There was no such thing as a predetermined snow day when we were kids.  The siren would go off by 6 or 7am if there was no school.  Pandemonium in feety pajamas would ensue and there was all manner of hooting and jumping on the bed.   Seems to me there was more snow then, seems to me that hot chocolate tasted better on snow days, seems to me that kids and snow go so naturally together.

After eating breakfast, which was an everyday occurrence, of bacon and eggs and juice and vitamins and toasted white bread with strawberry jam we would “suit up”.  And by suit up I mean full on three layers of underwear, turtlenecks, ski pants with the stirrups and the now extinct snow suit for my sister.  The movie Christmas Story illustrates it damn well; no you couldn’t put your arms down…

There was a Flexible Flyer down in the basement next to the upright freezer.  I’m not sure where it came from, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t purchased new, or who the donor was but we grabbed it and out the front door we went.  Right outside our door was “the hill”.  Right outside OUR DOOR…do you understand the magnitude of that?  The police would come and barricade the side streets and we could flexible fly to our hearts content.  Somebody would shovel a narrow strip along the side of the road and bring it down to bare pavement so you could head there to stop and yes it actually sharpened the blades.  And if you were going fast enough it might just spark.  My sister would be in front of me on the sled (arms sticking straight out) and off we would go down the hill.  There were times we could make it all the way to Marcy’s house half a block away.  Walk back up, translation: I walked back up the hill hauling Terri on the sled for the next round.  And we would continue until we were either frozen or hungry.  Warm up, eat, and repeat.

Fast forward to adult snow days and you can pretty much break them out into three categories: delayed opening, work remotely in your fuzzy slippers or full on state of emergency.  I pretty much always skip the delayed opening option because why would I want to get in the way of the plows and salt trucks, battle the “I’m terrified to drive in the snow” crowd (thank you God for being born in February so I could learn to drive in the snow) or rush to clean off my car.  My job is important but I’m not saving the world, as Cookie would say “it’s just cars”, and I can work anywhere (remember when we called it telecommuting?)…thank you modern technology.

So now what does a snow day look like?  Pull something from the freezer first thing in the morning; I’m thinking beef for stew.  Have the first cup of latte after popping the girls out back to play in the snow.  True to form latte also tastes better on snow days.  Set up for work, VPN in and see what’s happening in my email.  Another latte, some breakfast; which doesn’t even remotely resemble the hearty one from days of old.  And get to work.  Another romp in the snow with the girls before lunch, this time with my camera, and then a delicious bowl of soup and grilled cheese for lunch.  Back to work, but the emails dwindle as the snow gets deeper and the people begin to find their way home to the warmth of their families.  For the very first time this year, my sister took a snow day.  She, too, is beginning to believe that it’s “just cars”.  And no bad can come from staying home in your jammies every once in a while.   As the emails dwindle I see the people coming home to Stowe Lane, many of them bringing with them the requisite brown bag and Duraflame log.

Finish what I can from my work day and think about dinner.  As the stew simmers on the stove, I light the fire, open a bottle of Bear Print pinot noir and relax with the girls.

If I had my preference I would rather wake up to the sight of several inches of snow on the ground. I prefer to go out with my camera before everyone else and capture the snow in the morning light.  I also love the pure quiet of newly fallen snow before all the hub bub of the challenge ensues.  Thankfully, the back garden and the enchanted forest provide just enough of a barrier that the only thing I can hear is the sound of the commuter train going through town in the early morning.

At the end of the day the fire will die down and we will be out for a last time before going to bed.  My boots stand ready at the back door and I slip into them easily.  I love the shearling lining so I don’t need any socks. The girls will be just as excited about the snow this last outing as they were this morning.  Toto will come back in with a face full of snow and Lina will be anxious to get her feet cleaned up.  Exhaustion will set in and we will have the best sleep we’ve had in quite some time.  I know like I know that this is the end of a perfect snow day.

