It’s not often that I have the privilege of watching someone do the thing they were clearly born to do. While we all have our strengths and weaknesses, and I always advocate for trying new things and stretching our boundaries, there is something about watching a person so plainly in his element that just brings you joy. This happened to me on Wednesday night when I got to watch Chuck Berry play rock ‘n roll.

He is, by nearly all estimations, the inventor of rock ‘n roll. He was the first to cross elements of country music with the blues and refine them into what became rock ‘n roll. And, fittingly, he was the first inductee into the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame. Berry still plays one night a month at a bar a few miles from my house. GAP and I have been saying to each other for six or seven years: We really need to go see him while we still can. So this week, we did.

He is old now, having turned 84 on Monday. Given this, I expected to see a relic of a man seated in the center of the stage resting comfortably on his well-earned laurels, which would have been just fine. Before he came on a friend and I wondered aloud whether at 84 years old he would still get fired up to perform, or if these appearances are merely another in an interminably long string of days at the office. He answered our foolish question immediately.

He wore a red sequined shirt and a jaunty white cap. He stood the entire time. He danced a bit. He did the duck walk, for crying out loud! And he sang, and sang, and sang. The man has still got it! His eyes smiled the entire time. He beamed with pride as his son and daughter joined him onstage. (Talent did not skip a generation in this family.) And he wore that shirt, that hat, and several guitars as only a true rock star could.

Some people are blessed with a singular purpose in life. And sometimes we get to watch those people do that thing they were meant to do. I’ve watched Tiger Woods save par. I’ve watched Christopher Parkening play the guitar. I’ve watched Albert Pujols hit a home run. And now I’ve watched Chuck Berry play rock ‘n roll. These moments, when they come, crystallize in my mind and I know I’ll be able to recall them for the rest of my life. Talent like this has a way of packaging itself with a bow on top, so that you never lose sight of what a gift it truly is.

When I started this blog my intention was to explore ideas, to force myself to think about things more critically, and to challenge myself to be more observant of the world around me.  In pursuing that goal I have written a great deal about my response to various topics and experiences, but not very much about myself as a person. 

So, because today is my birthday, I thought it an opportune moment to give you a glimpse into some other, less cerebral, aspects of me.  I love reading these kinds of lists about other people, so I hope you will find this list interesting, and not utterly self-absorbed.  If you find it utterly self-absorbed please feel free to stop reading now and come back on Monday.  I take no offense. 

