By Lori Welch Brown April showers bring May flowers, and May brings Mother’s Day. Sadly, my mom passed in 2006. I was on the cusp of 40, but there was still so much I needed her for—so much she missed. She wasn’t there when I bought a house in Del Ray—which she would have loved as she grew up there. I like to think that she helped me land there just months after she passed—which was no easy feat given the real estate market at the time. She missed meeting my husband, XXL, whom I am pretty confident she would have liked more than me. For sure she would have doted on him and taken his side in every disagreement. I can hear her now. “Lori, he looks hungry. Make him a sandwich.” I never had kids of my own. Not by choice, but more by circumstance. It’s at the top of my regret list, but as they say, “God has a plan.” I love kids, and in my humble opinion, have been a kick-butt aunt. My nieces and nephews are all fully grown humans now, and my only regret there is that I don’t see them enough. And now the babies are having babies of their own. Which is crazy—wasn’t it just yesterday I was changing their diapers and making them wash my car? Hey—I paid them in chocolate. My fur babies are my children. I realize that might alienate some women who have pushed something the size of a football through their nether regions. I get it. Dogs are not human. Cats are not children. To that I say—no. Of course not. You’re absolutely right. They’re better. Dogs don’t talk back. Never once has Dozer told me I’m stupid—although there were plenty of legit reasons for him to…
By Lori Welch Brown There are many of you who are going to read this and not get it and/or not care. No hard feelings as I was young once too. If you’re at the age where 35 is ancient to you, you’re probably not even reading a paper so no harm/no foul. You’re busy buying Bitcoin or watching K-pop toks. For you older folks like me, please note that K-pop is not shorthand for cake pops. Which are also very good so keep reading. You’re in the right spot. Last week a dear friend passed. I feel very fortunate to have met Dave shortly after I met my now husband, XXL, approximately 14 years ago. It was one of those really random, small world things you don’t forget. I went to meet my then boyfriend, XXL, at a local yacht club he belonged to—which was foreign to this landlubber. As what happens in many groups, subsets form, i.e., garden clubs, ladie’s clubs, and in this case—a five o’clock club—was XXL’s subset of choice. They were a group of (mostly) gentlemen who gathered to drink beers, shoot the sh*t, and smoke the occasional cigar. It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed—I think they preferred to avoid it. I would come to learn that the five o’clock club had become a ritual begun long ago by the ‘old guard’ of the club of which XXL’s father belonged to “back in the day”. Given the stories I’ve heard, I’m sure he was a ring leader of a lot of the group’s adventures. Anyhow as father time wore on and the elders of the club passed, XXL’s father among them, Dave and his contemporaries found themselves in the role of the new ‘old guard.’ On a summer evening, XXL suggested I meet him after…
By Lori Welch Brown I always assumed that the luck of the Irish was based on leprechauns and lore so I was surprised to find out that it is actually somewhat of a derisive term coined during the American Gold Rush. Apparently, during the last half of the 19th century, a number of the most successful miners were of Irish/Irish American birth so the expression discredited them for using brains or resourcefulness, and insinuated that it was mere luck that brought them gold. So, it got me to thinking—what is luck and who is lucky? Most of my luck happened when I came into the world. Lucky is the person born with ten fingers and ten toes into a loving, safe, and secure home. Lucky is the person who gets a proper education. Lucky is the person who has ample food and warmth. Lucky is the person who has a stable, secure home life. I was blessed with a heaping, piling over pot of luck. I was lucky to have been born into a loving home—albeit as a follow up act to three brothers who excelled at teasing and torturing me with their jokes at my expense. I was lucky to have access to great teachers and decent schools that I was reluctant to attend mostly because of their deplorable gym programs. I was lucky to have plenty of food—the good, processed kind that happened before parents knew anything about food pyramids and organic—we got to pick out our own TV dinners on special nights and raced each other to the breakfast table to eat the last Hostess doughnut or fight over the prize in the box of Lucky Charms. I was lucky enough not to have gotten thrown through the windshield of our Pontiac because back then seat belts…
