Thursday in Italy

Here’s a throw back picture. Not because it’s Thursday but because I want it to be Thursday and I want to be in Italy again. Actually I want to be in Italy more than I want it to be Thursday.  Thursday in Italy would be perfect.

If you are observant, you will notice we were in Soave Italy and that my last name is Soave.

I can’t take any credit for this except for the fact that I took a chance and married into this family that originated from Italy. *Where they take naps in the middle of the day and apparently that sealed the deal for me.

#soave #italy #dianesoave #siesta #throwback #vacation #travel #castle #takemeback


Man Shoulders

I was born with the widest shoulder span of any female in the entire world.  You may think I’m being dramatic but I was adopted out as an infant and I feel this may be why.  My birth mother was traumatized by my birth and possibly injured and just couldn’t take looking at me every day for the rest of her life.  Poor lady.

Anyway, my shoulder span width (SSW) has caused some strange situations throughout my life.

Like the times (I wish I could say it was only once) when I became caught in a dress in the dressing room and couldn’t get myself out of it.   Jumping up and down in a panic, trying to wiggle out of a dress is humiliating and always makes me a little sad. And then the horror of what would happen if I couldn’t get out of it.  Would I have to hop to the cashier to pay for a dress that I have to spend the rest of my life in?

I remember being a kid, trying on clothes and my mom would always remind me about my wide shoulder span. “Wow, you’re like a linebacker.” Between her comments and always having to buy a size up in shirts (to accommodate “the” shoulder span), I have no idea how I’ve escaped therapy.

*According to Cosmo, I’m an inverted triangle. Sounds cool, huh? And it looks really awesome on people in shape. I’ll leave it at that.

Traveling by plane is no easy task with SSW.  Definition above.

The flight attendant announces that the flight is full and to find any seat available. The people already seated are either trying to avoid making eye contact with those looking for a seat or they are looking for a very small man or a female to take that dreaded “middle” seat that is left remaining.

My overall body would suggest that I’m a pretty good candidate for the middle seat and many have been fooled.

Same scenario every time….

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” (I was raised properly)

Aisle seat person doesn’t even answer, just gets up and lets me through. People get so cranky while traveling. Anyway, I always dig through my backpack (the one I stole from my kids 20 years ago) for:

Magazines (HGTV magazine but only if Mrs. D passes them on to me)

Book (that I never read)

Gum (My ears still pop and feel plugged but my mom said to chew it, so I chew it)

Reading glasses (cause I’m blind and I carry a pair in every bag and have a pair in every room of the house)

Then I stuff my backpack under the seat and strategically, place my purse alongside it (All items must be placed securely under the seat in front of you).  After that, I place my above items in the pocket of the seat in front of me. This whole scenario takes around 3-4 minutes and the entire time, the aisle seat dude and the window seat lady are thinking this flight won’t feel too cramped…until…

I finally buckle my seatbelt, sit back and try to avoid eye contact as they realize I have big and tall man shoulders otherwise known as SSW.


One shoulder is a little hunched in due to the fact I had to take my own picture (my family can’t deal with me).  Otherwise, my “span” would be even wider!  See what I’m talking about?









I may have an addictive personality.  Or not.  I don’t know.  I feel like being an addict is a lot of work and I just don’t have the motivation or commitment for that.

At one point in my life (as I was going through a divorce), I was bar hopping with girlfriends, having fun and drinking.  My drink of choice was straight whiskey and I’d sip it throughout the evening.  Sometimes, just one, sometimes more than one.  I didn’t feel like I had a “problem” until someone convinced me that I did.

I went straight home, threw out every ounce of alcohol (including rubbing alcohol) and didn’t drink anything (besides water, unsweetened tea and almond milk) for years and years.  I was more committed to having a problem than actually having a problem.

Anyway, many years later, I decided to TRY drinking a strawberry daiquiri, convinced I was going to hit rock bottom.  I envisioned myself on the street corner, homeless and holding up a sign “Why lie, I want beer” Or in my case, “Why lie, I want fruity drinks decorated with umbrella’s.”

I’d also be sharing the street corner with the guy hiding in the fake bush that jumps out at tourist and scares the shit out of them.

I drank that daiquiri and developed the worst pain in my liver.  Or maybe it was my kidney?  Gallbladder?  Apparently, I should spend less time writing and sign up for an anatomy class.

Anyway, it hurt like hell and I felt incredibly sick.

Then it hit me…

I’m not an alcoholic…I’m a lightweight.

Although, I read later that woman don’t metabolize alcohol very well after 40.

I was 30.

So, bottom line:  If someone suggested that I had an addiction to chocolate and desserts, they may actually be on to something but alcohol, I can live without.

