New Year's Resolutions I'll Actually Keep

Every Jan. 1, I make a list of resolutions, goals, aspirations that I plan to achieve in the coming year. Like almost every else, by Feb. 1, I've forgotten most of what I planned to do to make my life better, healthier or more fulfilling.

So this year my list is more realistic -- and achievable.

1. Drink more wine. Drink more margaritas. Drink more Oregon beer. Who am I kidding? My goal is to drink more. Not that I drink a lot now, or even very often. But often when I do drink, it involves fun gatherings. So yep, I plan to drink more, which leads me to my second goal for the year.

2. Get together with friends more often. Whether I entertain more at our place or just meet friends for dinner, drinks, coffee or just to "hang out." I need to socialize more. People who know me might not realize that social gatherings are often hard for me. I have homebody tendencies that I have to fight off, otherwise, hermit might be a term used to describe me.

3. Travel more. Take road trips, get on a plane, and go somewhere -- not just for work meetings  And, when I do travel for work, I need to incorporate a day before or after to actually see something outside of my hotel room and the meeting space.

4. Leave the U.S. at least once this year. I love my country. There's so much to see and explore. But it's time to let go and visit other places as well. Heck, I'm within driving distance of two other countries, so no excuses.

5. Go outside more. I live in Oregon now and at first I didn't understand the rabid dedication to everything outdoors here. Now I get it. Not only is it extremely beautiful in most of the state, but when you get a lot of rain and clouds the minute the sun comes out, you want to run outside and soak up all the vitamin D you can.

6. Be kinder. Remember the old adage - if you don't have anything nice to say...don't say anything at all. I'm a fairly nice person, I can count on one hand all the people I've ever met that I could say I truly did not like but I plan to be more thoughtful in everything I do. Life is too short to go around hurting people.

7. Don't put up with cranky people. If you're talking to me and being cranky, I might just walk away. A few years ago, I was working with a P.R. firm that hired a photographer to shoot photos of some of the oldest resident at a nursing home. Each photo had the subject's life motto. One of my favorites has always been the photo of an almost 100-year-old woman and her basketball. Her motto: I don't have time for cranky people.

8. Be a writer. I've always identified myself as such even though I don't make my living as a writer anymore. I still get the small royalty checks every now and then, but it's been a while since I thought of myself as a writer before all else. This past November, I spent it writing furiously for National Novel Writing Month. I finished the book, and now am working on the rewrite. During the month, I attended a "write-in" at a local restaurant. I sat there with my computer with complete strangers, not really talking, just writing. We had this "thing" in common. I loved it. So this year, I plan to write more, enter contests, meet other writers, take workshops and just BE a writer.

All the other usual stuff like getting healthy, exercising more or saving money -- well, those are goals we should have all the time. So those things are not on this list. This is an easy, achievable "to-do list."

I should add one more thing: I plan to swear more this year. I won't elaborate. But I'm guessing I'll keep that one for sure. Maybe I'll even learn some swear words in a different language.

Coffee, biscuits and gravy and goats

The Wandering Goat

The smell of freshly brewed coffee, pastries, incense and - unmistakably - pot envelopes us as we walk into the coffee shop in the funky Whiteaker neighborhood. A tall, dread-locked young man with several face piercings and about a week's worth of grime on his face almost runs into us, as we enter. He smiles. My husband smiles.

We came out early on this Saturday morning in search of good coffee and a good breakfast. The Wandering Goat has fabulous coffee, the kind that slides smoothly down your throat and warms you to your toes with just enough caffeine to satisfy your soul. We tried it at a recent festival and became fans, and that's why we find ourselves in our conservative "over 50" apparel and seeming slightly out of place at their establishment buying coffee and asking if they sell breakfast. "No, not really," responds the burly looking young man, dressed in black jeans, a black sleeveless shirt that shows off his tattoos. All of the baristas here are dressed likewise, black sleeveless T-shirt, black jeans with just the right amount of tears, tattoos and a smattering of piercings. "But we have baked stuff," he points to the window of tempting pastries, "and we have biscuits and gravy."