By Lori Welch Brown As some of you may remember, I started in this space with a column aptly titled, Single Space. My close friends referred to me as their very own Carrie Bradshaw—without the great shoes, wardrobe, or size 0 ballerina body. Oh, and the good hair. Come to think of it—we did share a few commonalties. Namely, an appreciation for a long drag off a Marlboro light at the end of a stressful day, a good cocktail shared among friends, and a talent for picking unsuitable suitors. Carrie and I both muddled through, learning valuable lessons as we aged out of wild club ragers and 4” stilettos and into Sunday brunches and Birkenstocks, but only after years and years of dating mishaps and mind boggling bewilderment. Did he really say that? Did I really get broken up with on a post it? While Carrie was pining over Mr. Big, I was dating a lion’s share of BIG MISTAKES. One of my best first dates was with a married man. Of course, I didn’t know that until the next morning when his wife called my number and asked how I knew her husband. Awkward. And scary. I thought for a second that I was going to have a lead role in an upcoming Dateline episode. This is probably not the Valentine’s Day column you wanted and/or expected, but I wanted to share with you that if you’re not getting a dozen roses delivered to your cubicle, do not despair. You are not alone. It’s just not your time. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. Your person is out there—maybe being ghosted or sorting through their issues or trying to figure out how to write a compelling dating profile. In the meantime, here’s a little dating primer courtesy of yours…
By Lori Welch Brown Wow—hard to believe I’m breaking out another new calendar with y’all. Who would have known I’d still be here writing about whatever enters my (now graying) little head twenty-five odd years later. If you’ve been reading this column even for a minute, you know what an absolute freak I am about celebrating the New Year. And yes—I can still say ‘freak’ as long as I’m referring to myself. I love January and not because I’m a sadist and enjoy bleak, cold dreary days. Far from it. I love it because of the promise it brings—a blank slate. We get a do over. We get an opportunity to recharge, reset, and refresh. All those ways you disappointed yourself last year? Shrug it off because you get another shot! Look—no one is looking for perfection (except maybe us Virgos), but still. You get another chance at setting impossible-to-reach goals and disappointing yourself all over again! Jump on the shame train, kids and let’s get ready to head out on another trek to self-flagellation with our final destination—Mt. Regret. Kidding! Okay—well, maybe there is a little truth buried in there somewhere. But those are December feelings—not January ones. The trick is to leave all that behind. Pack it away and move forward into a season of hope and new beginnings. Like many people, I’ve grappled with questions of religion and faith, but of this I am 1000% certain. We all get second (and third and fourth…) chances. As long as we are breathing, we get do overs. Maybe not out on the field with the clock ticking, but in our own aspirations and sense of betterment. Trust me—I’ve tried and failed at a million things over the years. I’ve been successful at a handful. But I keep trying. I…
By Lori Welch Brown The older I get, the more melancholy I become—especially around the holidays. Perched at the cusp of the holiday season, I’m a blithering, sentimental cry baby. Adorned with fairy lights, an ugly Christmas sweater, and Grinch pajama pants, I am awash in memories of Christmases past, dreaming of the ‘perfect’ Christmas yet to come, all while staring down at the presents waiting to be wrapped. And loving every minute of it. Queue up the Hallmark channel and color me ready for all the corny holiday romance they can throw my way. This has not been the case every year. There have been years where I’ve wanted to hide under my covers. There was the year I vowed to book myself a solo vacation over the holidays because I just couldn’t deal. With anything. Or anyone. There were a couple of exceptionally bad years after my mom died when I felt the need to drink and smoke my way through the holidays. This is not a good plan. In fact, it is a very bad plan as all it did was make me miss my mom even more and leave me feeling depressed. The only good that came out of it was the pact I made with God that if I survived that holiday season, I’d quit smoking. I’m proud to report that I haven’t had a cigarette since December 28, 2008. So, I’ve ridden my share of holiday humps and taken my fair share of lumps in the form of not-so-great gifts—but that’s another story. I’m trying to accept all with grace. It truly is the thought that counts, and I have come to realize that not everyone has the capacity to put the proper thought into gifts. You know who you are. Or perhaps you…
By Lori Welch Brown I am gobsmacked that I’m writing my November column. Seriously. It feels like just yesterday I was contemplating my SPF choices while simultaneously praying I’d have the perfect swimsuit body that would require protection from the sun. Sigh. While that ship has sailed, my gratitude ship is here at the dock waiting patiently for me. And I’m ready to load up. As a Virgo, I can find fault in pretty much anything. I’m always looking for the crack in the vase, the flower that didn’t bloom, the sock that didn’t get picked up. And I can find those things all day long. It’s part of my DNA. While that attention to detail has served me well on several occasions, it doesn’t always serve me well in my personal life. It makes me a good editor. It makes me someone whom people trust to make sure all the ‘i’s are dotted and the ‘t’s are crossed, but it doesn’t make me easy to live with (sorry, XXL). And if I’m putting that kind of focus on things and people around me, imagine the microscope I’m putting on myself. No bueno. But, contrary to popular belief, old dogs can learn new tricks. And, I for one, am trying to master the art of gratitude—as well as ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ which also take a tremendous amount of patience and skill. For the record, treats are a great motivator for both the four legged and two legged among us. While Dozer favors bacon and cheese flavored treats, I prefer ice cream and peanut butter. But, I digress. Just like flaws are easy to find, it turns out, so are things to be grateful for. This morning, I am grateful for sunshine, as I haven’t seen it in what feels like…