1. A lifetime reader of fiction, I have dedicated this entire year (with one exception) to reading nonfiction.
2. I will devote next year to reading literary classics that I’ve never read before.
3. From the time I graduated college until I got married I lived alone.  I loved it.  I wouldn’t trade my family for anything, but there are days when I truly miss the peace of living alone.
4. During my pregnancy I loved not knowing whether IEP was a boy or girl, but I get secretly annoyed when other people don’t find out. 
5. I love just about anything written by Aaron Sorkin.
6. My current favorite comfort food meal is a thick slice of rustic Italian bread toasted and topped with a big ladle-full of tomato sauce and a poached egg.  Just heaven.
7. Every Christmas I buy a tin of Williams-Sonoma’s Peppermint Bark and never finish it.
8. Sundays are my best days.  I start the day with a 4.5 mile run.  Then we go to church.  Then I volunteer at the hospital for three hours.  Then IEP and I go run errands and get ready for the week.  By the end of the day I feel like I’m the best possible version of myself. 
9. My favorite authors are Barbara Kingsolver, John Steinbeck, and Malcolm Gladwell. 
10. When I was 26 I traveled to China for business and was taken out for Peking Duck.  I was served an entire dish of duck tongues (thankfully flavored heavily with garlic) and had to eat them lest I insult my host.  They were chewy and slippery and awful, just as you’d expect duck tongues to be.
11. Growing up I always thought I wanted to have two kids, but after marrying my husband (oldest of six) I’ve come to also want a large(ish) family. 
12. My favorite book is Gone with the Wind.  Despite what people may think, it was not the genesis of chick lit.  It is a massive American saga that just happens to have a female protagonist.  I am a bit militant about this point, but don’t talk about it often because very few of my contemporaries have actually read it I just end up sounding like a shrew. 
13. During the 13 months that I nursed IEP I out-ate my husband every single day.  When I finally weaned IEP I was sad not to nurse anymore, but mostly sad not to be able to eat 3,000 calories a day. 
14. I was president of my sorority in college.  It was not a particularly good experience and given the option to do it again I would decline it.
15. If I could make any physical changes to myself I would make my hair thicker and my left foot the same size as my right foot.  (The left is slightly larger.)
16. I am freakishly ticklish.
17. I dream of living in New York, but fear that if/when that ever happens it won’t live up to my expectations.
18. I deplore condescension and false humility.
19. My dogs shed constantly.  I have to sweep my house three or four times a week.
20. I sometimes worry that I come across as too serious on this blog.
21. I love going to movies alone.  Except that I have to be very strategic about soda consumption because you can’t leave your purse/coat on your seat if you need to go to the bathroom. 
22. I try to exercise four days a week.  I am successful about 75% of the time. 
23. In 2006 GAP and I went to Italy for two weeks.  It was the best vacation either of us has ever taken. 
24. I don’t bite my nails but I do bite my cuticles.  I’ve tried to stop since junior high.  I have failed every time.
25. You could not begin to count the freckles on my face.  There must be hundreds.  I never outgrew them.  I actually hardly even notice them, but I know I’d be heartbroken if they ever faded away.
26. I hate the way Terry Gross on NPR says, “Fresh Air” as though the title of her show were divinely inspired.  But I love the show. 
27. I have iPhone envy.  My company-issued cell phone is a BlackBerry with the text messaging functionality disabled.  I hate it.  I could get my own personal iPhone, but I’m convinced that carrying two phones would be more annoying than carrying one crappy phone.  So I just live with the BlackBerry and try to curb my complaining. 
28. I love playing the game with people where they have to identify the five books and five movies they would take to a desert island.  I think you can actually learn quite a bit about people that way.
29. If I could have any superpower it would be time travel.  I wish I could hopscotch around different eras and see what life was like in those times.  (Perhaps strangely, I’m only curious about the past.  I have no interest in glimpsing the future.)
30. I don’t drink beer.  I just don’t like the way it tastes.  Spicy, big-bodied red wines, on the other hand…
31. In the world of fast food I think that Burger King has the best burgers, McDonald’s has the best fries, and Wendy’s has the best shakes.  Once during maternity leave I was craving junk food and attempted to create the perfect fast food meal by driving to an intersection that had all three restaurants.  I bought the respective “best” item from each place and drove home to eat them all together.  It did not live up to my expectations, but now I never have to go to that trouble again because I know it’s not really worth it. 
32. I love our nanny more than I ever dreamed I could.  She has become an integral part of our family and I’m so thankful to have her helping raise our son. 
33. Is the number of years old I am today.

In honor of Eat, Pray, Love having come out this past weekend, and because this kind of content is right up the alley of those of us who have a passion for writing, today I am offering up Liz Gilbert’s TED talk from 2009.  I first saw it sometime last year, but it sprang to mind again in the wake of all the movie publicity. 

Gilbert speaks so eloquently herself that I won’t elaborate further (besides, my grey matter is still a bit mushy from all the discussion on Friday) except to say that whatever your creative process is, embrace it.  It is no weirder than any of the other artists’ processes that she cites.  Nor is it more banal than Gilbert’s own work-a-day process.  It is yours, so own it and use it. 

PS - Sorry I wasn’t able to embed the video.  Apparently I don’t have the correct WordPress plugin.  Will have to look into that.  You should be able to reach the video from the link above without any trouble.

