glass half empty no more

I used to be a glass half full type of person.

Then in 1986 I developed the passionate fatalism shared by my adopted New England brethren when the Boston Red Sox tragically lost the World Series.

And since then, I’ve had an “x thing I want to happen will never happen because my teams never win” outlook.

Absurd because my teams DO win. I’ve now witnessed not one but two Red Sox World Series titles. And I don’t even want to count the combined 49ers-Pats Super Bowl victories over my lifetime. (On the other hand, I definitely take the blame for Michelle Kwan never winning a gold medal.)

So when talking to Nancy the other night, I complained, “what happened to Year of Chelsea? 2013 was supposed to be Year of Chelsea!” Then I went on to tick off the bad things that have happened to me this year:

My cat ran away. (“But she came back and you got to experience the heartwarming response from your community in the process,” Nancy reminded me.)

My other cat died. (“She was old and lived a good life, and you had many happy years together.”)

I got a flat tire. The Boston Marathon bombing happened. Congress is never going to pass climate legislation. (When I’m on a roll, I’m on a roll.) My washing machine broke. I cracked my iPad. Got concussed. Not to mention the countless other mini Chelsea disasters that put dents in my spirit.

Nancy has this great way of turning the energy around in a cloudy situation. She takes a negative and manages to find the positive. And she has challenged me to try it.

It’s going to take some practice. I might not be very good at first, and I’m sure I won’t be consistent. But I think I will give her methods a try. With a glass half full of wine to help.

summer woes

I want to love summer. Pool time. Beach season. Easy breezy attitudes. Dry rosés and barbecue.

But the truth is, I hate it. Summer is stifling when it’s hot and humid and you have a professional dress code to adhere to Monday thru Friday. The pool is nice, but with kids it isn’t always relaxing. When was the last time I went to the beach? The answer would be Hawaii. In December.
Easy breezy? Congress is in high dysfunction mode and summer camp is harder to prep kids for than school.

But one of the factors I hate most is my summer casual wardrobe. I don’t find shorts to be very flattering. It’s hard to find summery dresses that fall between too girly and too soccer mommy. And I hate every pair of sandals on the market.

Which is odd because you know I love shoes. I have tried and tried to find acceptable summer footwear. I can’t do flat sandals, but I don’t always want a heel on the weekends or super hot days. Please no ankle cuffs. (I don’t like to look shackled, though I do like how gladiators look on other women.) Flip flops should be reserved for the pool and/or beach. Flatforms are out of the question.

(As my friend Hillary tweeted yesterday: “I don’t care if Coco Chanel came down from the heavens and told me to get flatforms, I will never ever (ever) buy them.”)

But I haven’t given up yet. I’m hopeful that my “friends I haven’t met yet” at the Shoe Hive can help rescue me. In the need for some retail therapy this sticky, concussed (still) day, I ordered a pair of sandals (pewter, simple, low wedge) from them that just might hit the mark.

And if they do, then please, someone host a BBQ. I promise to bring good wine.

third string quarterback

Football Jesus is coming to a Patriots jersey near you.

It was bound to happen. I feel like rarely in New England sports do we get saddled with a so-called bad guy player. For example, I can say with some level of certainty that Derek Jeter will not end his career with the Red Sox. Usually it seems to go the other way around. Our beloved stars play their final days with the sworn enemy.

Not that Tim Tebow is that level of the devil. I just find him mediocre as a player and intolerable as a public figure. So he’s in the third string quarterback position. Hopefully he will only get his hands on the ball when the Pats are so far ahead that Tom Brady can give his arm a rest. (Though I do love me some fourth quarter Tom Brady action.)

Third string, third string, third string. I keep whispering those words to myself but we all know how this season is going to play out.

Either Tebow is going to come in and save the day, I mean, game, and I will have to like him, which will make me hate him more. Or he will come in a game, blow the lead, and I will be vindicated, but at the cost of a tick in the loss column.

