These are a few of my new favorite things!

I am much happier here than I have been in a long time. So, I felt the urge to list the especially wonderful aspects of my new life, because ... well ... let's be realistic. It could all change in a heartbeat. But somehow I have the feeling that I really do like it here!

1. Seeing my son in his French blue down jacket with his red fleece race car hat.
2. Sledding--if you don't like sledding, you are a communist. And you probably hate puppies and coffee too.
3. Not stepping on a scale--or caring, really, what the number would be if I did.
4. Cheese
5. Cheese
6. The new cheese I discovered at the Co-op with some fancy French name I can't pronounce.
7. Driving to work early in the AM, while it is still dark, quiet and seeing the orange glow of glass being blown into beautiful shapes through the window. I am so proud of what my company makes.
8. Working with an amazingly fun and talented team of designers and visual merchandisers.
9. Going to the local hardware store for $1.00 coffee each morning (that I like better than Starbucks) and gas I don't have to pump. They have everything there ... this morning I bought feminine products, a banana and a pair of black socks. All my other black socks were dirty and I am sick of laundry.
20. My knitting circle. Most wonderful group of women!
21. My son's preschool. He couldn't be happier.
22. Snow plow operators.
23. Not locking doors (I know I still should, but the last theft in my town was 17 years ago. Murder ... never happened.)
24. My corner office from which I can watch the snow fall.
25. My husband who taught me everything I needed to know about staying warm and driving safe.
16. Bun warmers in my husband's car.
17. A garage.
18. My beautiful surroundings.

My new gigs

It has taken me forever to get to this post. Mostly because the subject is what has been distracting me from writing. And of all the things that have happened to me since moving to Vermont, leaving IBM and taking a job at Simon Pearce has been second in importance only to losing my baby boy. In fact, as much as I hate to admit that there is any inkling of a silver lining to losing my child, if I must, then this would be it. And one day I might just find out that it was my very own guardian angel who told me to check the Jobs in Vermont website that day.

After two years of being dissatisfied with my job, and coming to the conclusion that I was either going to be laid off or have suck it up and dread every weekday morning, I finally decided that life was too short. The first moment I had the chance to snatch up a better opportunity, I would. If I had to wait until Aaron was done with training, so be it, but soon .... some time soon .... I would get a new job. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I wanted. I knew it would have to do with art, interior design, writing or handling baggage. I didn't care. But if I could live off of it, I would do it.

Here is where the concept of flow comes in. Shortly after we arrived here, when I was still pregnant with Jason, my husband took us to eat at a restaurant called Simon Pearce. I only knew of it through my mother-in-law. And I wasn't all that excited to be going to a place that my mother-in-law recommended ... as I am sure you can understand.

Simon Pearce was an English-born glass blower, who grew up in Ireland. After marrying an American woman, he moved his studio to the beautiful Quechee, Vermont. Some 30 years later, his tablewear is still hand made in the USA (most of which happens in Vermont), and he has an amazing restuarant on the Ottaquechee River where all of the entrees and drinks are served on or in Simon Pearce pottery and glass. It is a truly incredible experience. For those who appreciate both hand-made items as well as beautiful tablewear, once you have a Simon Pearce glass in your hand, you realize that you have to get a job that pays enough to buy them. I looked Aaron right in the eye at lunch and said, "One day, I want to run the marketing for a company like this!"

A week later, we went to our local ... (only) ... Chinese restaurant. My fortune cookie insert read, "Success is on its way to you." I taped it to a votive candle holder and lit it everytime I looked for a job inside and outside of IBM. Even during a few phone interviews. Two weeks later, I went back to the chinese restaurant and found my fortune cookie's insert to read, "You have a love of all things artistic." Lather, rinse and repeat ... I taped it to my votive and believed in flow.