BUT…don’t even think about taking away my M&M’s.  Can you picture me in candy rehab?  Those poor counselors.  I’d be a nightmare… sitting in a corner, rocking back and forth; begging for a KitKat.

Anyway, if any of you are planning an intervention for me, make sure you bring a Reese Pie.

It’s just good etiquette.


Eating Reese pie at 4:10 am (with the only fork you could find) may mean you have a problem.


My Airplane Story 1

My Airplane Story 1

Around 6 years ago, I’m on a flight from London to Chicago and I’m feeling victorious because I actually scored a front row seat. Finally, I can stretch my legs out and have a little room to breathe.

I always take care of a few things in the first hour of a flight:

  1.  I usually have to get up a couple of times to use the bathroom (I have a tiny and nervous bladder, don’t judge me).
  2. I always fall asleep before the plane even leaves the runway (all the excitement is just too much for me sometimes) so I decide to adjust my neck pillow and blanket.
  3. After a 45-minute snooze, it’s time for lunch.  Airplane food is not great but with the cost of airfare, you better believe I’m eating every bite and I’m also asking for an extra bag of pretzels (and taking everything in sight; barf bag, newspapers and the sky mall magazine).

It may seem like I’m quite busy but it’s not like I’m acting like some crazy toddler kicking the back of the seat or screaming bloody murder.  (If your child does this, I’m so sorry to use them as an example.)

Anyway, a ginormous British guy behind me is huffing and puffing every single time I move even an inch.  His belly leans up against the back of my seat so he can feel every move I make.  Then he has the nerve to start making comments under his breathe followed by some more huffs and puffs.

I was born with my dad’s gentle demeanor, which is amazing because I’m adopted.  I know, it’s amazing and freaky at the same time.

We (my dad and I) smile

We laugh

We joke

We take a lot

Until we don’t

And then…

It’s not a pretty site and it literally shocks the hell out of people because it’s so out of character for us.

Anyway, British guy made the final mistake of mumbling for the 13th time (Yes, I was counting and I hate odd numbers)

I quickly stood up, spun around, pointed my finger at him and said…

“Listen here jackass, I paid the same amount of money (unless he used Delta points or had a promo code) for my ticket as you did for yours so enough with the animal noises and passive aggressive comments. I WILL be getting up occasionally and re-positioning myself so DEAL with it.”

The man turned a special shade of red and looked like a scolded 5- year old.  He didn’t say another word or grunt another sound the rest of the way to Chicago (which was a long time according to the monitor with the plane flying over the ocean).

At the baggage claim in Chicago, I made eye contact with him and said “Now you’re in my country”

I have no idea what I meant by that, but I felt like it was something Liam Neeson would have said.

He scurried away and I imagine he was secretly mumbling something about crazy American women.

IMG_1490 2

I can’t give credit to anyone for this picture because I found it on the internet so please don’t sue me.  At this point, all you would get is a lot of random stuff packed in boxes.



Mind Games

Question of the day…

How far would I have gone?

Back story:  Years ago my extremely Type A husband placed a board in the garage so that when I felt the tires hit, it was my clue to stop.  I don’t understand what brought on this quirky idea but I vaguely remember that before the board, there was a tennis ball hanging from the ceiling which was another sign to stop.  (I know, I’m a saint)

I’ve honestly never hit anything (in the garage) so the only reason I can conjure up is that in his world (where everything has to be precise), this is the only way he can control how far I stay away from the wall or nowadays from the refrigerator.  This strange board/ tennis game eases his mind.

Sometimes, you just have to pick and choose your battles so I played along.

Board=Stop.  Got it.

Just like the Pavlov’s dog, I became conditioned to the stimuli (conditioned or unconditioned, I don’t know).

Board=Stop.  Got it.

Until today…

I slowly pulled into the garage inching up and inching up and inching up (wow, we are getting close) and inching up (my brain is not feeling the board) and inching up (the fridge seems to be right in my face) and ………………………………………where the hell is the board!?

I finally stopped (thankfully something clicked in my head) right before I hit the fridge but seriously, how far would I have gone?  Would I have just slammed into the fridge while I’m waiting to feel the tires hit the board?  Would I have gone through the fridge and directly through the wall and into the laundry room?  Maybe I would have just ended up in the dining room.  No telling how far I would have gone before my brain registered there is no board.

How can he just take the board away like that?

The mind games stop right here and right now.  My only question…

How long is going to take to re-program my brain?

No board=Stop.  I’ll get it (eventually).


This is after I scooted back a bit.  And by the way, I left it like that.  Just to prove a point.