Author Archives: kzmclain

Friday Book Whimsy: All Summer Long

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imgresI really used to like author Dorothea Benton Frank. I loved her descriptions of life in the low country of South Carolina. I liked her ascerbic characters and their interesting lives. I even liked the romance that was almost always a part of her story.

But her last few books have been a disappointment, and All Summer Long was really the worse one yet. I have never in my life read a book that moved along more slowly and that featured characters in whom I was less interested.

Olivia Ritchie and her husband Nicholas Seymour have a lovely condo in New York City. Olivia is a very successful interior-designer-for-the-rich-and-famous and Nicholas was an English professor who has recently retired. Having been born and brought up in South Carolina low country, he has gotten Olivia to agree to sell their NYC home and move to SC. What Nicholas doesn’t know (apparently being the dumbest college professor who ever lived) is that the couple is nearly flat broke.

Olivia continues to try to build her business by wooing an exceptionally wealthy man and his southern belle wife (who must be one of Frank’s most predicable caricatures in any of her books). As such, much of the book takes place in settings other than South Carolina. Olivia and Nicholas fly to Caribbean islands and Spain and even spend time at a mansion in New Jersey. Seeings as the South Carolina setting is about the only thing the book has going for it, the book falls entirely flat.

The moral of the story, I guess, is that money doesn’t buy happiness. But it was hard for me to find the moral in the story since all of the characters were rich and all of the characters seemed to love being obnoxious, having no interest in changing.

I hardly ever finish a book that I so heartily dislike, but I just kept plugging along because I couldn’t believe that the author wouldn’t redeem herself and her characters in some way. She simply didn’t.

I recommend you not waste your time on this novel.

Here is link to the book.

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Reluctant Traveler Guest Post: Life’s a Beach

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By Rebecca Borman
576517_3701252659493_1093622282_n-2For many months, my son’s family and I had been looking forward to our annual (and sometimes semi-annual) trip to The Resort on Cocoa Beach.  As I’ve written before, it’s one of our happy places.  But, just a few days before the start of our week at the beach, I got a shocking phone call.  The voice on the other end told me that our week at The Resort was cancelled.  What?  Well, there was this hurricane on the way, and Cocoa Beach was being evacuated.  The Resort would be closed for a week so they could assess and then repair the damages.

I immediately called my son, Erik.  He, not I, was going to have to break the news to his wife Josey and my grandchildren, Mackenzie and Carter.  There would be tears.  We needed to come up with some suggestions for a Plan B.  Given that we had spent about $3000 on airfare to Orlando, Plan B needed to be within driving distance of that city.

Good fortune prevailed in many ways.  Most importantly, Cocoa Beach weathered the storm very well.  The storm didn’t do as much harm as was feared, and while docks and probably a few buildings were damaged, in general our beloved beach town is fine.  And, we came up with Plan B.  Friends of my son’s family own a condo on Indian Rocks Beach and generously offered us the use of their home for our vacation week.  We appreciated the offer and immediately agreed.  So, we were off to the beach, this time on the Gulf side of Florida.

Admittedly, there was some trepidation at the thought of a beach vacation on the Gulf instead of the Atlantic, and in an unfamiliar place.  Would there be waves for boogie-boarding?  Would we like the beach?  Would we miss our big balcony overlooking the ocean and the beautiful swimming pool at the resort?  Would we find places to eat that would satisfy our cravings for seafood?  The short answer is that we had a great week!

image1Truth be told, we did miss the big waves that provide so much boogie-boarding fun.  We also weren’t big fans of the need to do the “sting-ray shuffle.”  But, we loved the easy access to the beach from the condo, and the sea shells were absolutely amazing.  We spent lots of time in the water, but also lots of time walking along the shore.  We became experts at finding unbroken shells and had fun identifying them.  We even found several that are consider “rare finds.”  Very fun!