The next week I saw a posting for a marketing manager position at Simon Pearce. While they were looking for a somewhat junior marketing manager, I applied anyway. Long story short, we both realized that that it was a good fit. They ultimately needed marketing leadership, and I desperately wanted to be that person! So, let me introduce myself as the new ... and first, ever, really ... director of marketing at Simon Pearce. I love my job ... my .boss ... my staff ... and the designer James.

Oh, and by the way ... the quarterly executives' meeting was at Simon and Pia's house in Norwich, VT, where I live. Here I was, at a corporate meeting sitting around the fire looking at strategy charts on a projector and sneaking peeks outside the window at the snow falling on the tree branches and thanking God ... and Jason, maybe, for placing me where I am today!

Knit Night: Take One

One of Isaac's classmate's mommy is a knitter. As if that wasn't enough to make me like her, I found out her name is Ariel and she pronounces it exactly like Sebastian the crab pronounces it in the Little Mermaid-- just like the letters R-E-L .... so it sound so sweet, and airy. Completely appropriate since she is also a flutist. Aaron still says "flautist", but that is just wrong. What's even better than all that is that she started a knitting group that meets at some one's house every 2 weeks. I can't wait until it is at her house since her husband is a wine distributor. Knitting and wine ... together? Can you sing, "These are a few of my favorite things...." a la Julie Andrews?

So, I went. It was the night after my botched root canal and the bruise was just forming on my face, so that should tell you how desperate I am to find friends and knit. It was at the most adorable little cottage style house way out in the boonies. It was pitch dark, and after 2 miles the road turned to dirt and continued deeper into the woods. I thought, "Have I just been lured into the woods by some Koresh-like cult posing as a knitting circle?" I expected to get out of my car and find a moose attached to the bumper. The house was brown wood, almost like a cabin in Germany's black forest, complete with a cobblestone walkway, pointy roof and window boxes full of flowers. Sarah, the host let me in. She was playing celtic tunes in the background, had scented candles lit and was drinking a local beer. Soon after about 5 others arrived, and I soon realized I was the oldest one by about 10 years. When the heck did that happen to me?

While I didn't get much knitting done, I had an amazing time. It was literally like being in a different world and underscored how much I love this place. What a change from California.

First, I was the only one with make-up ... so with just blush, some lip gloss and mascara, I felt like a Drag Queen. How refreshing to see such young women so unadorned. No acrylic nails or plastic surgery ... no talk of diets or celebrities. No major gossip well, except for calling the owner of the knit shop "Bun Laden" which absolutely cracked me up since I wrote about her in a previous blog. I laughed so hard I snorted. And when the food was served, there was no one said, "Oh, I shouldn't. Just a little salad. Just some water, please." Everyone jumped up and planted a healthy portion of lasagna on their plates and ate every last bite.

I also marveled at the level of education in the room. Almost all had a Master's, and there were 2 IV league schools represented. They used words like "diaspora" and talked about the plays they had seen. Not pretentious, just as a matter of fact. One girl particularly bright and nerdy got to talking to me because her father works for IBM as well. Turns out she speaks Italian, French, Spanish and German. She asked if we could practice German together.

I was so impressed and inspired that I will surely offer to host a knit night soon. In fact, I can hardly wait for the next one. I don't mind being the old, made up lady in the room as long as there are nice people, good food and knitting involved.

Missing: Reward Offered

At approximately 2:07 this afternoon, in the general vicinity of the master bedroom on Hemlock Road in Norwich, a size 7 bamboo knitting needle went missing. The needle, one of set currently in use to make a pewter gray almost 100% cashmere ladder stitch scarf was last seen amidst a tangle of yarn and a taptop cord, pages from a Harvard Business Review case study, some pillows, a pen, a yellow wallet and a pink fleece robe. "I don't know what happened," says, Dorit, its owner. "One minute I was clearing items off my bed so my son could take a nap and the next thing you know, it's gone." Without its safe return, Dorit is afraid her husband's neck will freeze on his upcoming business trip, or he simply won't look as dashing as expected since the scarf was specifically designed to go with his overcoat. "I've asked my husband, my son, even my dog to help me look, but they just don't see the urgency in this!"