So far this week I’ve regaled you with my affections for scalloped tomatoes (yes, I made my fourth batch in two weeks on Wednesday night) and TV reruns.  I’ve also discovered that these two things are made even better when enjoyed at the same time – you really should try it.  Perhaps tonight while GAP is out at a business dinner I will really gild the lily and add this third component to the mix for a moment of perfect Gale bliss.

The nightgown.  I hadn’t worn one since I was at least eight years old.  In my mind they were either stuffy, puritan affairs or tiny and tawdry.  For years, unaware that there was any kind of middle ground, I opted for two-piece pajamas.  Some of them were darling matched sets.  But many others were shameful combinations of old t-shirts and boxer shorts.  Not so pretty.

Further, as a matter of practicality, I frequently got into fights with my pajama bottoms in the middle of the night.  I would roll.  They would twist.  I would right them.  They would twist again.  It was an ongoing, maddening battle that I resented for interrupting my precious REM cycles (or something, I really don’t know anything about sleep biology).    

So, recently I decided it was time for a bit of overhaul in the sleepwear department.  Time to bring the words beauty sleep to life.  Time to end the day wearing something that would see me through to morning without incident. 

Enter: the nightgown.  (Actually, nightgowns. Plural.)

They are flirty and feminine without being racy or raunchy.  Sweet but not twee.  Delicate but not dainty.  They make me feel like a lady, which is a lovely way to feel, especially at the end of a long day.  They make me brush my hair one last time before getting into bed.  I’ve even reintroduced two long-forsaken skincare steps (toner and eye cream) back into my nightly toilette. 

And nightgowns are comfortable – oh so comfortable.  They don’t spiral around me and wake me up.  The cotton is soft and breezy.  They are cool on warm summer nights.  Perhaps it is psychosomatic, but I sleep so much better in nightgowns than pajamas.  If sleep like this means mental trickery, sign me up.  I’m game.   

A good night’s sleep really isn’t such a little thing.  It should be.  It should be easy.  Sleep is delicious, and healthy, and free.  We should be tired when we go to bed and rested when we wake in the morning.  Sleep should be the easiest decision we make all day, yet so many of us get so little of it. 

Nightgowns, like all of the little things I’ve written about this week, add up to something bigger.  A perfect simple supper is comforting and nourishing and whole.  Our favorite reruns on television bring a combination of pleasant surprise and predictable calm.  And a nightgown helps us log the eight or nine hours of uninterrupted sleep that help us feel (if not actually become) really on top of things.

These little things are small on their own.  But they extrapolate out to much greater levels of meaning.  This is why the idea of “the little things” is such a cliché.  There is truth in it that we can’t afford to overlook.

PS – As I contemplated my posts this week there were several other little things that I considered: good pens, text messaging, going to movies alone, Zappos.com, and countless others.  Our lives are full of little things that we neglect to consider very often.

I’m dedicating this week’s posts to some of life’s simplest pleasures.  Ten Dollar Thoughts are great, but sometimes it’s nice to scale back.  For Monday’s installment, click here.

I realize I dealt them a glancing blow last Friday, but as I began thinking about my favorite simple pleasures I realized that TV reruns actually make the cut. 

Unless you’re watching Entourage or Mad Men, just about all television shows are in reruns right now.  Most people lament this period of TV drought, and eagerly await the start of the new season late next month.  But I secretly love reruns.  Why?  I’m so glad you asked.

I love the pleasant surprise of a great rerun.  You turn on your TV unsure of whether or not there will be anything decent to watch.  You could easily be condemned to bad TV movies or some Marie Osmond infomercial.  But instead you find the episode of Friends where Monica and Rachel gamble (and lose) their apartment; or the episode of The West Wing where Sam and Toby have to bail a Supreme Court nominee out of jail; or the episode of Seinfeld with the low water pressure.  Moments like these are akin to bumping into your best friend from college whom you adore, but haven’t seen in ages.  You want nothing more than to settle in and hear all about what she’s been up to.

