Bring on the cheer!

Winter has arrived. Landing with the grace of a lead weight the day after the fall fanfare that was Thanksgiving. Overnight it seemed to turn from chilly to cold. Poor Colin has nary a coat to his name that fits, so icy hands have to warmed frequently with lots of kisses. Yes, I ordered one. No worries.

We had a lovely and low-key Thanksgiving filled with Turkey goodness and Wiekings. Although it did end on a surreal note as we unexpectedly had to say a sad farewell to old Jo, who was Rob’s parent’s four-legged friend, right after dinner was over. Pie anyone?

Now that we are officially in the holiday season (ha, you stinking marketers, I made it past Thanksgiving without giving into your foul designs on my wallet) I am ready to make merry with the tinsel, tree and lights. Especially since we have a fancy new fireplace to decorate and admire.

Even with the anticipated trauma of the special circle of hell that is an airport (it’s decorated in tinsel, ya’ll!) during holiday travel season, I am looking forward to heading south for Christmas. I’m feeling far away right now, and even though my mom is feeling relatively fine for going through the chemical travails of chemo, I have a craving for a real hold-on-tight, rock back and forth a bit, try not to cry hug.

The boy and I will travel down first, and Rob will join us on the weekend. I have traveled with Colin alone before, and although it’s the longest few hours ever spent, at least I know he will have fun with the people.


Oh, how he loves the people.


If one of his favorites is not around, he is perfectly happy going up to strangers for hugs. *cringe*

I think Colin will enjoy Christmas a lot this year, maybe not quite understanding the whole mystique of the big man in the red suit, but certainly enjoying time with his pack of cousins and aunts and uncles.

Better get back to cyber shopping work. I shall do my best to maintain a second-year-in-a-row feat of avoiding mall insanity outside of a quick dash in for a photo op with Santa.


RIP Jo Jo dog.

Graham Cracker Days

I was recently trying to find an old file for the Heidrick museum and came across several essays I had written for my then website. They were written about ten years ago, and I'm honestly a bit surprised that my writing style hasn't changed a whole lot! Enjoy.

Graham Cracker Days
The first time I really had my mom all to myself was after Tony began Kindergarten. I was in a preschool co-op a few days a week, but for the most part, I was at home with mom or going on errands with her. I wish my memory were better, because that year was an important one in my life.

That was one of the years my mom served as the PTA president, and she was always busy with projects. Since I was always jabbering to her about this or that, she developed a tendency to tune me out and listen with only half an ear, figuring I wasn’t really talking about any specific thing. This tendency didn’t escape me though. She spent a lot of time on the phone and on one occasion when she hung up from one call and was about to make the next, I ran up to her and implored, “Before you get on the phone again, can I talk to you real quick?” This caught my mom short. I wasn’t being neglected, yet I obviously had a need for some real time with her.

She decided then and there that she had better make time to listen – really listen – to what I was telling her or she would miss out on a lot of who I was becoming. Mom has told me that she was surprised to realize what a card I was. I soaked in everything from my surroundings, spun it to my level in my head, and spit it all back out with my own perspective and twist on it. For a four-year-old, I had a pretty dry sense of humor and I kept my mom in smiles.

One of the only memories I can recall from that time was making rainy day snacks for the older kids. Mom asked me if I wanted to make some treats for the kids with her. I readily agreed. We sat at the table talking and making graham cracker and chocolate frosting sandwiches until the plate was full. Then we got to eat a couple as our own treat. It seems a simple, fleeting moment – but it’s one that has never left my mind for a moment. Whenever I recall my childhood or try to figure out when my mom and I became so close, I always touch on that memory as a defining moment in my life.

"She's loud."

I was a loud child. I played loud, talked loud and cried loud. During one of my checkups, she asked the family doctor why I was always loud; was it my hearing? Dr. Jann, being very familiar with the Lucchesi kids, told her not to worry. He said it’s no wonder she’s loud considering your family! Nothings wrong with her. If she wasn’t loud, no one would hear her.