Today is my birthday.  Notoriously the day before my birthday I do a ritual mini pity party, a kind of taking stock of where I stand an examination of my life previous birthday to present.  So even though I spent a great day with my best friend and her daughter I felt compelled to examine pounds lost or (mostly) gained.  Good deeds, downfalls, accomplishments, thank yous received and thank yous doled out.  Have I remembered to take care of me, do wonderful things for me, or have I gotten lost in the life gets in the way shuffle.  Is God mad at me or have I put another rung on the good-Karma ladder to heaven.

Mostly I am not a very good judge of these things, my view is somewhat myopic, and I can be hard on myself.  Aren’t most people?  The one thing I came away with is…God ain’t mad at me.  Other than that it’s still pretty much up in the air.  And then…

Today started with my Stowe Ln family when the Aunt Ms came bursting through the door around 8:30am.  How did they know I was awake?  It’s all about the blinds in my office.  If they are open, I’m up.  If they are closed I’m not.  If they are closed for too long, or never open they are coming in to search and rescue.  Love those little guardian angels.  So I was up and in they came with flowers, and wine (for later, don’t get smart) and cards and love and birthday greetings.  Commence with the coffee and the start of the official birthday.

Then on to my Mother’s for breakfast with her and my sister.  Eggs over easy, bacon, coffee (which I picked up for Terri and I),  and the best Italian club rolls in Bergen County (wait for it…which I picked up on my way in) and my favorite cake made with love by my Sister, Pineapple Upside Down Cake.  Terri, once burned twice shy, refuses to turn it upside down.  We did make progress today turning individual pieces as we went.  It’s a start.   A pop-in from my cousin Nancy who we get closer and closer to each year and this phase of the official birthday is complete.  How wonderful to have this ritual.

All along my phone is pinging with birthday messages from friends and colleagues and acquaintances all leaving wishes on Facebook.  One text after another from the dearest of the dear, my Summer Sister, my favorite two boys, a Zumba girl, the beloved black sheep Sistah and the Ladies Auxiliary.

The phone call I wait for each year from my oldest friend, Marcy and the added bonus of her Mother Norma in the car with her.

Back on Stowe Ln the Aunt Ms come back for the last round of the day bearing one more gift.  The now coveted Pistachio Cake.  It is so amazing I could eat it for breakfast, oh wait, I do eat it for breakfast.  So now to open the wine and truly catch up on all things Stowe Ln.

There is a running joke in my family that my name, Sandra, is somehow a derivative of George.  When people my age were being born it was practically mandatory to be named after a saint.  This is how my mother got around it.  Add to that the fact that my sister has been calling me George Bailey for a decade or so and it all seems to fit somehow.   I know like I know that no matter how I question my status in the universe the day before my birthday, any number of Clarences will come along to show me that I have not failed.  They all will get their wings and I am deeply grateful for each of them.

How would you know?  You’re not a mother.  Ok get ready for the Aunt Rant.

No I’m not a mother but I am an Aunt, both biological (I think, does divorce change that?) and honorary.  To kids that are, well, kids and to former kids that I still can’t believe are grown and to young adults I’m just getting to know.  I believe I am a favorite Aunt to some, a cool Aunt to others and even a surrogate Mom to some others.

I do pro bono work on your behalf.  I say the things you wish you could say and I hear the things you may never hear.  Got that Mom?  I am a safe place, I don’t judge, I don’t sugar coat and yes I’ve been told I can slap (figuratively speaking) your kids (and pretty much everybody else) so hard they think they got a kiss….it’s a gift.

If someone needs a ride and Mother Dearest isn’t home, I’m their girl and yes they will probably call me before they call you.  If they charge out the door without their coat I am NOT going to send them back in the way you would.  They will get the lesson better if they shiver until they reach their destination where it’s once again warm inside, you remember I have heat in the car right?  If they want to pout and stamp their feet before we proceed with a group activity they will be left out.  That’s called…wait for it…consequence.   If they sneak up behind and want to join in, I’ll hug them into the fold, lesson learned.