We order coffee and biscuits and gravy because where we grew up, biscuits and gravy always made for a good breakfast. We find an empty table and sit down. My husband looks at the plates of biscuits and gravy. I had a half order and the plate overflows with a brownish thick concoction with lumps of what appears to be fresh mushrooms. "Uh, this does not look like gravy," my husband says. "At least not the kind we eat for breakfast." After a bite or two, I give up. It also does not taste anything like a biscuits and gravy breakfast should taste. "I think this might be some sort of vegan concoction," I say. The biscuits don't taste like the ones I've ever tasted. My husband, a firm believer in not wasting food he's paid for eats on, occasionally grimacing.

Fortunately, the coffee delivers where the breakfast does not. So, I settle in to enjoy my cup and check out the environment and watch the people coming and going.

A steady stream of 70s psychedelic rock blares softly. The art on the wall, all labeled "untitled," features globs of red, white, and black paint on varying sizes of canvas. Maybe someone split their paint on it?

There's a smattering of gray-hair in the crowd, with the familiar piles of papers or laptop and reading glasses that make us decide most of them are professors from the local university. The rest of the crowd is young. I decide the best way to describe the crowd is "hip," but not like the hipsters we knew in our former city with their well-groomed beards and expensive clothes designed to make us believe they bought them at a thrift store. This hip is almost 70s hip, a step back in time, where people just were and didn't care what others thought about their clothes, hair or hipness. The customers are a blend of college students, artists, young and old hippies and the occasional homeless guy -- they all walk out clutching a cup of coffee. A man, early 20s, wavy shoulder-length hair, sits at a table near the front; he leans against the wall watching the crowd. He looks like a reincarnation of Jim Morrison. A group of another five young men walk in together -- a band? Their wild, long hair, well-worn jackets and jeans and camaraderie suggests they know each other well. I wonder what kind of music they play.

When we are done with our coffee and our paper, we linger -- people watching, soaking in the ambiance. Finally deciding it's time to go on with our day, we walk out. The fresh air greets us like a welcome friend. It's a beautiful sunny, cool -- yet not cold -- morning. The shops in the area look industrial but we see a wine cellar, a brewery, another brewery,  a soul food cafe that we promise to come visit soon, another is a music venue. All are trendy, yet mainstream and traditional businesses, for Eugene. My husband has found brewtopia and he's coming back.

The urbanite in me misses the big city. And, I miss the neat Texas neighborhoods with mowed lawns and I miss the wide streets that you don't share with bikes, skateboarders and pedestrians -- whom I'm always terrified I'm going to one day hit here. But I'm slowly acclimating to and appreciating my new surroundings.

On the way home, we stop and buy a few essential oils and an infuser from a young woman I met on a barter site on Facebook. I realized last week that when we need something at home, we usually swing by the Goodwill first to see if they have what we need before we run to Target to buy it, so yes, I'm accepting, I'm changing, to this new place. I still occasionally have outbursts about the "damn hippies" but a year from now, I could well be wearing my Birkenstocks, riding my bike, brewing my own beer and eating vegan biscuits. Keep Eugene Groovy, y'all.

Coffee, biscuits and gravy and goats

The smell of freshly brewed coffee, pastries, incense and - unmistakably -  pot envelopes us as we walk into the coffee shop in the funky Whiteaker neighborhood. A tall, dread-locked young man with several face piercings and about a week's worth of grime on his face almost runs into us, as we enter. He smiles. My husband smiles.