In fact, here is a short list of some things we did that we wouldn’t have been able to do had we stayed in Cocoa Beach:  for a few moments, Mackenzie held a live seahorse she saw in the water; one morning, a manatee swam so close to shore that he/she was only a few feet away from us; another morning a blue heron followed a woman fishing on the shore, hoping for and getting a few fishy treats; Erik and the kids discovered a live sand dollar when they dug their toes into the sand bar; I found a perfect and rare “Scotch bonnet” seashell; we ate lots of fresh-caught grouper.  And one of our best dinners was one we couldn’t have had in Cocoa Beach.  We had pizzas delivered and took them down to the beach.  We enjoyed good pizza, great conversations, and a spectacular sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.  It was a wonderful way to end a long, lazy day of relaxing on the beach and in the water.

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So, what threatened to be a disaster turned out to be a great week and a good lesson.  When your biggest problem is having to switch your vacation plans from one fabulous beach to another, you are blessed to be living a very good life.  Oh, and PS…we are already booked for a spring break week at The Resort on Cocoa Beach.

Thursday Thoughts: Wednesday Edition

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Wednesday Edition
I’m doing my Thoughts on Wednesday instead of Thursday, because on Thursday we’ll be on the road and I will be featuring a guest blog.

Rassling a Bear
Jll is traveling with her mother and sister, and will be gone for something in the neighborhood of two weeks. As a result, Dave is playing both Mr. Mom and Mr. Dad, and they have enlisted the help of the grandparents. Since we left this morning to head to AZ for a few weeks, I have helped out on the early end of the trip, at least for a couple of days. As such, I have gotten a sense of just how busy their schedules are. Girl scouts for Maggie Faith, Lego Robotics for Dagny. Don’t forget to make sure they have packed necessary lunches and snacks. Don’t forget Dagny’s saxophone for band practice. Addie and Alastair have their share of activities as well (volleyball, play practice, soccer games), but they are independent enough to mostly take care of themselves. Yesterday morning after Alastair and Addie had left for school, I sent Dagny and Maggie upstairs to get dressed, comb their hair, and brush their teeth. It all happened, but at one point it sounded like they were wrestling a bear. Thumps and screams, laughter and whines. But I got them in my yellow bug and safely to school on time.

Not on My Watch
One thing I’m always afraid of is that one of the grands will get injured under my care. So when I answered my telephone yesterday afternoon and it was from the Dagny and Maggie’s school, my heart sank. What now? Thankfully, it was not anything too serious. Dagny (and of course it would be Dagny) was walking home from a field trip she took with her class to the nearby high school. A group of her friends stopped at our neighborhood park to unearth a wrist watch that one of the girls had buried a month earlier. You can’t make this stuff up when it comes to 10-year-olds. Anyway, Dagny was pitching in, and forgetting that she was under playground equipment, stood up and jammed her head into something sharp. It apparently bled a bit (hence, the telephone call), but by time I got there, it had stopped bleeding and it was easy to see that it wasn’t a serious cut. Still, it warranted getting out of school 45 minutes early and being the first to sample Nana’s homemade chocolate chip cookies.

The Clampetts
When we got to AZ at this point, we drive Bill’s car. We leave it there, and fly home for the holidays. Since we leave the car there, this is the time for us to pack the car up with all of the oversized things that we deem necessary for the winter. It also requires us to plan ahead in the way of clothes. We are pretty much done with summer clothes here in Colorado, so we both pack our lightweight clothes and take them with us, leaving them there when we return home in November. The whole process requires us to think ahead. For example, Bill needs to remember things like tax information and anything he might need for legal work that comes up while we are there. As I always remind myself, as long as we have our necessities like medications, there’s nothing we can’t buy there. Now I’ve jinxed myself and we’ll forget our meds.

Nobody But Me
imgresI just purchased the newest release from crooner Michael Buble – Nobody But Me. Man oh man, do I ever love every single song on that album (can you still call them albums?). I think his voice is amazing, and I really like when he sings some of the old “Rat Pack” type songs. In fact, I like his version of On an Evening in Roma even more than Dean Martin’s, and that’s saying a lot. He performs one song with one of my favorite newer artists – Meghan Trainor – and it’s also exceptionally good. I’m getting no kickback from ol’ Michael for this pitch, but I can’t recommend the album strongly enough. Great music. You’re welcome, Mr. Buble.

