When 7-Eleven became 24-Seven

For the first 30 years of my life I thought cheese was orange; Cheez Whiz, cheese curls, mac 'n' cheese, individually wrapped Kraft slices and bricks of Velveeta. Then came my love affair with parmesan; you know, the white cheese that comes out like little balls from a green bottle with a shaker spout, which I now buy as a giant wedge wrapped in butcher paper. 

It's finally dawned on me that whether cheese is orange, white or blue, the real reason I eat it is because it's convenient. I open the fridge, I cut it (sometimes) and I eat it. There's no cooking (vegetables) or peeling (fruit) or spreading (peanut butter and Nutella). It's even easier than a square of chocolate that has to be carefully cracked on that little indentation so the other chocolate eaters in the house aren't disgusted by your teeth marks.

After a lifetime of cheese eating, I've finally realized it's a habit of convenience. And fortunately, I've also realized it's a bad one. I accept 50 million extra grams of fat and possible high cholesterol and a heart attack just because I'm too lazy to cut off the tops of strawberries, wash them and put them in the blender (the only way I don't have to gag them down). But as more friends have bad blood tests and my body has more bulges, I'm reconsidering strawberries. And I'm also considering other times taking the easy way out might not be the best choice for me (or you).

Fortunately, I don't succumb to a lot of conveniences. But if you do, here's a friendly reminder of some things that might be missing in your life because their alternatives seem easier:

walking or riding your bike (it beats driving), wearing natural fabrics even if you have to iron them, sending a card instead of a text, going out for a movie instead of watching Netflix, popping popcorn on the stove like your grandma used to, turning real pages in a book, meeting a cute shopkeeper instead of shopping online, the warmth of a wool sweater and not a fleece, sleeping in a sleeping bag in a tent instead of a bed in a camper and lots of other things that you haven't done for years.

There's nothing wrong with convenience if it really makes you happy. But if you squirmished a bit when you read that list, maybe you should consider reliving the old days from time to time. 

7-Eleven used to think it was convenient to serve its customers from 7am to 11pm. And then one day they decided offering another 8 hours would make our lives even easier. I think before you take the full plunge into the easy life, you should analyze its gains and losses. And take an extra second to ask yourself if you really even like cheese.

If Clothes Make the Man, Put on a Party Dress

Shoot me if I ever go shopping for clothes to stay home in. The clothes I'm home in are the same clothes I'm out in. They're the ones I remove when it's time to put on my pajamas. And if there's a day I don't leave home (for instance, if I'm throwing up) I just stay in my pajamas.

I don't get why you need specific clothes to be at home. If I'm painting, I wear painty clothes that remind me of all the other times I've been painting. If I'm using cement to attach broken dishes to my mosaic stairs, I have a baggy pair of holey jeans that I can't wear out anymore. When I'm cooking (which is about as rare as throwing up) I wear an apron. And if I'm doing any of my other favorite things that don't include lying on the sofa or watching TV, I feel just fine in my normal clothes.

That's why I laughed the other day when, with thirty minutes between a play and dinner, my friend said we had just enough time to go shopping for some new clothes to stay home in. I've bought my share of running clothes, school clothes, work clothes and dressy clothes, but I've never spent a dime on 'home clothes'.

If I'm at home and for some reason I think it's necessary to save my 'good clothes', I change into something bad. These undesirables include a favorite wool sweater with a tiny moth hole, an old plaid shirt that's so long if tucked in it makes my butt look big and a giant pair of boyfriend jeans that in addition to rolling up the cuffs three times I have to roll down the waistband. These are my home clothes. I didn't have to go shopping for them.

I've asked an Italian friend if they use the phrase, 'shoot me if...' and he told me they say 'kill me if....' but he assured me I'd be understood in any case. So, if you ever catch me out buying clothes to stay home in, shoot me or kill me before I make the purchase. I want to be sure I'm never caught dead in stay-at-home-clothes I've actually gone shopping for.
 

It's about the coffee, not the talk

I remember two things about my childhood house; the address (15 Dean Street) and ladies coming over for coffee. They used to sit in the kitchen with my mom and I imagine they talked about stuff like curlers and tv trays. If the company (we didn't say guests in West Michigan) wanted tea or 'pop' instead of coffee, it made no difference. The morning was meant for slow sips and refills .  

Last week a ski lift operator invited me to grab coffee on his break and I told him I didn't drink coffee. He said that's not what he meant and I knew that's not what he meant, but the truth is, if you accept an invitation for un caffe' (an espresso everywhere else in the world) you can only drink un caffe'. Consuming anything else takes too long.  