Honestly, I don’t know which way I’d rather see it go down. I just know that I will not be buying a Tebow jersey anytime soon, and I hope my small gesture is a form of, shall I call it abstinence, we can all agree on.

my aching head

I woke up in the middle of the night a little discombobulated. But once I got my bearings, I could not fall back to sleep. So in my head I wrote the definitive account of how I managed to get myself concussed this weekend.

In the light of day, I don’t remember a single word. But I couldn’t remember who Stannis Baratheon was when turning the TV on for the first time all weekend (screens hurt to look at) because after last weekend’s “Red Wedding” I was sure the season finale to Game of Thrones would find Dany charred by her own dragons, Arya encountering White Walkers and Tyrion drinking poisoned wine, all in very bloody and violent fashion.

So for all who asked, the short of it is that at 5:00am on Saturday, I was about to take my younger son to the airport. I opened the hatchback of my Prius, swung his suitcase up, and clocked my forehead on said hatch which had caught and not provided its expected clearance.

That hurt.

I saw stars. There was blood. I needed a few minutes to compose myself but I’m Chelsea and a job needed to be done so I got in the car for the 45 minute drive.

“I need coffee, that’s why I feel hazy,” I told myself.

“I’m hungry, not dizzy.”

“Of course I have a headache. I just hit my head, hard, on a car door.”

I got us to Dulles and since we had time, I grabbed a coffee and a bit to eat but those feelings (okay, symptoms) didn’t go away. In fact, I started to feel nauseous (“I’m nervous for Colin to fly alone”) and had a hard time finding the right words to say to him.

After his flight departed, I got back in the car and started to make my way home. But something wasn’t right. My friend Kate offered to come get me. My ex-husband was more direct: don’t mess with the head, go to the nearest ER.

So I did. Well, the second nearest because I will always choose the ER at Sibley if given the choice.

48 hours later, my head still throbs though not quite as severely. I’m still a little light of head when standing, though my goal today will be to do more of that. Writing this is going to take all the screen time I have allotted myself for the morning, but I didn’t want to forget, and now I have somewhere to point people who want to know what happened.

Just please, when checking in on me, do not reference Natasha Richardson.

a big boy now

Colin had been waiting almost exactly 365 days for yesterday to arrive.

About a year ago, Jack let slip that in August, he’d be going to San Francisco, by himself, to spend a week with my dad, their “Papa.” (And by “let slip” I mean the kid can’t keep a secret to save his life.)

Colin fretted all summer. Why not him? Why Jack? It was so unfair.

Oh, the injustice of being the younger child. It’s something I’ve tried to be more cognizant of as a parent. As the oldest sibling among my brothers and sisters, it seemed perfectly fair that Jack would get his adventure first.

After a painstaking year, during which the question, “when am I going to California?” was posed nearly daily, the big day finally arrived, but was shrouded in a typically klutzy Chelsea maneuver that left my literally seeing stars for the drive from home to Dulles.

He was quiet in the car. Not unusual for the 5:00am hour or for Colin. For a kid that can be really loud, he can also be quiet as a church mouse. (Assuming church mice are quiet. I don’t exactly have field experience there.)

As we approached IAD from the parking lot, Colin wrapped himself around my arm.

“Come with me, mommy.”

“I can’t,” I said reassuringly. “I don’t have any clothes to wear.”

“You can buy new clothes,” he offered, hitting me at my vulnerable point.

“Jack is home waiting for me to return.”

“Daddy can go get him.”

The reasons I should go with him continued as we made our way through security and to the gate. I started to dread boarding. Would he cry? Would be refuse to go?

But when it came time, he gave me a hug, pulled his face into the most serious look I’ve ever seen on the kid, and made his way.

And of course, on the other end I know he’s being spoiled, getting the special one-on-one time he deserves and not having to share this experience with Jack or with me. He will return with fantastic stories and detailed accounts of where he was able to drink Dr. Pepper, which seems to be a big goal of his trip.