I will spoil them on the birthdays, and Christmas and Hanukah and there’s nothing you can do about it.  I will create days that will long be remembered. They will be allowed to drink coffee with me. Don’t worry I know how to order decaf.

I will leave my door open and they will know that they can walk in whether I’m there or not.  Can’t tell you how many times I’ve found kids in my living room. I will listen to their most haunting secrets.  Haven’t heard one yet that would end the world and I will NOT condescend.  I don’t nag, I never have said nor will say I told you so, I use questions not preaching.  I value their opinion, and validate their feelings.  I’m someone who could whisper in your ear that you might want to keep an eye on this or that without ever betraying a confidence.  I put them in charge of their circumstances in such a way that they feel safe and secure in taking small risks that will not ever hurt them.  They can learn resourcefulness from me.

I will light up when I see them.  For all those people who tell me they were afraid of me when they first met me not once has a “niece or nephew” ever said that.  They can recognize the depth of feeling and the love I have for them immediately.

So the next time you hear yourself say…”you’re not a mother” understand you may be talking to someone who could turn out to be your advocate.  Listen Mom, Aunts have your back, they will not let anything happen to your children.  And I know like I know that you may be spared a good deal of the dirty stuff and very hard conversations if you embrace their role as an Aunt.

Done ranting….for now.

No I’m not talking about that here today gone tomorrow S and M manual that tried to call itself a novel.  Yes I read the first one and thought oh boy this is interesting, did I go out and buy handcuffs, no.  Did I read the second one where they were continuing on their “journey” and actually trying to make a “story” out of a really bad piece of writing? Yes.  Did it even cross my mind to read the third one? No, so terrified was I that they were going to try for a happy ending I totally lost interest…just sayin.  I’m talking about my hair you dirty minded people.

As is usually the case in my new life, several things have converged to make me rethink coloring my hair.  I went to Anna, my newest hair dresser, for a cut and she said, “No color?” No, maybe in two weeks.  “You need it.” No it can wait. “You sure?”  Anna are you going to cut my hair? Really?  Now I came to find this particular beauty parlor, and I use that term deliberately, because I was sick to death of paying $125.00 for my cut and color every 6-8 weeks at the salon.  This is an old style beauty parlor with the smell of ammonia in the air, men over 60 dropping off their mothers for a “wash and set”, rows of Aquanet cans in the showcase, you get the picture.  But…I could get a cut and color for $75.00, come on.

The first time Anna colored my hair, and it’s been only once, she didn’t use any of that Vaseline type stuff that keeps the color off your face.  Don’t worry she said in her Greek accent, the color will take better.  Yes I did have ring around the hairline, you bet and yes the entire world knew I just got my hair colored.  Not my style.   I was so hopeful because my dearest, best former stylist, who moved to California, was Greek; I somehow thought it would run in the ethnicity.  Wrong, I miss you Maria.

The next thing that happened was a guest on the Katie Couric show who relinquished all makeup and fashion related accoutrement.  Her motivation?  Phoebe Baker Hyde put’s it like this:

The Beauty Experiment started with a dazzling new dress, bought to produce utter fabulousness at a holiday party. But even when Phoebe Baker Hyde paired the dress with the right shoes and tied its ribbon belt in a perfect bow, it failed to deliver: the person inside was still an inexperienced parent, an awkward foreigner and a woman trailing in the wake of her husband’s more successful career.

In response, Phoebe swore off Beauty and all her trappings: makeup, new clothes, salon haircuts, and jewelry. This radical beauty cleanse lasted a year, but ignited the author’s ongoing quest to outgrow the fantasy of feminine perfection and remake the mantle of womanhood in the only size that fits–her own.