If you have any information as to the whereabouts of the missing needle, please contact Dorit ASAP. She is currently addicted, has no other materials to start a substitute project, and without this needle will have a complete psychotic break.

A little excitement on Hemlock Road....

It was approximately 10:00 PM. It's 28 degrees outside, but with new flannel sheets and the best mattress pad money can buy, I was snug as a bug in a rug ... not to mention the new Hungarian Goose down comforter I bought today ... I felt like a real Vermonter ... layered up and ready for the cold. But something awoke me ... a light ... I thought maybe Aaron had left the porch light on because surely anything that wakes me up at night is his fault--no questions asked. But we soon realized that it was brighter than our porch light and no way it could have been simply caused by the garage light. Something was amiss ... and alit and we decided to investigate. Donning my baby pink fleece robe with dark pink polka dots, I make my way to the garage because it has windows. And sure enough, I saw what looked like a small SUV ... station wagon perhaps ... parked very much in our driveway with its lights on. Not right up to the door, mind you, but definitely close enough to question its intentions. Once I hit the garage lights, it went into reverse and made its way up our dirt road.

Here's the deal. It is either one of the neighbor's cars or it is in for a rude awakening, because Ms. Mud Boots, who watches every car that makes its way up the private drive is sure to meet this one with a shotgun in hand. She makes no bones about the fact that she doesn't like people making U Turns on her "private" drive. I, on the other hand, think she should be thankful for any attention she gets.

However, after a few moments ... the car comes back down our road and parks at the end of it, at a stop sign facing Route 5 and the CT river. I want to call the Norwich Police, but Aaron thinks it is premature. But after several minutes, he gives me the go ahead.

I try 411. Guess what. They have no listing in Norwich, VT for police. I refrain from releasing the sarcasm that is rolling around in my head ... after all ... we have already been pulled over by them for speeding and we pass the police station at least once a week going to the dump. So, I open Google while Aaron checks a list of numbers our landlord gave us. In the meantime, suspicisous care is still there and I am on the phone with dispatch.

If this had been CA ... and I know because I have called the police in CA ... they would have said that the police were busy on a real emergency and would be there when they can. If this were North Carolina, they would have simply taken their own sweet time showing up... as in never. But within 10 minutes a patrol car was driving up our road. Only, they just missed the suspicious vehicle because it turned north on Route 5. So, I felt obligated to call the nice dispatcher back and alert her to the change in situation ... then within seconds, I saw the patrol make its way north on Route 5.

I have to say ... there is something comforting in the fact that the crime rate is so low here that the police show up lickety split. On the other hand, what the heck were those people doing in our driveway ....

On a positive note: I have eagle vision and my night vision puts cats to shame. I took down the license plate and found out that you can do a criminal records search on any Vermont licence plate for a mere $29.95. I asked Aaron if it was worth it. Negative .... but the suspense is killing me ... and my wallet is within 15 inches on my computer.

Problem is, it is probably some tourist, or teenager ... something completely benign and I would have wasted $30 finding out that life around here really is less exciting--from a crime point of view. I mean, after all, what do I want ... to find out that someone is stalking us? We don't cheat on our taxes .... and as far as I know everything we buy is made in Vermont .... I suppose I will never know.

The highway less traveled ...

A little creative non-fiction that I am finally ready to share ... amazing how much has happened in the span of four months! Life is full of surprises ....

