was a magical place.
Since moving out-of-state in 1978, I had the opportunity to pass through the town 2 or 3 times in the intervening years. The highlight was always driving past the house my parents built on Appley Avenue; I always wanted to see how it looked, if it was being kept up and how the neighborhood was doing. A couple of times I took pictures of the house to document my drive by. It was reassuring to see it cared for and well-loved, as I remember all the time my parents took with the choices that went into the construction of the home.
Last year, thanks to Facebook, I visited Libertyville for more than just a quick drive through. I was invited to be a part of the 30th reunion for the Libertyville High School Class of 1981. This is the class I would have graduated with had my family not moved to Minnesota the summer prior to my sophomore year. Making the invitation more special is that it came from the girl I most idolized my whole time in Libertyville, Deryn. Back in school she was everything I wanted to be, and here she was inviting me! She shared that the committee was reaching out to people who had moved away before graduation to be a part of the reunion. Because of Facebook, I was one of those lucky invitees. I put the date on the calendar and began to get excited…and I began to fret. It had been 33 years since I had seen these former classmates…Would I be welcomed? Would I be recognized? Would I be an interloper?
The reunion itself was a challenge for me. I am an introvert and walking into a group setting alone is always very tough for me. We introverts find such social interactions taxing, especially as a solo venture. But I got myself ready, got myself there, took a deep breath and in I went. There were some familiar faces and many more familiar names. It took all my courage to walk up to people and start conversations, but I did it. I was able to reconnect with some friends after more than three decades. I also made new friends that night who I hadn’t gotten to know well (or at all) at the high school. Because of Facebook I am able to keep these old and new friendships going. In fact, my next day trip is to see one friend whose band is playing close enough to St. Louis that I can go see them. (Free plug for Purple Hank playing September 8th in Carbondale and Vienna, IL. They’re great–check them out!) A special part of the evening was the power point of candid and posed pictures, showing on continuous loop. The photos flashed the story of what life had been like at LHS for everyone who got to stay and graduate a Wildcat. In a way it was closure to see a glimpse of all I’d missed.
I only stayed about 90 minutes–for me it felt like several hours. But that’s what it is like for an introvert–a little goes a long way in a group social setting. While the reunion was the reason I traveled there, the highlight for me was Libertyville itself. Prior to the reunion, I spent the morning and afternoon exploring my town. What a day it had been.
I needn’t have worried that my memories had been whitewashed by time and my youth. The town was as special as I remembered. I spent the day driving around town and exploring the shops (the photo is of my prized purchase, which I use every morning for my once daily Diet Coke.) Getting my lunch from a cute sandwich shop was a highlight for three reasons: The woman behind the counter asked me what kind of “pop” I wanted with my sandwich (I almost hugged her–I’m forced to call it “soda” down in St. Louis), the food was fabulous, and I was able to sit and eat it at a picnic table in Cook Memorial Park in the center of town. I watched families going about their Saturday errands, just as my family had so long ago. I couldn’t help but smile. The pace here felt a little slower than everywhere else. That was probably my imagination–I’m sure the parents were harried and tight on time. But then again, maybe things are still a little different in Libertyville. After all, Henry Yee’s Restaurant and Arden’s Furniture Store were still admitting customers, just as they had so long ago. And the Appley Avenue house looked fantastic, too. I think I was right all along: Libertyville is a magical place.
I know they say you can’t go home again, but perhaps there are rare exceptions. My visit found Libertyville not only great, but thriving and better than ever. Maybe when it comes to affairs of the heart, the safest love to revisit is a place, not a person. My old love, Libertyville, is the one old love who won’t break my heart.
Oh, I guess I am one of those…
I guess I am one of those… little-dog people. Being on my fourth Shih Tzu (see photo proof of Jin-Jin, the Wonder Dog), I think I should have come to this realization earlier, but until now I have always said that I am a dog person. It’s actually much more specific than that. I cannot contain myself and must speak baby-talk to any diminutive doggy I see. I don’t say this with pride; I’m just stating a fact.
I am usually a very focused person. That is, unless a petite pooch makes its way into my line of sight. Immediately, I develop ADHD and all I can think about, talk about, coo about, is that little ball of fluff.
There was a time in my life that I was drawn to larger dogs: specifically Golden Retrievers. It was during my teens and I yearned for one. We had a Welsh Terrier at the time, but I longed for a Golden. Right before my freshman year of high school ended, my parents told me we were moving from Illinois to Minnesota. I was devastated. As a nerdy introvert, I was just finally recovering from our move in the MIDDLE of 4th grade (that’s a fun transition–mid school-year) and was actually excited for my sophomore year of high school. Now I had to start over again?! I quickly asked if I could please get a Golden Retriever puppy when we moved to make up for the horrible injustice of the situation. The answer of yes made the move a slightly easier pill to swallow. However, the promised puppy never materialized. The reason I remember being given was that the new house was too “fancy” to have a puppy (I invite my parents to correct that memory if I am wrong!) I buried that desire for a big dog so far down it has never resurfaced. From then on, it’s been teeny dogs all the way.