Ciao.

 

Hard to Be Humble

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Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble
When you’re perfect in every way.
I can’t wait to look in the mirror
Cause I get better looking each day
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
O Lord it’s hard to be humble
But I’m doing the best that I can. – Mac Davis

37830-pSix months or so ago, I wrote a blog post entitled Humble and Kind, inspired by the poignant song sung by country artist Tim McGraw. If you read this blog post, you know that my parents instilled the importance of humility in all of their kids.

You’re no better than anyone else, and no one else is better than you I heard my mother say on many occasions. I think this message really took hold in all of us.

Since the theme of last weekend’s Mass readings was humility, I thought about all of this once again as I listened to Jesus’ story about the Pharisee and the tax collector. The Pharisee bragged about what an exceptional person he was. He tithed. He fasted. He wasn’t greedy and unholy in the ways of many others. At the same time, the tax collector beat his breast and begged for God’s forgiveness for all of his sins. I am not worthy, he said.

Yep, I thought. I have lots of faults, but I’m certainly not like that nasty Pharisee. I am really tremendously humble.

And then I saw the irony in that notion. I’m prideful of just how humble I am. Oops. Disconnect.

Because the reality is that though on an intellectual level, I know I’m no better than anyone else, on a practical level, I hold my breath as I walk past a clearly unbathed homeless person, I look at distain at young people with huge holes in their ears, I hang on to old grievances, I gossip, and I judge people if I think they aren’t living the kind of life I think they should be living.

So am I really all that humble? Certainly not as humble as I’ve always thought I was, or so it appears. To be really humble, you have to let go of yourself and feel perfectly safe putting yourself into the hands of God.  And that’s easier to say than to do. It always feels safer to control your own life. And that might work well as long as things are going along just like you want. But when the time comes that things seem to be heading south, that is when it is most important to put yourself in the hands of God. To be truly humble.

In Jesus’ parable, the tax collector would not even raise his eyes to heaven, but instead begged for God’s mercy. The result? Jesus tells us that the tax collector is the one who went home justified, while the Pharisee did not.

For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be exalted.

Please God, forgive me for all of my sins and help me to be truly humble.

Weiners

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Many years ago, Bill and I went on a road trip in the southern part of the United States. We stopped at various places along the way, but our primary destinations were to the homes of Bill’s two brothers, one of whom lives in Birmingham, Alabama, and one of whom lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

My brother-in-law who lives in Winston-Salem had a dog of whom he was very fond. In the way of many single people , May Ling (I think that was her name) was cared for like she was his child. He often talked about her, but we had never seen her before, and knew nothing of her, including her breed.

I remember the event very clearly. We arrived at Bill’s brother’s home and rang the doorbell. His brother answered, and at his feet was a pretty little miniature Dachshund.

“She’s a weiner dog!” Bill exclaimed excitedly.

I can tell you that his brother was not amused. Weiner dog, indeed.

I thought about that day recently when I was at our nearby strip mall getting my final pedicure before I put away my flip flops until we are settled in Arizona for the winter. There is a Petco store in that particular shopping center. Petco (or at least that Petco) frequently has dog adoption days, and they were having such an event on that particular day.

And the dogs that were up for adoption were all Dachshunds. Weiner dogs. Nothing but Dachshunds in cage after cage. Have you ever seen a dog look quite so pitiful? It made me want to adopt her myself….

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I know very little about Dachshunds. I had never really been around a Dachshund until my dad and my stepmother purchased their little Miniature Dachshund that they called Schotzy. In German, that word – which is spelled Schatzi – is an endearment that means sweetheart or honey. It was a perfect name for that little dog that they both loved so much….

shirley-dad-shotsey

I did a little research about Dachshunds after Dad and Shirley purchased Schotzy. The word that kept popping up, no matter what source I was using for my research, was stubborn. And man, was that ever true. Schotzy loved Dad and Shirley, and went almost everywhere they went, but though he lived a good long life, I don’t believe he was ever quite house trained. They tried everything they could think of. They read dog books and tried all sorts of training techniques, to no avail.

