Cindy's Chronicles

My life, in various nutshells

Do the Thing!

“You still have time.”

“Life is too short.”

“There’s no rush.”

“Time flies!”

These are all sayings you hear at some point or another, but they contradict themselves. It’s hard to know which is the best way to live your life.  Should we seize the moment, or should we savor it?

I’ve been trying to do a mixture of both. In general, I think that’s probably the best way to live. You can’t just go, go, go without taking some time to smell the flowers or else you’ll go nuts.

Last week I made two big decisions that I had been mulling over for a while and I finally just went for it: I opened my own side business and I also started a brand new writing venture. Both decisions are already affecting my life on a daily basis, but I’m feeling happy and fulfilled outside of work for the first time in a long time.

However, I’m already noticing that it’s taking me longer to fall asleep due to a brain full of ideas that doesn’t want to stop just because it’s bedtime.  So I’m conscious of the fact that while I’m riding this entrepreneurial high, I need to make sure I don’t overdo it. I need to slow down or else I’ll make a mistake.

As I’m seizing the moment, I keep in mind my WHY, and a major reason is because I truly enjoy what I’m doing. But because I enjoy it is exactly why I should savor the moment, too.

I guess my message is this:

Do the thing. Do all the things. But take it easy. Slow and steady wins the race, after all.







More Than Just The Soup

This weekend, I made chicken soup for the very first time. I can’t tell you how accomplished I feel! It’s sad, I know, that up until now I’ve leaned on the support of Chef Campbell’s “Just add 1 can of water”, but there was something daunting about this soup that wouldn’t let me attempt to make it. That’s how bad it was. I had never even tried.

Truth be told, I’m not the best cook in the world. My meals are certainly edible, and I do have one and a half dishes that have become my go-to potluck contributions (in case you’re curious: stuffed shells and guacamole).  But experience has taught me that my chances of success at a new recipe are about 40%, so the odds are stacked against me from the start.

However, my aversion was about more than just the soup.  Somewhere, somehow, as the years passed, chicken soup had become the Holy Grail. It became a symbol of survival, adulthood, and parenthood, all mixed into one.

I had already proved that I could survive off of Campbell’s soup, and eating that rather than trying to make it myself was my own adult decision to make. But as I get older and closer to the possibility of having kids, I know that I do NOT want to give my kids soup out of a can when they’re sick. The difference in how much better I feel after eating my mom’s home-made soup versus the canned stuff is undeniable. And that feeling of security that it brings, of knowing that my mom is capable of healing me through any sickness I may have – that’s what I want my kids to feel, too.

So when my husband came home early from work on Friday because he was sick, something clicked in me, like a switch. I don’t know why this was suddenly the moment, because it’s not like he’d never been sick before.  He wasn’t even extra sick, either. But apparently the time had come for me to put my big girl panties on.

One phone call later, I had the recipe. It had been dictated to me so many times over the years, but this time I actually paid attention! Despite a minor hiccup from adding too much water, which was quickly remedied by some cubitos Maggi, I succeeded in making a batch of perfectly edible chicken soup, complete with all its healing properties. My husband is better now and while I know time and medicine had a lot to do with it, I can finally say that I, this capable adult right here, made an important contribution as well!


A Spider Tale

I step out into the painfully cold night to walk my dog. The moon has made a rare appearance tonight, deciding to shed its cloudy burka and bare it all. As I walk down the corridor and down the steps, the air seems to punish me for daring to disturb it. I hide my free hand in my coat pocket, bury my face in my scarf, and try to breathe in through the soft wool.

This weather is too cold for me. It’s unpleasant. At least all the spiders are gone. Except for the one who has claimed my apartment as its hibernation pad for the winter. Curled up into a little ball, trying to pass for a speck of dust in the crease where my ceiling meets the wall. I see you, Mr. Spider. As long as you stay in that exact spot, you’ll be allowed to live. Rent-free. You see? I’m not totally evil. I can be compassionate towards a free-loading spider.spider

Since moving here, I’ve learned to tolerate their long-legged existence, as long as they don’t bother me. We’ve had a couple of different tenants in the past year and a half. Last summer, we were the lucky landlords to Hank, a robust healthy-looking spider whose magnificent web stretched from my balcony rail to the ceiling.  Hank being our first tenant, we were inexperienced in the persistence of spiders. No matter how many times we tried to evict him by wrecking his web, the next day he was back, having reconstructed his home overnight. He was replaced this summer by Marty, a tiny spider whose permanent residence was the top right corner of my front doorway. As we passed in and out of the apartment, we were not disturbed by his presence, and he didn’t seem bothered by us either. As the warm weather continued, we met his neighbors. Every door on our floor was decorated with a web at its corner. Apparently, top corner residences were all the rage, and there were no vacancies this summer, as far as I could see.

I imagined them calling to each other during the day, like senior citizens, hard of hearing and senile.

“Hey, Marty! Wanna come over for Bingo Saturday night?”


“Bingo! This Saturday!”

“Today’s Saturday??”

Maybe it was just Marty who was old and senile.

Marty seems to be away at his vacation home right now, because he’s left his web completely unattended for the winter. His web is hanging on by a thread (pun intended), and while I may be his landlady, I am no contractor. He’ll have to do some major renovations when he gets back.

In the meantime, there’s Dusty, up on the ceiling. Yes, I’ve named him. Might as well. The winter is long, the nights are cold, and the spiders are few. I guess he can stay.

Right. There.


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