We came out early on this Saturday morning in search of good coffee and a good breakfast. The Wandering Goat has fabulous coffee, the kind that slides smoothly down your throat and warms you to your toes with just enough caffeine to satisfy your soul. We tried it at a recent festival and became fans, and that's why we find ourselves in our conservative "over 50" apparel and seeming slightly out of place at their establishment buying coffee and asking if they sell breakfast. "No, not really," responds the burly looking young man, dressed in black jeans, a black sleeveless shirt that shows off his tattoos. All of the baristas here are dressed likewise, black sleeveless T-shirt, black jeans with just the right amount of tears, tattoos and a smattering of piercings. "But we have baked stuff," he points to the window of tempting pastries, "and we have biscuits and gravy."

The smell of freshly brewed coffee, pastries, incense and - unmistakably -  pot envelopes us as we walk into the coffee shop in the funky Whiteaker neighborhood. A tall, dread-locked young man with several face piercings and about a week's worth of grime on his face almost runs into us, as we enter. He smiles. My husband smiles.  

We came out early on this Saturday morning in search of good coffee and a good breakfast. The Wandering Goat has fabulous coffee, the kind that slides smoothly down your throat and warms you to your toes with just enough caffeine to satisfy your soul. We tried it at a recent festival and became fans, and that's why we find ourselves in our conservative "over 50" apparel and seeming slightly out of place at their establishment buying coffee and asking if they sell breakfast. "No, not really," responds the burly looking young man, dressed in black jeans, a black sleeveless shirt that shows off his tattoos. All of the baristas here are dressed likewise, black sleeveless T-shirt, black jeans with just the right amount of tears, tattoos and a smattering of piercings. "But we have baked stuff," he points to the window of tempting pastries, "and we have biscuits and gravy."

We order coffee and biscuits and gravy because where we grew up, biscuits and gravy always made for a good breakfast. We find an empty table and sit down. My husband looks at the plates of biscuits and gravy. I had a half order and the plate overflows with a brownish thick concoction with lumps of what appears to be fresh mushrooms. "Uh, this does not look like gravy," my husband says. "At least not the kind we eat for breakfast." After a bite or two, I give up. It also does not taste anything like a biscuits and gravy breakfast should taste. "I think this might be some sort of vegan concoction," I say. The biscuits don't taste like the ones I've ever tasted. My husband, a firm believer in not wasting food he's paid for eats on, occasionally grimacing.

Fortunately, the coffee delivers where the breakfast does not. So, I settle in to enjoy my cup and check out the environment and watch the people coming and going. 

A steady stream of 70s psychedelic rock blares softly. The art on the wall, all labeled "untitled," features globs of red, white, and black paint on varying sizes of canvas. Maybe someone split their paint on it?  

There's a smattering of gray-hair in the crowd, with the familiar piles of papers or laptop and reading glasses that make us decide most of them are professors from the local university. The rest of the crowd is young. I decide the best way to describe the crowd is "hip," but not like the hipsters we knew in our former city with their well-groomed beards and expensive clothes designed to make us believe they bought them at a thrift store. This hip is almost 70s hip, a step back in time, where people just were and didn't care what others thought about their clothes, hair or hipness. A man, early 20s, wavy shoulder-length hair, sits at a table near the front; he leans against the wall watching the crowd. He looks like a reincarnation of Jim Morrison. A group of another five young men walk in together -- a band? Their wild, long hair, well-worn jackets and jeans and camaraderie suggests they know each other well. I wonder what kind of music they play.

When we are done with our coffee and our paper, we linger -- people watching, soaking in the ambiance.  Finally deciding it's time to go on with our day, we walk out. The fresh air greets us like a welcome friend. It's a beautiful sunny, cool -- yet not cold -- morning. The shops in the area look industrial but we see a wine cellar, a brewery, a small "food truck" like cafe, another is a music venue. All are trendy, yet mainstream and traditional businesses, for Eugene.

The urbanite in me misses the big city. And, I miss the neat Texas neighborhoods with mowed lawns and I miss the wide streets that you don't share with bikes, skateboarders and pedestrians -- whom I'm always terrified I'm going to one day hit here. But I'm slowly acclimating to and appreciating my new surroundings. 