Once my mom got in the habit of taking the time to listen to me, she started to stick up for me with the other kids. Rusty, acting as the family spokesperson, came to her once and complained about how I was always bugging him and the others to listen to me. Because she had recently gone through this dilemma herself, she had some advice for him. She told Russ to start listening to me – he might be surprised with what I had to say. He wasn’t too keen on the idea but said he would give it a try. A few weeks later, he came back to mom and confessed she was right. “She’s really funny!” he told her and shared with her some of the things I had told him. Out of the clan, Russ has always had the most patience with me.
I think it’s funny that my family viewed me first as the loud one, then as the missing link and then back to the loud one. I always thought that compared to the others, I was the stealthy kid, doing my own thing with no one noticing. Granted, once I hit adolescence, there were plenty of occasions when I wasn’t heard from for days – and I’ll share some of those stories – but given the overall design of a Lucchesi kid, we are all loud on some level. The din at family dinners – even today – rivals that of the Walton’s…or more appropriately – the Clamptons!

We’re getting through

Colin finds a certain amount of glee in disobeying. No to him is apparently toddler code for go for broke. IE: No, don’t bite. CHOMP CHOMP. No, don’t bang the metal toy on the wood floors. BAM BAM. No, don’t drop your food off the tray. HURL HUCK SQUISH. No, you’re driving mommy crazy. DADA! WAN DADA!!

Little wonder that Rob and I are all about the shrugs when we’re trying to determine if he’s learning anything from us.

One of our favorite activities is nibble the toddler. We love to take a munch or two out of the irresistibly chubby arms and thighs as they flail within reach. Hey, fairs fair. He certainly doesn’t hesitate to take a bite out of us now and then.

Since we are in the midst of yet another (ohgodmakeitstop) home improvement project, we’ve been banished down to the bedrooms to stay out of the way. Colin and I had fun hanging out on our bed watching Baby Crack Einstein videos to stay occupied on this particular rainy day. I saw a nibble opportunity and I took it, and was then surprised to have Colin round on me, point his finger, furrow his brow and say in all seriousness, “no bite, mama.”

I had Rob test it out later and he got the same stern admonishment. Who would have thunked it, he’s actually absorbing our ad nauseum repeated cries of no this and no that.

That doesn’t mean we’ll stop the nibbles, it’s kind of funny to have him tell us no. Hmm, that sounds familiar…

Thanksgiving, the uncool holiday

A recent discussion in my brain. “It’s mid-November.” “No it’s not. Is it? Are you sure?” “Yep, that’s what the calendar says.” “Then why am I surrounded by Christmess rather than the oh so pilgrimy and turkey goodness that November calls for?”

The retail community needs to rein it in justalittlebit, as in, a lot. Each year they pull out the tinsel and trash a few days earlier, and then they complain at the end of the season that sales were poor. Really? You feel you have the right to complain? Do you think it has something to do with the fact that extending the Christmas sales season by a month only stretches dollars more?

Just because you decide that earlier displays will inspire purchasing doesn’t mean that I’m going to give in to your marketing shenanigans. I’m on to you. Silly marketers. Thinking that I will trade in my cornucopia for cinnamon scented pinecones before it’s time…

Quit messing with my fall. I love fall. And Thanksgiving is Fall in so many ways. I want to have time to be thankful for my life, and family and all that warm fuzzy stuff that I've been lucky to have granted to me. I like to ease into the holiday madness, not slam into it because of a wrong turn around the turkey.

If you can feel bad about a holiday, I feel for Thanksgiving. It's getting the shaft. It's like the holiday that got picked last for dodgeball. And those cool kids up in marketing are not making it easier. We'll have to send in reinforcements.

Back off the turkey you wascally merchandisers.

Oh yes, yes I did.

Vintage Sears, Polyester goodness.
AKA Betty before the clinic.
@ CUAO Annual Awards Banquet

The evil within

I’m going to confess something that may change your view of me. So if you like to think of me the way you currently do, stop reading here.

Okay. Still with me? Good. Here’s my big dark secret. I like to kill plants. Now, hold on a minute, let me explain. I’m not talking about trees, flowers or my own home-grown tasty vegetables. I’m talking about the effing weeds that are overtaking my yard and make me want to chop off my green thumb in frustration, especially since it’s probably my fault in the first place.

Let’s take a trip back in time to the days when we were new home owners, when I was overjoyed to survey my new domain and the endless stream of home improvement projects were just a twinkle in our newlywed eyes. The best part was that I had a large, albeit overgrown, yard to do with as I wished (since the hubs is more motor, less yard inclined). The first step was clean up. I kept coming across large patches of mature, dried out tangles of plants. Any time I’d try to pull a clump out – whoosh – out would spray a volley of missals. Even if I just brushed by a plant. Whoosh. In my stupidity naivete, I thought it was funny. And would call to Rob, “Hey hon, look at these crazy weeds! Watch what they do! hee hee” Whoosh, whoosh here, whoosh whoosh there, whoosh whoosh all over the damn place. Then it quit being funny, but since I had no choice but to pull them, I helped these weeds spread unknown generations of their devilish offspring.