Leave him in his little kennel, someone would tell them. (I think it might have been me.)  Dogs won’t mess where they are sleeping.

Ha! Schotzy never got that memo. And then he was not only untrained, but also needed a bath.

People here in Colorado are absolutely crazy about their dogs. Crazy in a way that I don’t witness elsewhere – or at least not in Arizona. And Dad and Shirley were certainly crazy about that Dachshund, who they took him everywhere with them. And, despite Schotzy’s stubbornness, he was Dad’s buddy. In Dad’s final days, Schotzy would lay on his feet – quite literally. Man’s Best Friend indeed.

Now Schotzy is in heaven with my dad. But seeing those weiner dogs lined up looking for new owners made me nostalgic for his sweet face. And Dad’s.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Where’s Waldo?

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Every year about this time, Bill and I take Dave, Jll, and Allen out to dinner for their birthdays. We did so last Sunday. Dave and Jll picked us up about 6:25, and as we drove the short distance to Bonefish Grill, I asked who was babysitting the kids since Adelaide was out of town. Jll told me that Dagny and Magnolia were by themselves for about 15 minutes or so until Alastair got home from some activity. Her mother lives across the street, and she was “on call.” Jll had explained to them that their brother would likely come in through the garage, so she told them not to worry if they heard the garage door open.

About 7:10, Jll’s cell phone rang. It was Magnolia. I could tell from listening to Jll’s side of the conversation that Magnolia and Dagny were concerned because Alastair apparently hadn’t come home. Jll told them that she would call the woman who was supposed to drop Alastair off at 6:45 and find out what was going on. I was surprised to see that as she disconnected her phone, she was chuckling.

She explained to us that she would be willing to bet that Maggie and Dagny were upstairs in her bedroom watching television, and that Alastair was sitting downstairs in the family room watching television himself. She confirmed that he had, in fact, been dropped off as expected at 6:45. Jll called Maggie back to tell her that her brother was snug as a bug in a rug downstairs.

We all had a good laugh, and continued eating. About an hour later, Jll’s phone rang again. It was Jll’s mother. This time, as Jll disconnected her phone, she was laughing out loud. It apparently took Alastair about an hour before he began wondering about his sisters (who hadn’t gone downstairs to check to see if he was there), and telephoned his grandmother to see if she knew their whereabouts.

It obviously didn’t occur to any of them to go to the top or the bottom of the stairs and hollar, “yoo hoo, is anyone there?”

As Jll said, “It isn’t like we live in a mansion!”

I still laugh when I think about the case of the missing siblings.

dagny-maggie-first-day-2016

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Dollhouse

Posted in Book Reviews by

searchThe Barbizon Hotel for Women is/was a real thing. The hotel was a residence for women only from its inception in the late 1920s until it began allowing men as guests in 1981. The Barbizon was a safe place for young women new to the big city to live. Located on the upper east side of Manhattan, it was the home for many women trying to make their place in the world – women such as Lauren Bacall, Sylvia Plath, Grace Kelly, Eudora Welty.

The Barbizon Hotel may as well be one of the characters in author Fiona Davis’ captivating debut novel The Dollhouse. The Barbizon is the star of the show.

The novel is a back-and-forth story of two women, both who live in the Barbizon. One of the women, Darby McLaughlin, comes from a small town in Ohio, and is sent to New York City in 1952 by her bossy and obnoxious mother, who pays for her to attend a secretarial college in NYC. The second story is contemporary. Rose Lewis is a journalist who lives with her boyfriend in what used to be the Barbizon, but is now condominiums. However, a few of the units are still inhabited by former residents of the old historic hotel.

Rose is dumped by her boyfriend, and through a series of somewhat admittedly unlikely events, she becomes acquainted with a couple of the women who still live in their original apartments. Originally interested in these women primarily to write a story for the magazine for which she works, Rose eventually gets caught up in these two women’s compelling and interrelated stories about life in the 1950s, love, jazz music, and murder.

It is all quite delicious.