But it’s up to Papa to break it to him that the Hollywood sign does not live in the Bay Area, as seeing that iconic landmark is definitely on Colin’s bucket list.

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on growing things

People, I planted stuff.

And five hours later, everything looks happy still. If plants can look perky, then yes indeed, that is the word I’d use to describe them. What started as a Weekend Warriors project in April has morphed into a new obsession.

I can’t and won’t let the hard work of my devoted friends be for naught.

I had not done much in the yard since my home improvement day except water. And trust me, that endeavor represented a huge outdoor commitment on my part.

Then Lola had to be put down, kids were crying, and I was my own little emotional mess when it hit me.

“Mom, can we go to the pool!” Jack asked on our tear-filled Friday afternoon.

“No,” I replied more curtly than I meant to. “I need some time alone.”

And I went outside.

I started pulling ivy. And weeds. And more ivy, maybe some of it of the poisonous variety. (I know what it’s supposed to look like but part of the evil plant’s power over me renders me unable to identify it when I’m actually among it.) It felt good to just mindlessly pull trails of ivy out of the ground. I suddenly knew what I wanted to do over the weekend.

Saturday turned out to be more of a prep day as between an extra long little league game and visits with friends who wanted to drink to Lola’s long life, I ended up not being able to spend as much time in the yard as I’d planned.

(By the way, when my time comes, I hope you all toast me as robustly as you toasted my cat.)

Sunday I woke up with the birds. Grabbed the book on my nightstand before remembering I had work to do and an entire day to do it. I started with the front yard. I pulled hostas that needed dividing. I reorganized some plants that weren’t getting the sun they needed. And I ended up planting this new flower bed. A Fothergilla anchors the bed, an Abelia taking up the rear, with transplanted hostas lining the brick border that was already in the dirt, just covered by years of neglect.

(Oh, and I pulled out all the ivy and pokeberry weeds that had been the tenants of this space until today.)

I performed lots of other gardenly tasks but this bed was my coup d’état, and five hours later, my back was achy but my heart was filled with pride at how I suddenly converted my black thumb into one of green. It felt good to bring life to my yard after a few days of thinking only of death.

And so here I sit with a crisp Rosé while the kids read (what else?) and I’m planning the next project.

All bets will be off when temperatures hit three digits but for now, I’m enjoying my newfound hobby.

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goodbye Lola Jane

Today we say goodbye to Lola Jane Maxwell Henderson, the first cat I owned in my own right and did not just lay claim to via family rights and roommate situations.

The first time I laid eyes this tiny fur ball, I knew she’d be mine, even though my “now ex, then future” husband proclaimed to be allergic.

I figured, there are drugs he can take for that.

I adopted her from a woman who saved her from the wild. She was about 4 weeks old when we first met and being bottle fed. While I didn’t bring her home until she was 8 weeks, I saw her almost everyday during that time. (My EPW friends might remember this period in my life when I had a “kitty in a box” in my office.)

In the last 13 years, in addition to providing us joy, purrs, and more than a few scratches, Lola has defied death twice.

First, after her spay, she chewed the narcotic “pain patch” off her torso and ingested it, sending her into a drug overdose and us to the Betty Ford Clinic for Cats in the wee hours of the morning. (There is never a good time for the off-hours Animal ER.)

The second time, she was diagnosed with a recurring form of bladder stones that would require repeated operations to remove. We had just given birth to Colin and were in the process of trying to buy a house, thus thousands of dollars in vet bills were not affordable. We begged for alternatives. Meds. Food. The vet said nothing else would work but surgery. Until we scheduled her euthanasia, of course, at which point the vet gave Lola prescription food which she ate for a month, the stone dissolved, and she never had a recurrence.

We don’t go to that vet anymore.