Flash forward to every spring and fall since and I have to deal with the consequences of my actions. These dang weeds are the most resistant essohbees that I have ever encountered. They even camouflage themselves depending on what they are growing in. And they will grow in anything and everything, and everywhere and all the time.

They must be caught before they seed and start to dry, and let me tell you, the whooshing season comes fast.

Back to the kill lust. As I said, these suckers are resistant. They don’t die in the freeze or for lack of water. They only way I’ve found to put an end to them is pulling by hand and spraying the holy hell out of them with RoundUp. In my battles, I have discovered that whenever I can win a round against these persistent devil weeds, I feel a sense of joy. Joy that I’ve yanked their little green lives out of the ground and stomped and strangled them until they scream little weedy death throes. I imagine my roses and lilacs are thanking me for the clear space around their limbs, and I’m the Queen of May despite my murderous tendencies.

I was looking at the yard the other day and realized that there was a literal carpet of these weeds on nearly every inch of my domain – worse than I have ever seen even right after my whooshing days. We’ve had a stretch of beautiful fall weather the last week and I knew that my window was closing if I wanted to try to kill this crop before the rain came back.

Normally I’m all for trying out eco-friendly products. I’ve cleaned with vinegar and baking soda, use dye and scent free laundry soap, blah blah blah. But when it comes to herbacides – the nastier, more chemically compounded and unnatural the better. (when I’m at the farmer’s market, I keep hoping some black market operative is going to offer me some of the professional stuff. “Psst, lady. I got whatcha lookin for right here. Killoweedo Formula X-18.”) Because I want these weeds dead, and the seeds too scared to pop out of the ground.

There’s actually another reason I don’t use organic herbicide and here’s my reasoning. Let’s say there is a “natural” product that is made using a plant found in the jungles down south. To get said product, the company uses underpaid local child labor, interferes with the area’s ecosystem by overharvesting, transports it back to the production facility using some god-awful diesel barge ships and compounds it using some crazy chemical to distill the good stuff. Doesn’t really seem like a good trade-off to me. Give me a gallon of the good stuff that’s guaranteed to provide a killing spree that Dahmer would give a nod to, and I’ll send a little check the Sierra Club in contrition.

So this weekend I spent the better part of one of the last non-rainy days dousing the carpet of evil, feeling like Tony Montoya of Bonanza Court, with my high-powered trigger sprayer locked and loaded. “Say hello to my leetly fwiend.” After a careful sweep of my domain, I sit back and hope that I have done my worst, feeling no pity for these greenie meanies who will. Not. Desist.

Hopefully I haven’t shocked you with my admission of my murderous side, but we all have a vice, now don’t we?

(Mother Nature, if you’re reading my confession. Please try to understand. I know I walk with evil in my heart for what is after all one of your creations, but really. Isn’t this a little much? I can handle the dandelions, I can manage those weird purple weeds that are kind of stinky in a good way when I pull them, but give me a little break with these things.)

Happy Halloween!

There are many things in life that were, I am not afraid to admit, more fun BC (before Colin). Halloween isn’t one of them. We had a lot of fun this year watching Colin get into the spirit of things.

We gutted our pumpkin (that we grew ourselves) and enjoyed some toasted pumpkin seeds. I have to say, the enjoyment was much higher knowing these came from our garden














We carved a face (with help from Mommy).














We looked cuuuuuuttttteeee....



















We set out with empty bucket in hand, ready to fight our way through ghosts, goblins and any other unfortunate souls who dare block the path of Pachy the Pachederme.

We took our little pachy to a local
retirement community for trick or treating. It was a fun time, the residents loved seeing the little man dressed up and Colin was as charming as could be. It was a bit scary to see how quickly Colin got the hang of the treat aspect of this game. After a few visits, he was lunging into the treat bags gripping a handful. I was worried he was going to knock one of the grans off her feet!

For those of you (you know who you are) who think we deny Colin all things sugar, no worries. He enjoyed his treats and bounced off the walls like a monkey on crack pro.