I admit that it’s beautiful, but he wants me to say more. He is glancing at me expectantly from the corner of his eye. “Can you believe it? No one billboard! Have you seen one stinkin’ billboard?”
“Not a one,” I reply shaking my head slowly as I unwrap one of the Brisket sandwiches his mother sent along with us on our pit stop to Boston. I place it on the center console before unwrapping my own. I open the bag of chips and offer him a napkin. “Here. Take this." I say, shaking it in his face. I look back at Isaac, but he is still asleep in his car seat. I put his peanut butter and jelly back into the bag for now.
“Now, that is blue, huh?” He is pointing through the windshield at the sky. “No smog. Just clear blue sky.” And then he whistles the way men in old movies do when a pretty woman walks by them. Only when he does it, it sounds more like the sound a firecracker makes right before it explodes.
I drop my hands in my lap nearly knocking my sandwich to the floorboard. “Aaron, I have seen blue skies before. Can we just eat?”
I feel him looking at me. I point to the road on which I want him to keep his eyes, and only when I see his head turned back to the North, do I begin eating my lunch.
My mother calls it love. The way his enjoyment of life is heightened by mine. “It’s sweeeet,” she says. On the flipside, as in all marriages in which both member of the union care what the other thinks and feels, our happiness can be hampered by the other’s distaste for something we love. I am still bothered by the fact that I cannot cook with mushrooms unless I am the only one eating. Plus, the stakes are a bit higher for Aaron this time and he really wants us to be happy because we are all here because of him—uprooted. His two-year old son who loves the beach, his nanny, and picking fresh oranges off the tree everyday with daddy when he has returned from work. His wife carrying a high-risk pregnancy around like a goldfish in a bowl that threatens to spill its contents and lose the fish with any false move. An aging and overweight Labrador retriever whose flight cost more than all of ours put together. But he is happily embarking on a new career path that promises to be filled with shiny new faces to greet, interesting things to learn, and exactly one-third the salary to which we have grown accustomed. “But you will see. The cost of living is much less in New Hampshire. We aren’t going to be taxed to death like in California.”
Isaac is stirring in the back. I quickly snatch up the remnants of our meal and stuff them away into bag. I jab a juice box with a straw and turn to tend to my son, whose eyes are wide open and fixed on the view from his window along the highway. His mouth is forming a slow smile. “Look, Mama. A forest.”
“That’s right,” I say. “It is a forest.” To prepare him for the move, I cut pictures of trees out of magazines and pasted them on poster board. “This is where you are going to live soon,” I said enthusiastically. My friends who had taken sabbaticals with small children assured me that if I was optimistic, he would be optimistic too.
He shakes his head at my offer of food and drink. He yawns, stretches, then looks back out through the window. “A forest,” he whispers.
Aaron’s voice cuts in as he turns toward Isaac, shouting over the engine and windshield wiper and right in my ear, “Where is the graffiti? Where are all the people? Where are all the Jack-in-the-boxes and Taco Bells?” I roll my eyes, thinking as if Isaac can understand these questions that are only designed to remind me, yet again, how much nicer it is supposed to be here.
“It’s all gone!” Isaac shouts. Aaron and I look at each other, and despite my efforts to stop at a simple smile, we both release a thunderclap of laughter. Isaac, pleased with himself, laughs too, then repeats himself with even more emphasis, “It’s ALL gone!” Several minutes pass before our combined laughter settles and fades into sporadic snorts and chuckles.
They say that kids will keep you honest, and it’s true. Even I have to admit that it is beautiful here. “That’s right,” I say. “It is all gone. It is all trees now.” I enjoy the lightness of mood that has taken over the small space of our car. Aaron reaches across to pat my belly.
“How you doin’ in there little one?” he asks.
I see a sign for our exit up ahead and warn Aaron. He sits upright, readjusts the seat belt over his shoulder and places both hands back on the wheel. Within a few moments, we are off the highway and making our way to the hotel, which will be our temporary home until we find a place to settle in for the year.

Bring on the flannel ...