Grabbing a (tiny) cup of coffee in Italy is all about the coffee and not at all about the talk. Of course we have real coffee dates, too; the ones where you actually take off your coat and nurse a cappuccino or (like me) an extra hot milk with cocoa. I never say no to those invites. It's the drink-a-cup-of-coffee-in-20-seconds-invitations that I feel I must decline.

I've asked my adult students what I can order and they had lots of answers; hot tea (which means they didn't understand the question), cold tea (ditto), hot chocolate (much more expensive than the coffee I was invited for) and orzo (soluble barley that's defintely not my cup of tea).  

I'm starting to think that the only thing you can throw back with the same passion and speed as an Italian coffee is a shot of grappa. Must I choose the lesser of two evils? Or will the askers accept leading me to water without forcing me to drink?

 

Risky Business

My walks and runs are filled with secrets; things I pretend are just for me. Take the place in the woods where I go to the bathroom the days I walk so much I can't make it home. When I pass with a fellow walker they have no idea I watered that grass the morning before. My inactive friends don't know how many steps there are to the church on the hill or that they are divided into 12 sets of 9. And no one has more curiously controlled the decaying carcasses of a giant toad with a toadlet on its back than I have.

On my walk through town there's an unfinished condominium and parking lot where they'd left a low curb for many years. If you tried to walk on it you either fell onto the shoulder of the street or onto an empty space waiting to be planted or paved. It wasn't a high, wide wall where you'd be hurt if you fell off, but rather a short, narrow curb. It was my urban balance beam.

I couldn't pass that challenge without jumping up and attempting the length at high speed. I like to think the lady in the brick house across the street spied on me through the holes in her lace curtains. She'd have seen me spin my arms and wobble to find my balance, but seldom fall. Maybe she applauded my improvement the same way I check on her tiny, potted cacti for signs of growth; both secretly part of the other's life.

Unfortunately, the parking lot has been finished. Now one side of the curb still falls to the street, but the other has been planted with a strip of grass and stretch of sidewalk. It's become a curb like any other and now lacks the appeal of a death defying feat on my morning walk.   

In reality, the width and height haven't changed a bit. It should be just as challenging to stay on the mini-concrete ledge with or without the grass. But, it's different. Now I do it more easily at a higher speed, with no wobbling and no satisfaction. The risk of falling to the shoulder of the street still exists, but the safety of the soft, green grass on the other side has removed the thrill. 

We get our personal highs in different doses. I don't have to climb a frozen waterfall to find mine, but apparently a balance beam 7 inches off the ground with only one dangerous side isn't quite enough. My risks might be a nightmare to one and a walk in the park to another, but they're mine and I can take the ones I want.

I don't know the right age for a toad to cross the road by itself, but had they crossed independently, maybe one (or both) would have made it to the other side.  


 

Let Things Go

I started 2026 with a glittery thumbnail. Nearly three months later I'm still haunted by a tiny, shiny piece seemingly hanging on for life.  

I won the nail polish in a Bingo game at a New Year's Eve party. Lots of things aren't my middle name, but Glittery Nail Polish is even less probable than most. Even so, in honor of new things in the new year I quickly painted my thumb before exchanging the polish with the little girl who had so disappointedly won the travel tissues.

I thought about using polish remover after the first chippy week, but I decided I wasn't ready to lose it completely; it was more than just a painted nail. Anyway, if my thumb isn't at just the right angle I can't see it; and I don't think anyone else can either. So, I've chosen to let it live until it dies. I just didn't think it would hold on this long. 

Everything needs light to shine; tiny chip included.  So the tragic discovery of its loss won't happen in the dark. (At least I'll be spared sobbing myself to sleep.) One wiser than I would cease the incessant checking to see if it's still with me; making the transition from living with to living without a bit smoother. But that's one wiser than I.  

It would be nice if some day while thumbs-upping something positive in my life I'd look down and find the shimmer gone. "Bingo", I'd cry. (Or, Bingo. I'd cry.)  That tiny piece has always been the last glimmer of hope for a happy new year. But when it finally falls I'll consider it the lost glimmer and try to get on with 2026. I keep reminding myself all that glitters is not gold. But on those days that I forget, at least I have the travel tissues.


 

Treat Yourself

I'm going to use the guest towels this week. I want to feel like I'm on vacation. They're not the ones that say HIS and HERS, they're the ones that still feel fluffy like the ones you've already had (you, my American friends) for 10 years; the ones that you whirl in your Whirlpool. We dryerless folks in Italy (most don't have dryers, and those that do use them sparingly because of the cost) are used to towels that can almost stand. We seldom feel that fluffy towel feeling. I usually save my guest towels for guests, but this week I'm going to indulge.