Mai Lyn, the first Shih Tzu, was acquired when I was a young newlywed. We bought a house a year after we married, and we picked her out right before moving in. She was followed nine-or-so-months later by Dickens, who I brought home in a Moses basket. (Clearly, I had strong mothering instincts and really needed a child.) Dickens arrived on or close to the day we threw Mai Lyn a 1st birthday party (please refer to previous parenthetical statement.) Many years later, my third Shih Tzu, Jasmine, came to live with me when I was single again; she was six and had terrible separation anxiety when I got her. She needed me, and I her, so it was a perfect match. That brings us to the aforementioned Jin-Jin, The Wonder Dog. She was a 40th birthday present, promised to me before she was even born. She and her littermates arrived on May 19th that year, the same date that both my mom and dad were born, so she is extra special to me. She is nine now, although you’d never guess it from her size, playfulness and personality. She is a character.
It’s not just my little dog I’m crazy about. If you’ve got one, I am going to go gaga over it, too. When walking, I cannot pass a small dog on its owners leash without commenting on how cute it is. And if I am driving past you when you are walking a tiny pooch, please know that I am not crazy as you see my lips moving while I look at your dog from inside my car. I am merely telling him or her, “What a cute baby you are! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!” See? Not crazy at all–perfectly sane!
Lest I be judged too harshly as a little-dog person, I feel I must mention and clarify that I am not a person who dresses up Jin-Jin, the Wonder Dog in canine clothing. Because while I am one of those, I am definitely not one of THOSE!
Take Your Passion and Make it Happen
That line from the theme song of the movie “Flashdance” keeps popping up in my mind lately when I think of my younger daughter, Maddi. That movie came out when I was twenty, the same age Maddi is currently. I’m happy to say the reason it makes me think of Maddi is NOT that she is an exotic dancer like the lead character of the movie. She is NOT. But she is following a dream this summer that requires us to say goodbye to her for a month as she heads off to Costa Rica.
While in high school, Maddi discovered yoga. She enjoyed it, found it calming and practiced it in a casual manner. When Maddi headed off to NYC to attend NYU on a fabulous scholarship (getting a perfect 36 on your ACT will do that!) she found a whole world of opportunities to practice yoga awaiting her. She fell in love with one particular school and even toyed with the idea of attending classes to train with them as a teacher at the same time as taking her full course load her second semester of sophomore year. While ultimately talked out of it as too much to take on at one time, it did break her heart; by then she had decided that she didn’t want to return to NYU for her junior year. She knew she wanted to transfer to another school to finish out her degree, and that would mean not only leaving the yoga school she loved so much but also the opportunity to train with them as an instructor. But for Maddi, Fate had a special opportunity waiting just around the corner.
It was discovered that this yoga school has a 200 hour, intensive, teacher training this summer at a resort/spa in Costa Rica. As her belated HS graduation gift, Maddi’s dad and stepmom generously offered to send her for the month of July to follow her passion and receive her teacher training. In two weeks, she will get a chance to follow this dream of hers. While it will be hard to send her out of the country for a month, I know this experience will be exciting for her. Hopefully exciting in a way that differs from the experience of my older daughter, Britt: At the end of Britt’s month-long stay in Paris during her junior year of college, she and classmates were standing outside of a cafe, reading the menu posted there. While standing on the sidewalk, scaffolding steps from an adjacent construction site came loose from the 7th story, fell and hit Britt on top of the head and she collapsed. That is a phone call you do not want to get when you are an ocean and half-the-US away. Long story short, Scandinavians apparently have very tough skulls and Britt eventually healed up just fine, recent Masters Degree in hand as proof!
So while I do hope Maddi’s time in Costa Rica is exciting for her, I hope it is limited to the excitement of the joyous privilege of getting to pursue what she loves. (Otherwise, I am not sure I will be able to handle my daughters traveling out of the country without me being heavily medicated first.) My darling Maddi, take your passion and make it happen!
That’s What I Get For Multi-tasking!
My apologies to those who have signed up to receive notification when a new blog post goes up. In the last hour you were sent just such a notification. However, what you received was a few sentences for a piece that I had started and saved last month to flesh out at some point in the future. I went back in to look at it, and discovered that if you are not paying 100% attention to what you are doing, you might hit the “Publish” button instead of the “Move to Trash” button, which is adjacent to it. I am sorry for the mixup. “The Cooking Gene” was not intended to be a post–yet. Please disregard and I apologize for the false alarm!