My best friend, who lives in a city also known for its bitter cold weather, was convinced I would find myself in plaid flannel and a pair of mud boots before the year was up. I am all for staying warm, but I have a firm belief that no matter how cold it gets, one musn't sacrifice all their values. And, I make no apology that dressing somewhat fasionably is one of mine. Emphasis on the "somewhat" these days. Now, I am not saying that plaid and / or flannel can't be stylish. (OK, well, plaid I am not sure about ... wink, wink ... nudge, nudge ... you know who you are and I am only teasing you.) I am simply saying that surely someone makes snow boots and fleece shirts with modern detailing and lines. I have seen some downright stunning down jackets in Europe and New York, so I know they exist. And a note on mud boots--with the right jeans and a white top, they can be ... dare I say ... sexy ... on a woman--in that "tanned, nature-girl, blueberry-picking, dirt-under-the-nails farm-stand-worker"sort of way. If I ever go wild mushroom hunting, I am getting me a pair.

But plaid flannel, especially red plaid flannel, is where I draw the line. I am not a lumberjack. I promptly told my friend while I was still in California something along the lines of "not just no, but hell no."

And I have held out quite well. Even when Aaron sneaked off and bought me a pair of the best flannel PJs from the Vermont Flannel Company in Woodstock, Vermont, I thanked him for the gesture, but promptly sent him back to return them. "But you will want these when it gets cold. I swear," he argued. Flannel, maybe .... fuschia, turqouise and white plaid flannel .... never. I was certain that anyone who slept in those would either suffocate themselves, have nightmares or wake up with a full-blown migraine. I suppose it didn't help that they day he bought them was the hottest day of summer and we didn't have air conditioning in the house. My son and I were covered in bug bites and the only fan we owned was the size of a coffee pot.

But a funny thing happened recently. It got cold. Really cold. At least to us, whose blood is still thin as water from almost four years back in California. And we were all just recovering from a stomach bug we got during our travels to and from North Carolina when Isaac came home with another "day care" cold. Aaron and I followed suit. So, on a chily Saturday morning, we woke up freezing and Aaron said, "Between the weather and the day care germ exchange, I have a feeling we are going to be really scr*wed this winter." It was the first time I was scared as I thought about the reality of what we were going to be facing. Suddenly snow angels and cross-country skiing didn't sound so romantic. So, I agreed that as a start we all should get a pair of PJs (or two) from Vermont Flannel Company--that very day.

I was hoping they might have a solid colored pair. No such luck. Closest they get to solid is what they call the court jester pants where one leg is green and the other is a coordinating green plaid. No comment necessary, right? And the women who worked there, while they were helpful enough, were some scary broads. While Aaron was looking through their shirt collection, they gave me a list of other things I might need like extra large boots so I could wear several pairs of socks or my feet would freeze off--and a mask for my face. Something else about windchill factor driving temperatures down to minus 50 degrees and frostbite. I was hugging Isaac tighter and tighter, shaking my head "no" and backing away from them very slowly as if they were that poor disturbed woman who approached us in Burlington. I thought about the scene in National Lampoon's Christmas when Audrey's eyeballs were frozen open when they went looking for a Christmas tree. Yup, those were some scary women at the Vermont Flannel Company.

Nevertheless, Aaron and Isaac easily found matching pairs in subtle blues, and there are few things in this world cuter than seeing him in those PJs. And I succumbed to what I thought was the least offensive of the selection. And as the cashier handed them to me, I had flashbacks of going to the doctor and being handed a dressing gown and a paper blanket because that is about as excited as I was about this purchase. This was no trip to Victoria's Secret.

Sidebar: This place actually makes flannel thongs. Now, if you don't find something inherently wrong with that, then ... well ... I just don't know.

It took me a while before I was ready to sit down with my dish of steaming crow and call my friend to tell her that not only did I buy flannel PJs, but they were in fact plaid and ... ahem ... red. She asked me when I was going to wear them, and I told the truth. "I am wearing them right now." Buttoned up to my chinny chin chin and feeling pretty darn cozy. Not only did I not make it 'til Christmas before caving, this was only October 2. She didn't say, "I told you so" because that is not the kind of friend she is ... maybe that's why I love her to pieces. (I still hate that she was right).

What the heck have we gotten ourselves into?