She survived the birth of two little boys. She tolerated their toddler years then eventually adopted them as her own. She routinely sleeps on Colin’s bed. She was pissed off at first when we brought Fang and Fluffy home but grew to accept them and even gave Fluffy the cat equivalent of a fist bump upon her return from the wild. (We’ve had quite the Cat Spring.)

But the vet says there are no more miracles for Lola. A tumor on her heart the size of a grape and additional tumors on her lungs make breathing labored, and while she hasn’t stopped purring, she’s in great discomfort.

In a selfish way, I want to keep her until the natural end, but I know this isn’t the right thing to do. This morning, a mobile vet will come over and help ease her out of her misery.

As Jack said this morning when he found me sobbing, “it’s her time, Mommy.”

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#fluffycomehome

If you are sick of reading my struggles with our missing cat, then you probably aren’t reading this right now. You saw the tweet or the post on Facebook and rolled your eyes and scrolled through your stream.

If you are instead heartsick with me over the loss of a beloved pet, then bear with me as I list everything I’ve done to find this animal, and please tell me if you have new ideas.

Late night, early morning cat food bag shaking.

Anytime of day calling for her.

Trapping. With tuna fish.

“Lost Kitty” sign posting.

I’ve sent more than one email to our local community listserve, filed reports with the DC and Prince George’s animal shelters. I dragged my friend Rachel to go with me to the PG complex where we tried really hard to not make eye contact with any forlorn animals.

I used a pet rescue service where a volunteer brought her dog to sniff out Fluffy’s whereabouts. It yielded five places she’d been but she wasn’t in any of them at the time. Nor has she been there on my return visits.

I’ve knocked on doors. Trespassed into my neighbors’ yards. Brought Fang outside in her carrier hoping her meows and scent would call her sister home.

As mentioned before, my town councilwoman has been awesome. My friends have been outstanding. Two friends dreamed this weekend that she came back. Fluffy is not far from the minds of my inner circle.

And hopefully she’s still not far from home.

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Boston love

You know it’s been one hell of a week when it barely registers a blip on the screen that the president and a U.S. Senator both received ricin-filled letters.

I think as a nation we gave a collective sigh of relief on Friday night when “suspect #2” was apprehended in Watertown after 24 hours that felt too far fetched for a screenplay, let alone real life. Afterwards, Bostonians on lockdown all day went out for a drink. Or rather, several.

I wish I could have joined them.

I’ve spent the weekend being especially nostalgic for the city of my young adulthood. Boston is as much where I’m “from” as anywhere. I’d never even been to Boston when I arrived on her doorstep at age 18 for my freshman year of college at BU. But I immediately fell for her charms.

Boston is the first place I officially lived on my own. It’s where I experienced first true heartbreak. I made life long friends. It’s where I learned to take public transportation and walk through the city like you mean it. I learned to be hearty. And drink Guinness.

When I first arrived, I was overcome with delight to be in a dorm five blocks from Fenway Park, though dismayed that bleacher tickets cost $7.00. So I discovered college hockey, which was free with our student ID. Friday nights in the winter were dedicated to cheering our team, often to chants of “BC sucks.”

I love the accent. It sounds like home to me. I love the Dunkin Donuts on every corner and the absolute worship of ice cream. Ditto steamers. Lobster. Chowder. Head of the Charles. The Beanpot.

In Boston, I rented my first apartment. Got my first “real” job after a string of jobs that felt anything but unreal.

I learned to cook. Entertain. Mock the weather. I became obsessed with the idea of running the Boston Marathon. And took to the streets every Patriots Day to cheer runners on. I climbed the Citgo sign. Twice.

But then I left Boston, seeking professional opportunities I couldn’t get from the place that nurtured me, developed me, fed my soul.

But I miss her.

I find it somewhat extra poignant that my favorite bar (the Crossroads) closed its doors permanently this weekend. I can only imagine what Saturday night was like.

This too shall pass and eventually I will stop torturing my kids with the songs on repeat that remind me of Boston.

But until then, good times never seemed so good.