So this is how it begins…
For me it began two days ago with a simple act of kindness by my office manager, ReGina. Knowing I was under the weather this week with a sinus infection, she generously brought me a Chai Latte from Starbucks. She said they always help her when she is congested, and I eagerly took a sip. At that moment I knew there was no turning back, and I was about to become a STARBUCKS CUSTOMER!
I know I’m quite late to the game with this one. But I don’t drink coffee, so I have never gotten into the Starbucks craze. (While I do love tea and I know Starbucks sells tea, Teavana is my crack den of choice for my tea supply. In fact, one of the kitchen counters at home looks like it came straight out of a Teavana store. I could probably qualify as an outlet shop for them.) So each time a friend or coworker has asked if anyone wants anything from Starbucks, I have always answered with a no. Then I watched as the magic cups of goodness were passed around to those who eagerly awaited their arrival. Even though I had no desire for the coffee inside the cups, I did strangely long to be one of those sipping from the cups–if felt like a special club that I longed to join. Granted, I knew I was saving a lot of money by not being in the club, but still…it looked so cool!
Waking with congestion and a cough this morning, I decided I needed to take a bold step. (When Siri can’t understand you because you’re so stuffed up and starts dialing the wrong people, drastic measures are required.) I got myself to a Starbucks drive-through–I didn’t feel quite initiated enough to actually go inside, but a drive-through seemed a safe place to start. As I pulled away with my purchase, I felt like I had just completed a rite of passage…I’m a Starbucks customer.
What began as a kind gesture by ReGina is sure to become a new line item in my monthly budget. And I am okay with that, so long as I can keep it in moderation. I am sure someone somewhere has started a group for Starbucks addicts, and I’d like to avoid the day when I have to go to a meeting and announce, “My name is Cathy, and it’s been 2 weeks since my last Chai Latte.”
The Awful Truth
Besides being the name of my favorite Cary Grant movie, the awful truth is something I often have to admit to my friends in St. Louis: I am a Cubs fan. Having resided in Cardinals territory since 1995, I have learned that this news is akin to confessing one has leprosy–at least a social leprosy. It’s even more unforgivable than not having grown up here and thus being unable to answer the all-important-question, “Where did you go to school?” (For those not from St. Louis, this refers to your high school, not your college, and it is VERY important to the natives!) Being a Cubs fan surpasses even that as a social transgression in these parts.
My favorite columnist works for the St. Louis Post Dispatch. Bill McClellan writes in a style I absolutely love–and he is a Cubs fan, too. He occasionally tells of the trials and tribulations of being a Cubs fan, particularly one living in the hometown of a sworn enemy. And I adore him for it! His columns about being a fan of the Cubbies make me feel a little less alone, a little more acceptable and a little prouder of the fact that I am usually rooting for the losing team! It’ll never be about jumping on the glory train–we Cubs fans love with a pure love that doesn’t even expect a win in return for our loyalty. It’s truly an unconditional love!
I grew up going to Wrigley Field with my grandparents, who lived in Chicago. We would drive in from our home in the suburbs, ride the ‘L’ and wind up at a place that always felt bigger than life for me. The ivy covered wall is forever etched in my mind as what a ball park should look like. We always sat along the third base line–I wish I knew the story of why that was the preferred spot. (They weren’t season tickets, so there must be a reason for the preference. Note to self–see if Mom knows why that was.) At any rate, being there with my Grandma and Grandpa during my youth is a priceless memory from my childhood. And could a hotdog ever taste better than one eaten while sitting in the stands between my grandparents? I don’t think it possible.
I imagine most of my native St. Louis friends who are diehard Cardinals fans have similar memories of attending games with their parents and grandparents. (Although, a big difference is they likely saw a winning game by the home team!) Maybe they can even understand my nostalgic attachment to the team and forgive me for cheering on a team that is usually in the “loss”column after a game. But as any Cub fan worthy of the name knows, it’s about the hope, belief and faith that one day, one very fine day, there will be another pennant for our Cubs. And I’m happy to be a part of those eternal optimists. Go Cubbies!
Hello world!
First steps can be scary, exciting, daunting and fulfilling all at the same time. This small step is all that, and more, for me. After years of having people ask me why I’m not getting my writing “out there to be seen” I am taking the first step of starting a blog to share my thoughts through my love of the written word. The name of this blog is an homage to the teacher/mentor who most believed in my writing more than 30 years ago, Mr. Thomas Melchior. He called me the “Barrel Maker’s Daughter”–a reference to my maiden name, Cooper. For Mr. Melchior, and all others who have believed in me over the years, I am finally writing again! Here we go!!
barrelmakersdaughter 