Diane Laney Fitzpatrick

Writer, blogger, author and humorist

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Spicing Up Old Age

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They say that as you get older you are more likely to be a hoarder of at least one thing, and now that I’m (ahem) older, I can definitely see that happening. Not that I’m wading through mountains of on-sale collectible dolls and dirty Kleenex to get to the bucket next to the broken toilet every morning, but I’m entering a phase of life in which I can’t see the sense in throwing away something that is perfectly good. Combine that with compulsive buying of a specific thing and you’ve got me: Almost 60-years-old and the owner of more spices than hairs on my legs in winter.

I seriously don’t know what to do about my spices. They’re out of control. This is not surprising, since I love to cook and I get an almost orgasmic satisfaction out of reading a recipe, seeing some unpronounceable spice that would cause a lesser woman to turn the page and just make a tuna casserole, and realizing that I not only have it in the house, I might have three of them, one of them the Cajun version.

This spice hoarding goes unchecked because it’s only egged on by the other quirks taking hold as I age. Like being more and more okay with eating things that might be expired. Anyone who has ever opened the refrigerator in his grandmother’s house knows that the older you get the less you care about eating spoiled food. You never see a 25-year-old, no matter how near death from starvation, open up a Tupperware container, sniff it, wince, and then say, “I think it’s still good” and then serve it to loved ones. That trait definitely comes from reaching a certain age. When my mom was doing it, I thought it had something to do with her growing up in an orphanage and living through the Great Depression. But now I know that even Richie Rich grew up to cut the blue spots off the brie. [Read more…] about Spicing Up Old Age

Sewing Machine Self Esteem

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I hate to see someone get picked on. And when it’s my sewing machine, I feel compelled to defend it with the same zeal with which I rip out seams: Slowly, methodically, and with a burning hatred in my heart.

My poor sewing machine. She’s just a basic little thing, as plain as Jane and twice as homely.  She’s old and cheap and she has bad habits . . . like if I don’t put the bobbin in just so she leaves a tangled mess of thread in her wake . . . And when trying to thread the needle, she squinches up the hole and releases an invisible fog of odorless gas that blurs my vision  . . . And the pedal is so sensitive it goes from zero to sixty in the time it takes me to get my fingers out of the way.  She doesn’t do anything fancy like automatically cut the thread or embroider in cursive celebratory wishes.  In fact my sewing machine is kind of a douche, but she’s my douche and I would thank you not to bring up her inadequacies in front of me.

And I’m talking about you, people at the sewing machine maintenance places who have a wisecrack convention every time I take her in for regular maintenance. [Read more…] about Sewing Machine Self Esteem

When Broadway Sent Me to Hell

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If I go to hell — and the heavenly jury, that persnickety bunch of fuss budgets, is still out on that — it won’t be because of any of the Commandments. It will have nothing to do with all those pens I took from newsrooms across northern and central Ohio, or the free HBO I did not report for almost two years.  It will be because of a blasphemous little number called The Book of Mormon.

Who knew that a ticket to eternal damnation would cost $159.50 plus service and handling fees? I always thought that if I stood face to face with fire and brimstone it would be because of something I did to make money not spend it.  It is surprisingly easy to go straight to hell. You can print your tickets at home or pick them up at will call.

I will take full blame, since it was my decision and I pulled the trigger on the ticket purchases. It was last summer and my husband, son and I were looking for a show to take in while on a trip to New York. As expected, everyone had an opinion, but that didn’t help.

Me: What do you guys want to see? Give me an idea so I can start to narrow it down and choose.

My son: Anything but Cats.

My husband: Cats! [Read more…] about When Broadway Sent Me to Hell

A Mom’s Worries, Warts and All

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Moms are like little worry factories. We worry all the time and we worry about everything. Me? I worried a crevice in my forehead so deep I had to clean it out with a Q-Tip every night. And then I worried that the baby would fish the Q-Tip out of the trash and eat it.

Ask any mom what her top three worries are and I bet she’ll rattle them off the top of her head without hesitation. Even if she’s 100 and her kids have kids who have their own forehead worry-ditches.

My Top Three were, are, and will always be choking, kidnapping, and the first day of school. If my child choked on the first day of school and then was kidnapped by fake ambulance drivers, my inner Liam Neeson would come bubbling up from my DNA and there would be some hell to pay.

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money. Seriously, I just spent $157 for notebook paper and mechanical pencils for my kids and 3-liters of hand sanitizer for the teacher. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills that I have acquired over a very long career of mothering three children. Not really all that long but it seems long.  Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. I can sew a Halloween costume while nursing a baby, I know all the words to every Nickelodeon show from 1988 through 1997, and I have an X-acto knife somewhere in my house, probably under the bathroom sink with the glitter and extra shoelaces. If you let my daughter go now that will be the end of it. I will not look for you. I will not pursue you. But if you don’t. I will look for you. I will find you. And I will make you fill out every form she brings home from school today. [Read more…] about A Mom’s Worries, Warts and All

Who Loves Food? We Do

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My sisters and I have a special relationship. We want what’s best for each other, we support and praise each others’ accomplishments, but at the end of the day, I would be fine if we were all happy Buddhas.

“Fat and sassy!” That’s what our mom used to say whenever anyone asked, “How are you, Lil?” Our mom was also an amazing cook. So no big surprise that when her daughters get together, there’s some appreciation of food involved.

The Sisters came to California last month and we all spent a week together, husbands and all, and food and drink took center stage. It was a week of cooking, eating, drinking, wine tasting, flipping through recipe books, and talking about our mom’s signature dishes. Some entire conversations were a round-robin of each of us taking turns saying “What are you getting?,” “Does anyone want a bite of this?” and “Remember that recipe for _____” and “Not to sit at one meal and talk about the next, but what are we doing for dinner/happy hour/breakfast/lunch?” [Read more…] about Who Loves Food? We Do

Two Non-Hikers Walk Into a Bar

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If two people are less worthy to go to a national park than my husband and me, I’d like to meet them. We would have to meet on a flat, paved surface within fifty yards of a margarita machine but I’d still want to see them for myself, face to face, because I doubt they exist.

We went to Yosemite last weekend and it was just an El Capitan-sized reminder that we don’t deserve nature. We don’t know the first thing about how to rough it. I’m surprised the ranger who took our entry fee didn’t add a surcharge for bringing down the overall level of outdoorsy-ness of one of the wonders of the world.

We are the first ones to order the large non-organic coffee with artificial flavors, the only ones without hand carved walking sticks and Crocodile Dundee hats, and the first ones to proclaim it’s five o’clock somewhere and hit the bar. [Read more…] about Two Non-Hikers Walk Into a Bar