I also love the familiar terrain of a rerun.  You’ve been there before and you know what’s going to happen.  You know when the best scene is coming up and whether or not you should wait to go to the bathroom.  Not only that, but the anticipation of knowing what comes next can almost make the moment sweeter.  You know that Kramer is going to fly through the door wearing, “nothing but a thin layer of gabardine,” and you get your laugh all ready to go because you’re going to need it. 

There’s something casual about old shows.  You probably didn’t plan to watch them.  You’re probably doing something else at the same time.  They don’t command your full attention, but they may make paying bills, peeling carrots, or brushing dogs a little more entertaining.  Much like hearing your favorite song on the radio, you never know when you’ll come across one, but you always know it will be a welcome addition to your day.

On Friday I posted a little list of things we can do (actually do) to improve ourselves and the world around us.  It felt good to dedicate a post to small tangible things, after focusing for more than six months on abstract and sometimes complicated thoughts.  Over the weekend I thought (ironic, I realize) more about some of the small and simple things in life and this week I’m dedicating my posts to the topic of little things that make a big difference. 

We didn’t have plans for Friday night.  It had been a long and draining week for me and I wasn’t really up for cooking dinner.  GAP and I had the pizza vs. leftovers debate and opted for leftovers.  This was really a decision that we backed into; he’d eaten a big lunch and wasn’t very hungry and I wasn’t especially in the mood for pizza.  It turned out to be the best accidental decision of my week. 

Recently my favorite food blogger (Deb at Smitten Kitchen) posted this recipe for scalloped tomatoes.  It’s the kind of dish I would have reluctantly choked down at my mother’s insistence as a child.  But as an adult it is some kind of magic to me.  The way the tomatoes break down in the pan.  The way they sweeten and caramelize with heat.  The way the crusty bread soaks up their juices and becomes something completely new.  And the way the whole affair becomes the ideal platform for a poached egg, as Deb suggests.    

Lately I’ve been making about a batch of this delicious mess each week.  I portion it out into plastic containers and take it to work for lunch.  Or, as was the case on Friday, I spoon it into a bowl and curl up on the couch with it.  It is not pretty, but for me it is perfect.  In this world of garnishes and flair and finishing touches (both culinary and otherwise) I love this meal which doesn’t try to be anything it’s not.  It doesn’t call for a sprig of fresh basil on each serving.  Nor does it request to be baked in individual dishes for a lovelier presentation (transferring giant scoops from baking dish to plate or bowl does nothing for the aesthetics of this dish).  It is cheap and easy to make – not the kind of thing you’d serve to company, to be sure.  If it were served to you in a restaurant you might send it back on looks alone.  But when the fork hits your mouth you sort of hunker down in your seat and hunch protectively over your food.

Simply put, this dish makes me happy.  Really, really happy.  And on Friday night I actually identified with it in some way.  I sat at home when many adults were out.  My makeup was smudged and my energy flagged.  I felt crumpled and bruised.  Yet when I looked down at my simple supper I was comforted.  Perhaps this is a big metaphor to ask of a leftover bowl of scalloped tomatoes.  But I liked knowing that something so utterly lacking in pretense could pack such a delicious punch.  I will not start this week with smudged makeup or mussed up hair.  Nevertheless, it’s comforting to think that even if I did that might still be okay.

There are these things that make me happy.

Like these guys, one so much larger and the other so much smaller than I, and yet we all fit together perfectly.

Like this rainbow, which glistened in the sky after buckets of rain fell on us one evening last week.

Like these ever-shedding dogs, whose kisses are sloppy, whose smiles are genuine, and whose love is unconditional.

And like this tiny blond curl, which bends up over the edge of his perky red cap and makes me melt just a little bit.

It was not two weeks ago that I got up on my soapbox and said that we shouldn’t judge.  Oh, what a hypocrite I am today.

