First kisses
Perfectly cooked crispy bacon
Being brought coffee in bed
My kitty, purring
The scent of freshly cut grass without the noise of the mower/blower
Twittering finches
Babbling brooks
The warmth of the sun on my back
The air when I drive by the cookie factory
Fresh rain on dusty blacktop
Crescent moons on clear, chilly nights
Spooning in the dawn hours
The sound of my pencil on paper
Nutella, spooned straight from the jar
Crackling fires in Autumn
Being loved – despite all my faults
7 am Saturday morning – when I realize I have hours more to sleep
A new haircut
Holding hands
Spaetzle, fried crisp in butter
Nonsensical conversations in bed
Lindor Milk Chocolate Truffles
Napping to the sound of the washing machine
The very last center bite of buttery cinnamon sugar toast
Watering the backyard, barefoot, on a warm summer evening
Wind chimes in a gentle breeze
Sun-warmed tomatoes, straight from the vine



I’ve felt like my frumpiness factor has been high the last few days.  It’s a culmination of a handful of disparate events – all culminating in my feeling old and frumpy:

1. I’ve met a boy.  We haven’t gone out, but I’m definitely interested – very interested.  And I want him to be interested, too.  He’s cute and stylish – and I am feeling neither these days.

2. Our holiday party at the restaurant was on Sunday night.  I was engulfed by nubile, perky 20-something servers with flowing bleached hair, party-bright satin dresses  hemmed two inches past their crotch and sparkly three inch high heels.  (I was wearing my spattered chef’s whites and a sweaty headband to keep my hair out of the food).

3. On the same night, I was called “matronly” and a “MILF” by my fellow kitchen compatriots.

4. My hairdresser called my current grown-out haircut “mom looking”. Needless to say,  I have an appointment at Sassoon on Thursday.

5. Tonight is my work holiday party – we need to dress warmly and stylishly.  This morning, I spent 20 minutes staring at a pile of bulky, conservative, work-appropriate sweaters – and realizing there wasn’t one stylish one in the bunch. 

To combat these feelings, I painted my fingernails bright red.  Of course, the fact that my knuckles are scraped raw from an unfortunate carrot and mandoline accident doesn’t help matters any. Ugh!