On the way home, we stop and buy a few essential oils and an infuser from a young woman I met on a barter site on Facebook. I realized last week that when we need something at home, we usually swing by the Goodwill first to see if they have what we need  before we run to Target to buy it, so yes, I'm accepting, I'm changing, to this new place. I still occasionally have outbursts about the "damn hippies" but a year from now, I could well be wearing my Birkenstocks, riding my bike and eating vegan biscuits. Keep Eugene Groovy, y'all.

Holidays, weather and other thoughts

The Fourth of July is my favorite holiday. Period. It's perfect traveling weather, the kids are out of school and you get fireworks to signal the day's end. It doesn't get much better than that. We usually try to get all the family together for the Fourth

. Airfares are not sky high, little worry about some random storm stranding anyone at the airport. There's red, white and blue everything -- a T-shirt is perfectly acceptable attire along with flip-flops and maybe a swimsuit underneath. I could go on forever, it's the perfect celebration of our country and our future. Halloween is my second-favorite holiday. It's fantasy, dress-up, and you get candy. My least favorite holiday ---- is Christmas. I go all out usually with decorations and gifts. But there's never enough to get everyone everything they want or need. Then there's all the sad stories and the feeling of isolation for those folks who can't be with family -- or don't have family with whom to spend the holiday. Weather can strand people, destroy holiday plans and wreck havoc. Then there's the political diatribes and hatred in this "season of joy and peace" that invades the airwaves and social networks. If you call this a "holiday" to be all-inclusive, you're somehow less than what you should be -- and if you dare believe the holiday is about the birth of Christ, the haters on the other side throw venom and look down at you smugly because their superior brains have overcome this ancient superstition that you still believe in. And, that is why Christmas is my least favorite holiday. I'm thinking about all this because it's almost October 1, and that means the greedy stores are lining the shelves with everything Christmas. If you want to get a new swimsuit while temperatures (in Texas anyway) are still in the 90s, forget about it. You have to wade through racks of coats, sweaters and plaid before you can find one-half of a two-piece suit on the clearance rack. So, I'm thinking about starting a new holiday. One in early October or maybe April (after Easter.) I would call it Everything Day. That's the day we celebrate everything or anything we want. No rules - you can stuff a turkey if you want or grill some burgers. You can wear anything you want. Put up a tree if you want, or shoot off some fireworks. It's just a day to celebrate life, your life and things that make you happy. Hmmmm. Maybe we should call it Happy Day. I'm forming an exploratory committee...

Paying it forward

This year I’ve been involved in providing Affordable Care Act education to community groups and partners, teaching people what the new health care law means to each of them personally.

I’ve been talking “health care reform” since 2007 when I traveled all across Florida with a bipartisan initiative calling for change. I met hundreds of people and listened to their passionate, often heart-breaking stories of what it meant to be uninsured or underinsured in the country.

And this year after several trainings and countless presentations, I thought I really understood the impact the Affordable Care Act would have on millions of Americans.

I was wrong.

When my youngest daughter had a stroke last month, we quickly learned what it really means not to have health coverage. She is in her late 20s and worked for a major hotel chain – full time, but not quite enough to qualify for benefits.

The last thing you want to think about when you are dealing with a major medical crisis is how you are going to pay the bills. But in the midst of the doctors and surgeons helping care for our daughter, the hospital financial officer came in to her room to talk about just that.

The bills started rolling in, including an almost $30,000 bill for a medi-flight. Overwhelming feelings of desperation set in – please take care of our child, we thought and opened our wallets. We knew full well we would not be able to keep up with the cost of her care, which is now close to $500,000.

Fortunately, for my daughter Washington State has options and we’ve been able to use resources that we never imagined we would need. It’s been a learning experience and a humbling experience. We are thankful for the care she’s receiving at an excellent medical facility.