I think part of me liked the story so much because I found the whole notion that there was a hotel for women in NYC so interesting, and when I did some research and learned about some of the real-life residents who lived there, I was hooked.

Sometimes novels with back-and-forth storylines can become confusing and jumbled, but I found Davis’ handling of the style to be smooth and flowed well. Despite the fact that I was horrified at some of the choices Rose made in her search for the story, I liked the characters and found them to be realistic and interesting.

I think The Dollhouse would be a great read for a book club.

Here is link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

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Overkill
Packaging and I are in a fight. We almost always are, because it is just so flipping difficult to get anything opened when you have arthritis in your hands. Even using scissors, it seems like the task is near impossible. But that’s not why we’re in a fight this time. Today it’s because, was it really necessary that the one – ONE – battery for my telephone (a battery that measures 2-1/2 x 2-1/4 inches needed to be packed into a box that measures 10 x 7 x 5-1/2 inches? Perhaps they use such a big box for some judicious reason, but I can’t think of it. I also can’t think why it annoys me so….

battery-packaging

Up, Up, Up
And speaking of being annoyed (boy, I guess this is going to be one of those crabby get off my lawn kinds of posts today), I spent yesterday morning trying to figure out what the cost of my insurance will look like next year. The price – already horrendous – went up once again, which was no surprise. I will say that this year at least, the cost increase was slightly lower than my 2 percent salary increase, bringing my net increase to about two bucks more a month. That won’t even buy me a cup of coffee these days. My main struggle this time is with my dental insurance. That cost didn’t go up, but I got to thinking about how much more I spend on dental insurance than I would pay outright to the dentist without insurance for my semiannual checkup and cleaning. Of course, just about the time I decide to forgo dental insurance, I will bite into a popcorn kernel and will break a tooth. The truth is, I’m not much of a gambler. And the paperwork? It’s so complicated! When will Obamacare start making my insurance life easier?

Birthday Boy
I told Bill yesterday morning that he was king for the day, meaning he got to choose any and all activities for his birthday. What’s more, I promised him if he chose to work on his little car all day, I wouldn’t complain. Shockingly, he chose NOT to go to the gym; he chose a slice of pizza from our neighborhood joint for lunch, and chicken-parm-you-taste-so-good from one of our favorite Italian restaurants for dinner. Check out the size of this slice…..

georgio-slice

The McLains (minus Adelaide, who is Washington, DC, on a school trip) came over after dinner for cake and ice cream. As I do every year, I told Bill I would make him any kind of cake he desired. He always chooses a chocolate cake, and so I was kind of surprised this year when he chose an ice cream sandwich cake. The cake is super simple to make, simply stacking store-bought ice cream sandwiches in a criss cross pattern, with whipped cream and whatever else you choose between the layers…..I chose Heath bar, caramel and hot fudge……

ice-cream-sandwich-cake

He was happy to be with half of his kids and three-ninths of his grandkids. The others telephoned him from afar…..

bill-kids-grands-birthday-2016

Ciao.

AARPed

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I’ve been reading on some of the blogs that I follow, as well as other kinds of social media, that there is remarkable angst amongst the younger crowd because actor Luke Perry is on the cover of AARP Magazine.

Well, welcome to my world.

Apparently Luke Perry (a name I vaguely recognize, like I vaguely recognize – if I recognize them at all — the names of most of the so-called stars on Dancing With the Stars these days) starred in a television program called Beverly Hills, 90210 back in the day. Beverly Hills, 90210 is a program I watched exactly zero times. In fact, I probably wouldn’t even know it existed except for the fact that my zip code for many years was 80210, and I found that exceptionally coincidental. Looking back, it really wasn’t.

luke-perry-aarp

Anyway, that whole oh my God, how can (fill in the blank) possibly be that old phenomenon happens on a regular basis when you’re a Baby Boomer. I distinctly remember the first time it happened to me.

I was the office administrator at a downtown law firm. As part of my job, I interviewed and recommended the hiring of administrative staff – anyone who wasn’t a lawyer or legal assistant. In that vein, I was perusing resumes for a secretarial position. Suddenly I noticed that the person applying for the job was born in 1960. I nearly fell out of my chair. Why, that was simply impossible. That was only yesterday, wasn’t it? I remembered what I was doing in the 1960s, for heaven’s sake.

