By Lori Welch Brown I love May, and I love my mom, but I don’t love getting bombarded by the ‘what to get Mom on Mother’s Day’ messaging. Gifts are my love language, and my mom passed in 2006 so no flowers to buy, cards to mail, or brunches to plan here. Many of us are now in the mom-less club, and it isn’t fun, especially this time of year. Even though my mom has been gone 18 years (hard to fathom), she is still at the forefront of my thoughts. While many of my memories of her have faded, I’m left with indelible lessons and recollections. I can see a piece of Amish Butterprint Pyrex and time travel back to our little kitchen in Woodbridge. When I catch a scent of lavender, I’m instantly transported to our yard, and there she is sitting on the porch, talking, and smoking cigs with Mrs. S from next door. And, in case you’re wondering—it’s true. You do turn into your mother. I see it in my hands especially. And, like her, I’m a worrier; to my credit, I did give up the smokes in ’08. I’m one of the lucky ones. Even though my mom and I were vastly different, I knew I was loved. I always knew that she was proud of me. And now, more than ever, I’m aware of the sacrifices she made for me and my three older brothers. Everything she did was for us. I’m also one of the lucky ones because I was 39 when my mom died. I was the recipient of her unconditional love on this planet until I was a fully-formed adult. Well—that part is questionable, but losing a parent certainly thrusts you into adulthood whether you’re ready or not. Speaking of adulthood—another…
By Lori Welch Brown Spring. We made it! Hallelujah! Bring on the blossoms and the blooms, I say. I also say, “Bring on the Claritin and Kleenex.” While I’d love to spring into action, Old Man Winter still has his grip on my aching joints, his cobwebs still clinging to my mind. And that’s why we need Mother Spring. Mother Spring invites us to clear out the cobwebs in our attics—physically and metaphorically. Nothing feels better than a good Spring dust off, clean up, and clear out. Our homes need attention after a season of spending so much time huddled up, trying to stay warm in them. And, our bodies need attention after a season couched in front of the TV binge watching Law & Order, only getting up for the Domino’s pizza handoff. It’s the time of year we walk around the house and think, “Do you think I can get $2 at the yard sale for this impulse purchase vase I paid $79 for last year?” The answer is no, but hopefully you’ll keep that in mind with this year’s impulses. If you’re like me, you’ll work like a dog to curate your treasures on folding tables and stand in the cold, wind, and rain (always perfect weather the Saturday before your sale), only to net $12. You’ll spend the rest of the day boxing up your treasures deciding which will go back in the house, which will go to Goodwill, and which will go directly to the landfill. And then you’ll take your $12 and go buy a bottle of wine and some Ben Gay. FYI—unless you happen to like Two-Buck-Chuck, you’ll be in the hole. If you think the movement from cleaning out the garage is enough to remind you how callous Old Man Winter can be—just…
By Lori Welch Brown I was very driven in my 20s, 30s—even my 40s. I had dreams and goals. I wanted things, nice things. I wanted to be a homeowner by the time I was 30. I wanted a new car vs. a used clunker. I wanted to go out to nice restaurants and sip dirty martinis at fancy bars. So, I worked hard and I chased pots of gold so I could use it to pay off my AMEX—which, funny enough, if you make many big, timely payments; attain an above-average credit score; and agree to a large annual fee—will in fact turn to gold. That’s the American dream, right? Want, work, get. I didn’t come from wealthy, blue-chip stock. There was no trust fund and/or daddy with deep pockets. And, frankly, I’m glad. I earned my way. No regrets. It is important to note, however, that not everybody is running the same distance at the same speed. And, my chase wasn’t as long or riddled with as many hurdles as others. I was jogging through my ‘chase’ at a comfortable clip on a path lined with safety nets, silver-lining opportunities, and easy access. Of that, I am aware. Even though at the time, it sure didn’t feel that way. While I never achieved crazy wealth aka Real Housewives of Name Your City, I managed to pay my bills and live quite comfortably. Maybe the gold you’re chasing isn’t money. Maybe it’s a person or an ideal—whatever that one thing is that is going to change your life. The ‘thing’ that will magically transform your bah hum life to the stuff of movies. The thing that is going to be like winning the lottery—your pot of gold. Whatever it is that you are chasing. When you’re young, you don’t…
By Lori Welch Brown I’m not sure I’m your girl for writing about romance. These days my romance has been limited to The Hallmark channel. Blame it on menopause, winter doldrums, ratty flannel PJs, and/or our fur babies who tend to create bed blockades. Romance requires effort and self-care. At least for some of us. And a little wine probably doesn’t hurt either. I’m speaking for myself because I know plenty of middle-aged (I refuse to say ‘senior’ and/or ‘geriatric’) women who are oozing sexuality and romance. Well—I don’t know them personally, but I tuned in every week to watch them vie for the affections of The Golden Bachelor. Skin-tight dresses, Botox up the wazoo, eye brows permanently inked, lips inflated, nails perfectly mani’d. Who has the time and/or the money?! I tip my hat to you, ladies. And, I happen to be wearing a hat until I can get in to see my