This week I watched the news in shock as members of Congress who voted to defund the ACA high-fived and laughed. When my member of Congress sent me an email declaring he was proud to “Defund Obamacare, “ I picked up the phone.

I want he and others in Congress who think that makes for a good sound bite to hear from the people who are uninsured and underinsured, and to understand that you don’t high-five when you just told a parent their child won’t have healthcare.

The Unexpected Wake Up Call

5:30 a.m. - Aug. 24, 2013 My younger sister and her husband have two boys younger than 10. My brother-in-law jokes about the countdown he's started until they turn 18. His job will be done. We have three grown children and we tease him often that a parent's job never ends. That's never more true when the phone rings in the early morning hours and a stranger in an emergency room across the country tells you that your 20-something daughter just had a stroke. The stroke caused by a rare disease, Moya Moya, was mild. In just more than two weeks, she's regained a lot of cognitive abilities that she did not have in the first hours and days following the stroke.

She has a long road to recovery and faces two surgeries in the near future -- necessary to avoid any more strokes. As parents, we've had to make gut wrenching decisions over the past few weeks, while trying to allow our daughter to retain her independence. She is an adult. In the first hours after we arrived, I spoke to her and explained to her that we had to sign some legal documents. Though separated from her husband for more than two years, the two have never officially divorced. My experience with AARP has taught me the importance of having documents such as medical power of attorney and advance directives signed. I have talked to older relatives about these needed documents, I've filled them out myself. It never occurred to me that I'd need to talk to my youngest child about filling out these documents in case someone else needed to make medical decisions for her. We discussed. We called the hospital social worker in and I watched painfully as my daughter struggled to spell her own name. I was close to tears, when she looked at me and said, "It's going to be ok, Mom. Thank you for remembering that I needed to sign these papers."

The past three weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster. Friends, colleagues and strangers have helped in ways we could never imagine or expect. We rejoice at each progress, then silently cry at the pain of watching your child use a walker. If you don't know my daughter, you can talk to her and never suspect anything is wrong. That's both a blessing and a curse. She called me crying yesterday when she was given an orange for breakfast and had no idea how to peel it. We know she'll face challenges not only by her limitations but by the expectations of a world who will only see a beautiful young woman and not someone in the midst of healing.

As parents of an adult and as caregivers, we'll be walking a fine line over the next few weeks and months. We'll -- especially me -- will have to fight the urge to wrap her in bubble wrap and not let anything hurt her again. We'll have to let her make decisions, her own decisions and be there to support her when she needs it. The looming surgery on her brain is terrifying, but at the same time we know that this surgery is the only treatment that will assure her a normal life. We also know that normal life might be a few months or even years away. So, parenting continues and like we did when she was a baby, we'll make some mistakes, do some things right and move forward one day at a time.

DIY Addiction

I've just spent three hours watching back-to-back-to-back-to-back home renovation shows. From House Crashers to Property Brothers and High Low Project to Kitchen Cousins, the shows are addicting. I'm sure I'd make a mint if I wrote a 12-step plan to kick the DIY habit.

It started innocently enough with Trading Spaces years ago. That was one show. Then it was two - Design on a Dime. Before I knew it, there were DIY shows around the clock. I started recording shows to get my fix of DIY before I left for work in the morning and before I went to bed at night.

I started spending money on DIY magazines and books. Then things got worse. I've started scouring thrift stores for furniture with "good bones" that I can refurbish and transform into a fabulous piece. My coffee table -- DIY. China Hutch - DIY. TV/Media stand - DIY. I've recovered chairs and painted old frames. It's out of control. I can't walk into a furniture store anymore without thinking, "I can get that much cheaper if I buy an older piece and restore."

Now, we're house-hunting and the DIY addiction has hit a new low. We're looking for a fixer-upper and have even considered building a house -- with the help of experts of course, but with us doing a lot of the interior work.

This is not going to end well.

Candy Making

What the candy was supposed to look like...