I suppose, as is the case with many rules, there is an exception to this one.  I was right; we shouldn’t judge… each other.  (Sure, celebrities are people too.  And Jennifer Garner shouldn’t be subjected to the castigating daggers of Perez Hilton and other blights on humanity every time she wants to take her little girls to the playground.  (Luckily for her she has stunning bone structure.))  But the exception clause to the “don’t judge” rule most certainly applies to that once-a-year judge-fest that we like to call The Oscars. 

Like the willowy celebs themselves, my position stands on two legs.

First, the whole event is about judgment.  Scores of people voted on which movie, actor, actress, director, sound editor, best boy grip, and craft services vendor was THE BEST.  So it’s not like they’ve gathered together for a group hug and Honorable Mention trophies.  There are winners and losers on Oscar night.  The participants are prepared for this.

Secondly, they’re prepared for this.  There are days when celebrities try to masquerade as normal people, and this is not one of them.  This isn’t grabbing lunch with a girlfriend or coffee after yoga class.  This isn’t picking kids up from school, clothes up from the drycleaner, or the dog up from the groomer.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but this is the single biggest red carpet event in the world.  Basically what I’m saying here is: these people know exactly what they’re walking into. 

They know full well that Joan Rivers, Steven Cojocaru, Giuliana Rancic, and the incomparable (I kid!) Billy Bush will harpoon their every sartorial misstep over glasses of bubbly the next day (while secretly toasting a society that cares enough about this stuff to permit their making a living by doing what amounts to a cross between prom-night gossip and Monday-morning quarterbacking).  The celebs know this is coming.  They’re ready.  They’re armored in Vera Wang, Harry Winston, and Christian Louboutin.  They’ve brought their A game.  (Unless, of course, they’re Bjork.)

And this is why on Oscar night I quite shamelessly take the low road.  Like my sister, I take superficial pleasure in Oscar night.  I comment on whose attempt at reinterpreting “flapper chic” works, and whose doesn’t; whose cleavage is perfect and whose is gratuitous; who achieves something altogether otherworldly, and who looks like a hot mess.  I make note of which acceptance speeches are witty or touching, and which are self-serving and filled with drivel.  And most importantly, I place about 378 phone calls to my sister so that we can emulate the banter we shared as teenagers, huddled up with popcorn in the den of our childhood home.

I will concede that Oscar night doesn’t necessarily bring out the best in me.  Quite frankly, my time could be better spent.  I could read thought-provoking literature or engage in challenging conversation.  But as Aidan so aptly pointed out earlier this week, we need some time in the shallow end of the pool.  We need the freedom to cast aside our fractured thoughts and pondering questions.  We need the silly and the playful as an antidote to the serious and the solemn. 

For me the Oscars are one such antidote, and I’m waiting eagerly for their red carpet arrival this weekend.

Because a couple of people have asked for a follow-up; and because I am enjoying a pleasant and quiet afternoon while IEP naps and GAP attends Mardi Gras festivities; and because it was so much fun to begin with, I am adding a bonus post today.  This is not of my typical ten-dollar variety.  It is just for fun and because I want to.  (Look at me breaking my own M-W-F posting rules!)

So, last night was wonderful.  I arrived at the theatre a bit early, having hit all green lights en route (must have been a good omen!).  When Robert arrived he opened his arms wide to offer me a big hug, and we then collected our pre-purchased tickets from the kiosk.  We debated on soda size and popcorn size.  I confessed my movie-theatre-exclusive addiction to Milk Duds.  Robert showed me his personal technique for evenly distributing butter amongst the lower layers of popcorn.  And we made our way into “theatre number seven on your right.” 

We elbowed our way through all the lovebirds to perfect seats in the first row of the stadium section of the theatre; built-in footrest for me and larger-than-life views of Jessica Biel for Robert.  With about 15 minutes before show time we chatted.  Blackberry vs. iPhone?  Should Robert get a new car, and if so which model?  Cast as a sports agent in this movie would Jessica Biel be even hotter than usual?  And sundry other topics.  It was fun sitting there with my friend, no romantic pretexts, chatting about odds and ends and laughing intermittently.