hairdresser later this week to cover up these gray roots. See self-care above. There are those of you—you know who you are—who have been perusing the red and pink aisles of your fave stores since December 26th when the rest of us *normal* people were standing in line returning our over-sized cardigans and unwanted butter dishes from our significant others. Good for you. But there are also those of you who are already planning your mid-February hibernations. To you, I can relate. Ugh. It’s one thing when Valentine’s Day falls on a Saturday or Sunday, you can easily navigate a weekend indoors binge watching Schitt’s Creek, experimenting with all those facial masques you’ve been hoarding, and eating ALL THE CARBS. But when the dreaded V Day falls mid-week, that’s another story. Granted—many of you now have the reprieve of working remote, and will be spared the revolving…
By Lori Welch Brown Despite the fact that I’m not a fan of math, and I actively hate algebra, I spent an extraordinary amount of time counting in 2023. Counting calories, steps, workouts, minutes between meals, numbers of adult bevs, etc. Around November, I decided I was done with counting. I mean, how much of one’s life is one supposed to spend quantifying, recording, and tracking? How is one supposed to live one’s life when one is busy accounting for one’s missteps or no steps or less than 10,000? And let’s not forget the admonishing. All hail Almighty Queen of Berating Oneself. Too many helpings? Glutton! Not enough steps? Laggard! Jeans too tight? Loser, but not in a good way! While counting and tracking might not sound like a fun time, it was helping to keep me on [insert drum roll here] track! Once I decided to forego all that pencil sharpening and tic marking, the wheels fell off the wagon and landed directly around my midsection. Sigh. Befittingly, the Queen of Berating Oneself landed a new gig as Queen of Let’s Eat, Drink, and Be Merry. Let’s eat the cookies—all the cookies. Let’s skip the workout and binge watch The Crown. Let’s polish off the bottle—it’s open, right? If you’re going to do something, I say do it 100 percent. Go big or go home. While that may sound like a lot more fun, it does present its own share of problems especially when one has a closet full of clothes, but only one pair of pants one can button and not without the aid of a handmaid of which, the last time I counted, there were none. Another heavier sigh. (No pun intended). This is my yin and my yang, and let’s just say it doesn’t bring me joy. Given…
By Lori Welch Brown I don’t care if you’re dreaming of a white Christmas, lighting the Menorah, hunkering down for Kwanzaa, or gearing up for the Chinese New Year—December truly is the most wonderful time of year. “Awww, bah humbug, Lori—Christmas is for kids! Clearly you haven’t tried to park at Costco recently or gone near a Macy’s. People would rather run you over than lose a parking spot within a mile of a mall.” Okay—true about the parking situation, but not true about Christmas being for kids. I mean, sure. There’s nothing like seeing Christmas through the eyes of a child on Christmas morning, but I know many adults who are nothing short of giddy this time of year. “Giddy? What is there to be giddy about? Have you seen the news recently? The world is at war, we have a geriatric president who will likely be ousted by a felon, new strains of COVID are popping up daily, and AI is about to replace all our jobs while it’s stealing our identities.” True—there is a lot of bad stuff happening in the world right now which makes it even more important to embrace the holiday season with glee and spread the message of hope, peace, and joy. “You sound like a walking Hallmark movie.” Thank you. “What if I don’t have anything to be joyous about? Have you seen the price of eggs?” Joy is everywhere—you just have to look for it. Perhaps you should switch off the news and put on a Hallmark movie. “Hallmark shmallmark. Who has time for those indulgences when there are presents to be bought, gifts to be wrapped, pies to be baked…” Sounds like someone is gearing up for the holidays… “Well, it is a BUSY time of year; I’ll give you…
By Lori Welch Brown I have been thinking a lot about gratitude recently. Thanksgiving aside, I try to practice gratitude as part of my daily routine. There are the obvious things of course—grateful for my health, my family, the roof over my head, etc. Then there are the things that often get overlooked—grateful that I live in a place where I’m not awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of gunfire or bombs being dropped. Grateful that I have access to clean drinking water and medical services. Grateful I don’t have to rely on my hunting and foraging skills to eat. Grateful if/when I can fit in a particular pair of jeans. Grateful when my hubby offers to do the dishes. Then there are the things that maybe I shouldn’t be grateful for—the modern conveniences I’ve come to lean on that actually aren’t good for me. Hubby and I just finished watching the docu-series Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones on Netflix. Author and researcher Dan Buettner travelled the world in pursuit of areas where people live longer than average to uncover the secret to longevity. The ‘blue zones’ he uncovered are Okinawa, Japan; Sardinia, Italy; Ikaria, Greece; Nicoya, Costa Rica; and Loma Linda, California. And what do they all have in common? No Roombas, escalators, Vitamixers, electric chain saws, food processors, Instacart, Uber, Starbucks, or dishwashers. Heck—these people don’t even have a Gold’s gym. How are they living to be 100 without access to a stair master and/or treadmill let alone a $75/hour personal trainer? And—fact—these centenarians aren’t squirreled away in some assisted living facility, curled up in a catatonic ball, being spoon fed? One rather sprite geriatric jumped on a horse to lasso calves while his senior counterpart was busy cutting his lawn with a…