I get it; it can be tough when you’re surrounded by advertising and pressure from society to find the right balance of beauty.  Beauty is….wait for it….only skin deep.  Poor Phoebe is probably in her thirties, I’m in my late fifties so I get it better than she does.  Add menopause to that equation and I could give a shit less what you think.  My makeup has been dwindling for years.  But I’ve got to say I think it’s because my hair could carry my looks, I’ve got great hair. I’ve also got great eyes and you will never see me without lipstick.   But I digress.

The next thing is Zumba.  I wear a bandana when I dance because I can’t stand my hair in my face or sweat in my eyes.  Yes this fat girl dances with abandon and yes I burn at least a gazillion calories when I dance.  So Phoebe shows up on Katie, I put on my bandana and there it is the hairline of fifty shades of gray.  Stunning.  But wait a minute it really is fifty different shades, some gray, some dark, and some silver.  I’m thinking hhmmmm.

So on my way home from Zumba, I know I’ve been using this shampoo that sucks because I’m out of the one I normally use, I stop at Walgreens on the way home, yes right after Zumba.  Looking exactly like why men leave home…let’s try and remember who left whom for a minute.  But I digress again.  So down the shampoo isle to my beloved John Frieda and there is a new shampoo and conditioner, intense shine for brunettes.  Hmmmm.  I pick it up and don’t you know it makes my hair even more fabulous.  Even those grays that want to squiggle up and stick out are blending in perfectly.

So I get to thinking.  Always dangerous I know.  Why not?  My dear Summer Sister has not dyed her hair since its grown back after chemo and it is the most glorious shades of silver and gray I’ve ever seen.  She is rocking a younger Dame Judi Dench kind of cut but with her own I’ve been there done that attitude.  You all know I love her but WOW is she even more gorgeous then when we were younger.

So I investigate further.  Anne Kreamer has written a book called Going Gray, What I learned about beauty, sex, work, motherhood, authenticity and everything else that really matters.  Don’t you just love book titles that take up half a page?  She explores this polarizing topic with those who dye and those who don’t, those who are confident and those who still fear the reprisal.  I do, however, like how she describes the coloring dilemma:

Either way she says, once you start coloring at thirty or thirty-five or forty-the insidious creep of roots perpetually growing out, lighter or darker, always threatening to show themselves and expose the ruse-you are trapped on a treadmill.

It’s an interesting book but um not my dilemma.

What it comes down to for me is time.  I can think of a million other things I could be doing beyond sitting in the beauty parlor/salon for hours with the goop plastered to my roots and no Vaseline to hide the dye line.  The incessant blah blah conversations that drive me to distraction while I’m trying to read my Kindle with those little aluminum sheets around the arms of my glasses so I can see.

The other thing is I’m cheap. As you’ve seen I’m not beyond going to the Beauty School for a cut. Can’t picture them doing a color though, visions of Frenchie from Grease come to mind.  I do not want to spend money on color when I could spend it on a delicious La Tur cheese out of New Hampshire and bottle of Bear Print Pinot Noir.  I have my priorities.

The fact that I’m getting older has not escaped me, especially in the last few weeks.  The fact that I already know who I am is being confirmed over and over again.  The fact that I am beautiful is still a story in the making.  But the beauty I see for myself is natural, authentic, and reflective of where I’ve been and what I know.  My beauty is in the shine of my hair, whatever color it turns out to be, the fabulous signature lipsticks I wear, the uniform I’m just now developing.  I’m thinking cute cardigans and scarves, belts to show off my tiny waist (oh yeah and my full hips, we’ll get to that later).  The renewed attention to health and the door-is-always-open home I have for anyone who needs to know what I know.  I know like I know that you’ve all been hounding me about how I look best in a short sassy haircut, that’s not lost on my either.  I’d rather find someone who can give me that cute cut, for a decent price (sorry Anna the Aquanet didn’t cut it for me) and amp up my eyes, lips and style than color and color and color to a mediocre long haired excuse for a woman.

I’d love to know how you feel about the subject.  I know like I know even more great changes are ahead for me.  Can’t wait to be free of the dye! And hear what you’ve got to say.