Since then, I’ve experienced that same reaction many times. Like when I see Paul McCartney perform. (When did he develop sagging jowels?) And that can’t be Smokey Robinson.  Maybe it’s time to put away the shiny suits…..

paul-mccartney-smokey-robinson

Perhaps the only Good Vibrations the Beach Boys are feeling are those coming from their vibrating recliners….

beach-boys

It’s time that Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel sit on the park bench and sing Old Friends to one another…..

simon-and-garfunkel-2016

But I’ll tell you about one person who has been a member of AARP for a fair amount of time, but to me he doesn’t look a day older than the day I met him…..

bill-kris-alastair-2

Today Bill turns 74. He’s more handsome than ever. Happy birthday to my much-loved husband.

And to all of you who are up-in-arms about Luke Perry: Get a grip. It’s happening to you too. You just don’t know it.

The Falling Leaves

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The falling leaves drift by my window
The falling leaves of red and gold
I see your lips the summer kisses
The sunburned hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall. – Johnny Mercer

Neither Bill nor I are fans of cold weather. He grew up in Chicago, and I grew up in eastern/central Nebraska, and we both have spent the majority of our lives in Colorado, so it’s not like we aren’t used to wearing snow boots that track the snow into the house, and knit hats that flatten your hair, and heavy gloves that make you incredibly clumsy. But it doesn’t mean we have to like it.

And we don’t. That is why we own a house in Mesa, AZ; it’s someplace to go when the snow begins to fly.

Having said that, I really do love the fall days in Colorado. And I love them even more because, despite the fact that the changing leaves are a precursor for the inevitable snow, I can thumb my nose at it. We leave next week for Arizona. Let the snow fly.

This year, unfortunately, I don’t see us getting up to Rocky Mountain National Park to listen to the elk bugle. That makes me sad because it’s one of my very favorite things to do. For a variety of reasons, we can’t make that work this year. Nor have we been able to find time for even a drive in the mountains to look at the changing aspens. That bright gold against the evergreen trees, both juxtapositioned against the blue of the sky, says autumn to me.

But it hasn’t mattered because the trees here in Denver have been absolutely splendid. Magnificent. A gift from God.

I have never properly seen the changing leaves in New England. One year, when I was still getting paid to write, I attended a conference in Boston in October. Bill accompanied me as the guest spouse as he often did. After the completion of the conference, he and I took a week-long drive to see the changing leaves for which the region was famous. Only they weren’t. Changing, that is. I frankly can’t remember if we were too early or too late, but it doesn’t matter. There were the trees, either still bearing their green leaves or standing naked. But not red and orange. We drove through Rhode Island and Delaware and Vermont and Maine and Connecticut, and the trees simply didn’t cooperate. Not a red maple leaf to be found.

I’m sure New England’s colors are magnificent, but frankly, the colors in Colorado this year have been incredible, even without a trip into the mountains. The parks have ash trees and maple trees and oak trees and honey locusts, all proudly displaying their colors. The scrub oak are getting into the action as they turn to rust. I have made it a point to get out and enjoy the colors, and here are some of what I’ve seen…….

autumn-leaves-4

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autumn-2

autumn-1

I know these photos look like I’ve been in the mountains, but all of the photos were taken smack dab in the middle of Denver at urban parks. Aren’t I lucky?

Jen reminded me recently that when she and Bill and I first bought the house in Arizona, Bill and I would leave late in September and spend nearly all of October in Arizona. She told me she always was sad that I was missing the pretty colors. October is the nicest month of the year, she proclaims.

And I think she’s right. By time Bill and I return to Denver for the holidays, the trees will be bare and snow will have fallen. In fact, despite our attempts to live a snowless life, we always get a snowstorm or two sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day, when we leave again to spend the rest of the winter in AZ. That’s okay. It reminds us of our youth.

Plus, now we have grandkids to do the shoveling!