By Lori Welch Brown Aging has been on my mind recently—having just celebrated another birthday and finding myself firmly ensconced in my fifties with the bright glare of sixty approaching in my headlights. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how I feel about that. I try to be positive and optimistic most days and tell myself that I’m aging gracefully while silently contemplating Botox injections to inflate the ventriloquist lines and/or gazing in horror at the gizzard neck that screams at my reflection. Although, I’m witnessing many of my friends seemingly conquering this aging thing somewhat effortlessly. Well—I have two camps of friends actually. Some who are going down kicking and screaming, plastic surgeon on speed dial and others who are opting on using their expendable income in other ways, i.e., international travel and moisturizers made from gold bouillon dust mixed with Kim Kardashian’s stem cells. I do weigh the options in my mind quite frequently. I love an easy fix, but I don’t love anything involving scalpels, blood, and/or anesthesia. I prefer to default to the medically-necessary surgeries of which I’ve already encountered three—which I’m hoping is my cap although given my age, I’m guessing that’s probably not the case. In other words, I’m not a big fan of elective surgery, but I’m also not judging those who readily sign up for it. I get it. We are all trying to keep the ‘Old Man’ or ‘Old Woman’ from inhabiting us, but it’s a futile fight. My current ritual du jour is to utilize the best moisturizers and sunscreens I can afford (none with gold and/or Kardashian DNA) while moving my muscles and joints as much as possible after I complete the NY Times mini-crossword and Wordle to keep my mind agile. Oh—and a truckload of caffeine and perhaps a…
By Lori Welch Brown There are LOADS of reasons to celebrate this month. First—it’s my birthday. Even though I have approached the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ stage of life, I am still 1000 percent on board for celebrating. “Bring on the cake,” I say, and then I silently pray it’s German chocolate. Second, it’s mine and XXL’s wedding anniversary (No. 9). Upon doing some research aka a quick Google search, I’ve discovered that the traditional gift for year nine is pottery. “Made of clay, pottery is carefully molded into something of great beauty and lasting presence,” per Brides.com. “A modern alternative would be leather. A strong, durable, and enduring material that can also be quite flexible, and only gets better with age.” Leather it is! I do like to think we are getting better with age, and flexibility is the key to life as well as a happy marriage. Lastly, and perhaps most excitedly, it’s back-to-school month! Okay—that’s not actually true. Somehow, against all rules of nature, August has become back-to-school month. What the bloody H-E-double-toothpicks?! How is that possible? Well—since we’ve pushed Halloween to March, I guess it only makes some sense in some alternate universe. But, I’m a Gen X’er and for me, back-to-school month will forever be September. It just makes sense. Summer isn’t over until after Labor Day. Actually, scratch that. Summer isn’t over until the U.S. Naval Observatory says it’s over, and this year in the Northern hemisphere the fall equinox arrives on September 23, marking the end of summer. So stop rushing things. September is our ‘tween month when we get to have our cake (German chocolate, please) and eat it too. We can still enjoy some pool time, and if we’re lucky dig into our closets for a crisp leather jacket. Y’all know…
By Lori Welch Brown I refuse to say goodbye to summer in August. I know—vacations are over, school is starting, but still—summer doesn’t officially end until September. And, those first couple of weeks in September are glorious! I get it though—August is the beginning of the end. By mid-August, maybe I am a little teensy, weensy bit ready to part ways when the mere act of walking out to the end of my driveway feels marathon-esque. My hair has taken on epic proportions thanks to the same humidity that snaps the life force from my body and has me shopping online for fainting couches. And, just like that, I’m fantasizing about the black leather boots lying dormant in my closet and all those adorable fur-lined jackets calling my name. Even in endings rest assured there is something to look forward to. Saying goodbye is never easy, but it is made less hard when there is something new to step into—like a pair of beloved boots or perhaps even a new line up of classes. As a kid, while I was devastated by the notion of summer break closing in on me, I was simultaneously excited by the prospect of a new pack of No. 2 pencils, some colorful notebooks, and a new lunch box. It’s the yin and yang of life. Goodbye summer, hello Scooby Doo lunch pail. In adult world that may translate to goodbye bathing suit, hello boots. Or goodbye outdoor running, hello gym. Goodbye lazy days on the beach, hello rhythm and routine. It’s at this time of year, however, that I am grateful to live in a place where one can actually experience a change of season—and not just by the flipping of a calendar page. I get giddy at the thought of driving through Virginia…
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