And while I'm at it, I think I'll put that carafe I bought at Crate and Barrel on my nightstand; the one with the little glass that fits upsidedown on the top. It's not terribly convenient for a quick sip at 3am but it's a lot more romantic than my half liter plastic bottle.

This week I'm going to take the extra 10 minutes required to make the homemade tomato sauce I usually only make for visitors; fry a little onion, add a chopped carrot and mash up some fresh tomatoes. And for dessert I think I'll finally find the courage to use the Nestle's chocolate chips my friend sent for my birthday. I've been saving them for the right person, but I've just decided there's no one righter than me.

Sometimes I offer my guests a little downtime and they accept without feeling guilty. This week I'll treat myself to the same. I'll eat my breakfast cookies from a pretty dish instead of the cookie bag inside a plastic bag closed with a clothespin. That's the extra effort it takes to keep them fresh in case I don't get back to that house for a few weeks. And those two ice cream cones a day I promise all of my young visitors sounds like a pretty good idea, too.

Fortunately, some of the things that seem 'guesty' are already part of my daily routine; like driving on the scenic roads even when they aren't the most direct route. I use my china for frozen pizza, not for fancy feasts. And my fancy tea cups? For hot, green milk (that's what I call latte e menta). I drink my CocaZero from a crystal wine glass and eat cheesecake with a silver fork. I don't watch TV (I don't have one) because that's not something to do with guests unless you're suffering from Sundaynitis (my name for that feeling I get on Sunday night) and they're your best friends.

At the end of the week I might just decide to treat myself like a guest for the rest of my life. If I keep my future visitors happy with parmegiano, gelato and la bella vita maybe they won't even notice the crunchy towels. 

Use Your Imagination

It's not every day you're chosen as the most beautiful skier on the mountain. In fact, it's safe to say I've never won that title. But a little imagination can turn an already exceptional day into a day where the slopes sparkle with diamonds even when it's cloudy.

Upon arrival I search for the perfect parking place for my peanut-butter-and- jelly-and-potato-chip-lunch break. The SUVs and mini-vans pull in to face the lodge, but I back in to face the snow covered mountains without chairlifts and skiers. Anyone watching probably recognizes the bathroom dance while I pull out my skis, pull on my boots and pull up the ragtop.

It took me half the season to decide which pockets suit the essentials for a day on the slopes. Money goes in the pocket on the back of the inside pants. The car key's in the left front pocket of the outside pants. It has a zipper that can't be unzipped until I get back to the car. I tuck a couple of Kleenex in my sleeve (thanks Grandma) and lip stuff in the left coat pocket because my cell phone goes in and out of the right one at least 23 times a day. When everything is in place, I elegantly walk to the bathroom in my unbuckled boots and then I'm finally ready for my first run.  

Every chairlift has a little hut at the bottom and another at the top. And every little hut has a man to man the lift (there are still no women to woman the lift). This year at the beginning of the season my day was made when a lift operator came out of his booth to give me a piece of candy. If he said anything at all, I don't remember.  And I only had time for a grazie and smile before the next chair came to remind me to make my way. Fortunately, the inside coat pocket on the top left with the granola bar had room for an individually wrapped caramel so they shared the space for a few runs while I contemplated my treat. 

The only name I'd had for this chairlift guy was the one with a long ponytail and a super long beard. And I suppose he'd gotten used to me as the girl (or lady) with green, pink and orange coats but always the same grey hair, grey helmet and goggles. So why the caramel? I imagined that around Halloween the designated lift guy bought bags of individually wrapped candy so they could divide it in their huts at the beginning of the season and give it to their favorite females of the day. (For more information on a similar game I invented in 1984 click here and read Go ahead. Make my day.)

https://10leaves.blogspot.com/search?q=go+ahead+make+my+day

Self-help gurus call my take on the explanation for the candy 'a positive perspective.' But have you ever heard a parent tell a child to find the positive perspective when complaining that they had nothing to do? We tell kids to use their imaginations, and unless you think you're too grown up, you should try it.

If singing Sinatra on my morning drive up the mountain, eating a thick hot chocolate with a tiny spoon at noon and driving back down as the sun sets aren't enough to completely fill my soul, imagining that I'd been selected as one of the sparkling diamonds in the snow makes my annual ski pass worth every centesimo.