By Lori Welch Brown I’m writing this piece from a train on my way from Westport to Dublin, having just spent the week on an art retreat with 13 other artists plus the instructor. It just so happens to be my 59th birthday. I was a bit apprehensive about this trip. I tried to cancel and/or reschedule after I’d booked it—which admittedly was a bit of an impulse purchase. I booked it just after the 2024 holiday season. There may have been some holiday melancholy and wine involved. Just sayin’. My grand plan was that my husband, XXL, would join me on some part of the trip—front end or back end—but we couldn’t seem to make it work. When my master plan fell apart, I began to get a bit nervous—not to mention a bit guilty about spending money for a trip I’d be experiencing alone. I haven’t done a ton of traveling out of the country and only a couple of solo trips so I felt a bit wobbly. I’d have to figure out things like train schedules and currency exchange and meet up spots by myself. I’d have to schlep bags and procure airport transfers on my own. While I consider myself a strong, independent woman, apparently that only conveyed to the continental US. In other countries, I would be alone and afraid. In the end, my frugalness trumped my fear when I found out that I’d lose my deposit if I cancelled so I was Ireland bound. To ease my trepidation, I focused on the preparation, not the destination. I laboriously scrutinized outfits and accessories and culled down as much as possible knowing that I’d be responsible for carrying and lifting and dragging bags from airports to taxis to hotels to trains and back. I emailed the…
By Lori Welch Brown As you read this, I’ll likely be in celebration mode as it’s the birthday month. Yes—that’s right. I plan to celebrate the entire month. Not because I think I’m that special, but because at this stage of my life, I look for reasons to eat cake and light candles and kick my heels up. And actually, it’s my and XXL’s anniversary also so a double whammy. But hey—just because it’s not your birthday, anniversary or Arbor Day, don’t fret. September has you covered. September is a reason to celebrate in its own right. It’s a month of change—a month of new beginnings as we say goodbye to summer and the dog days of August and launch off into a new chapter. Perhaps it’s sending the kids off to high school or college. Or maybe it’s going back into the office after vacation or signing up for a new class. Whichever direction you’re headed, you get to step into it with a new attitude. Since I was a kid, I’ve viewed September as the month of fresh starts and new beginnings. It was a chance to re-invent myself in some ways. After a summer of time away from school friends, I could emerge from my sand-crusted cocoon, spread my wings, and fly into the classroom with a whole new style and attitude. Of course, my classmates would notice how the summer had matured me and bestowed a beautiful glow upon my freckled cheeks. They’d notice how I carried myself differently—more like Brooke Shields and less like Pippi Longstocking. They’d notice how I’d discarded my Hong Kong Phooey lunch box in favor of a smart brown pleather number with a shoulder strap and matching thermos. They’d notice how my acne scars had faded and new beauty marks had…
By Lori Welch Brown My husband had a birthday last month. He loves a good celebration—especially if it involves cake. For every year I’ve known him, it’s been strawberry shortcake which he starts talking about in May. “You’re gonna make me strawberry shortcake, right? You know it’s my favorite, right?” Yes, dear. How could I forget with all these subtle hints, I think to myself. This year he threw me for a loop with a request for banana cake. What the h-e-double-toothpicks. A ‘well-meaning’ friend brought one to a pot luck a few months back and it was love at first bite. Thanks, friend. Not being a ‘baker’ per se, I was not thrilled by his new request, but I accepted the challenge because I try to be a good wife, and my husband deserved a good birthday. While XXL loves a good celebration, remember, especially when cake is involved (even better with ice cream—he’ll be the first to notice its absence), he’s not so keen on aging. He pretty much hates everything about it. I assure him that none of us is super excited by creaking joints or crepey skin, but as they say, it beats the alternative. I remind him that he’s already lived three more years than my brother Phil, 17 more than my friend Holly, and a lot more than my friend Betty. I don’t mention those sweet little campers who won’t see their ninth birthdays. To be alive, is a gift. To be alive and healthy is a treasure. XXL is one of those manly-men types. He spent most of his career doing manual labor, has captained many vessels, and has a 100-ton master’s license—a fact he’s recited to everyone from Uber drivers to Safeway cashiers. He’s proud of it, and rightfully so. There’s no one I feel…
View More