The Christmas Spirit took hold this week. That's your first warning.

Up until Sunday morning, I just didn't feel like putting up the tree and decorating. The red Rubbermaid tubs sat in my living room since shortly after Thanksgiving. I decided Saturday to haul everything back down to the garage and not decorate this year. But the Christmas Spirit hit me hard about 5:30 a.m. on Sunday morning.

Since you just can't run out and buy a tree anywhere at 5:30 a.m. except maybe Walmart and well, I just didn't feel like getting dressed to decorate the tree. So pajama-clad, I dug into the tubs. I found two huge tubs full of artificial greenery, collected over the years because one of our children is allergic to the real stuff. I went back to the garage and grabbed two tomato cages, rinsed off any garden soil in the bathroom, dried and stacked them. Upside down, the cages have just the right shape. After tying the stakes together to form a "tree top," I wrapped the green garland around the tree then added white lights. I decided this year to use the blue and silver ornaments and viola! a tree.

Wow! I felt like Martha Stewart on steroids -- and a pot a coffee at this point. So, I decorated the mantel, plopped a tree on the front door, threw the Christmas towels in the bathroom. I was on a roll.

After hubby woke up and showered, he realized I was not going to make it to church. I was on a mission from a higher calling -- the Christmas Spirit. We cleaned, we rearranged the furniture and even tackled a couple of projects -- the house was looking good.

Then I turned my attention to baking. That's your second warning.

I burned the cookies, and forgot to add something to the bread. But I was undaunted. My "holiday spirit" email popped in just in time with candy recipes! My husband always talks glowingly of the candy his mother used to make for the holidays every year. I've got this. I can do this. That's your third and final warning.

After two or maybe three trips to the grocery store, I had everything I needed to make Chocolate Peppermint Meringue Kisses. They were beautiful in the bhg.com page. The recipe sounded easy enough. I felt a little apprehension, but come on -- egg whites and some sugar -- how hard could this be?

The instructions said to beat the sugar in slowly, one teaspoon at a time. The stand mixer's been down for a while, so I grabbed the hand mixer. My shoulders and arms were burning after 20 minutes of beating, but it was going to be worth it for the beautiful candy that everyone would ooh and aah over and then devour.

But the sugar just wasn't dissolving. I beat some more. The instructions then said to use a pastry bag and some star tip to create the meringue kisses. I had no bag, so I improvised just like Martha would by using a large sandwich bag with the corner cut out just enough to put the tip in (I should say I inheritied a lot of my mom-in-laws cooking gadgets, which is the only reason I have a whole set of cake decorating tips.) It started out fine. Then it got bad, the meringue would not come out of the bag after a few kisses. I had 180 more to go. Who knew four egg whites could make so much meringue. I squeezed. The bag exploded.

I wiped off the mess as much as I could. And, I finally got the meringue back out of the bag and decided to use a small spoon and drop dollops on the cookie sheets. Folks, the recipe clearly said this recipe made 192 candies. One Hundred Ninety Two is a lot of candy. I gave up after filling two large parchment-lined cookie sheets with dollops. I obediently baked for 7 minutes, turned off the oven, opened the door and let it cool off. In the meantime, one more trip to the store to replace the milk chocolate that had mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen drawer I hid it in. The plan was to dip the now cool candy into the melted chocolate first, then into the pile of peppermint candies that we had crushed. The latter sounding more like we were firing guns than just crushing candy.

Simple enough? No. I grabbed a meringue kiss. It broke apart. In the end, I had chocolate and white sticky stuff all over me. I gave up halfway through the meringue dipping because the more I dipped, the worse I got at dipping. Practice did not make perfect. My husband walked over and stifled a laugh. I offered him a candy. He politely declined. MY HUSBAND TURNED DOWN A CANDY. They actually do taste good.

I bought the ingredients to make candy cane bark. Be very afraid.

What my candy looks like. Sigh.