The movie was… better than I expected.  Granted, my expectations were low.  I thought last year’s Valentine’s Day, ensemble-cast flick He’s Just Not That Into You was depressing, tried too hard, didn’t flow, and generally, um, er, sucked.  So I wasn’t about to walk into disappointment unprepared again.  And yet… the star wattage wasn’t too distracting.  The plot, while wholly predictable was still enjoyable.  The dialogue contained a few dud lines, but not too many.  Several scenes were genuinely funny.  Bradley Cooper was hot.  Oh, and so was Jessica Biel.  Everybody wins!  I thought the whole thing was a lot of fun and I’m very glad I went.

The whole evening was further evidence that my mother’s theory on relationships holds true.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

Like most people, during my childhood I didn’t fully appreciate the wisdom my mother had to offer.  I was quite confident that the thirty years that transpired between her childhood and mine had seen the world change in sizeable enough ways that she could not possibly relate to my tortured adolescent soul.  In retrospect I realize that… I was wrong.

This is a week ripe with advice from my mother.  On Wednesday I told you about her philosophies on trying new foods (which I conveniently extrapolated out to an application to life in general).  Today I bring you her philosophy on relationships.  That philosophy is:

We have different people in our lives for different reasons.  No single person can fulfill all your needs.

She went on to explain to teen-aged me that we are multi-faceted.  We are complex.  We are nuanced.  And we change over time.  It is unrealistic and unfair to expect that any single person would fulfill all of our emotional and companionship needs.

Most of us live this philosophy out on a daily basis without thinking about it.  If I need career advice I go to GAP or my girlfriends from business school.  If I need recipe recommendations I go to my mother, sister, or Aunt B.  If I have parenting questions I go to my group of mommy friends (coincidentally also the MBA friends – we are smart mommies).  If I’m feeling overwhelmed and need perspective and objectivity, I go to my father.  If I need a laugh, or affirmation, or to be challenged I go to GAP.  And if I need to see an unapologetically overcast romantic comedy on opening night, I have someone for that too.

Tonight, which is for much of the world behaving as Valentine’s Day, I have a date.  But it is not with GAP.  GAP has a date with IEP wherein they will stay at home, babble loudly at each other, wrestle on the bed, make big splashes in the bath, and read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? for the 478^th time.  They are both quite jazzed about the whole affair.

My date, on the other hand, is with our friend Robert (not his real name).  Robert loves a good romantic comedy.  Robert loves seeing movies on opening night.  And Robert LOVES anything featuring Jessica Biel.  Tonight’s date was meant to be. 

I am excited for this date for a number of reasons.  I am excited that I don’t have to drag GAP to a movie that does not interest him whatsoever (and then listen to him chortle sarcastically at what I’m certain will be a silly plot with even sillier dialogue).  I am excited for a big fountain Coke and box of Milk Duds.  I am excited to hang out with Robert, who is fun and funny and one of my favorite buddies.  I am excited that I don’t have to go alone.  (Going to movies alone is a wonderful experience.  But seeing “Valentine’s Day” alone is too much, even for me.)  I am excited to be doing something fun and festive on a Friday night.  And perhaps most importantly, I am excited that GAP and I are confident enough in each other and comfortable enough in our marriage that we are happy to see each other’s needs met fully, even when we are not the ones to meet them.

On Saturday night GAP and I will have our own Valentine’s Day celebration.  The tentative plan is to dust off the fondue pot that we purchased years ago and have used roughly twice.  We will sip red wine.  We will talk about books and politics and upcoming travel plans.  We will pop in a movie.  And we will curl up on the couch and feel happy to be at home together on a cold winter night.

I am not typically a big fan of Valentine’s Day.  But this year I’m quite looking forward to it.  I have two dates with two people who serve completely different purposes in my life.  It is a blessing and relief to have multiple Valentines.