Claire Cook's Blog, page 7

Our Constant Friends

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“In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.”― Okakura Kakuzo

This is an African iris, also called a fortnight lily, blooming in my little garden. I’d never seen one before moving here. They grow everywhere on St. Simons Island, and their carefree beauty always makes me smile.

Stay well, everybody.

xxxxxClaire

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which is now a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com/read.

The post Our Constant Friends appeared first on Claire Cook.

Nature

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“Nature
always wears the colors of the spirit.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson

The post Nature appeared first on Claire Cook.

Social Distancing, Wood Stork Style

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I know everybody isn’t able to get outside safely right now, so I thought I’d share this photo of my wood stork walking buddy at the edge of the marsh. Wood storks are huge, with long legs, pink feet and bare, scaly heads, and they look almost prehistoric. This one was perfectly fine with me walking near her, as long as I didn’t get too close. Social distancing, wood stork style!

Stay safe, everybody.

xxxxxClaire

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which is now a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com/read.

The post Social Distancing, Wood Stork Style appeared first on Claire Cook.

Looking for a good book?

Just in case you’re curled up at home and looking for something to read, here’s an excerpt of The Wildwater Walking Club for you.

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Excerpted from The Wildwater Walking Club
© Claire Cook. All rights reserved.

Day 1

132 steps

On the day I became redundant, I began to walk. Okay, not right away. First I lay in bed and savored the sound of the alarm not going off. I’d been hearing that stupid beep at the same ridiculous time pretty much every weekday morning for the entire eighteen years I’d worked at Balancing Act Shoes.

I stretched decadently and let out a loud, self-indulgent sigh. I pictured the zillion-count Egyptian cotton sheets I’d finally get around to buying. I’d pull them up to my chin to create a cozy cocoon, then wiggle down into the feather bed I’d buy, too, a big, fluffy one made with feathers from wildly exotic free-range birds.

I’d once had a pair of peacock earrings that came with a note saying, “Since peacocks lose their feathers naturally, no peacocks were harmed in the making of these earrings.” I’d always meant to look that up to see if it was a marketing ploy or if it was actually true. If so, then maybe I could find a peacock feather comforter. Though I suppose what would be the point of using peacock feathers in a comforter if you couldn’t see them? Perhaps I could invent a see-through comforter that let the iridescent blues and greens shimmer through. Though I guess first I’d need to come up with a zillion-count see-through Egyptian cotton.

I closed my eyes. I flipped over onto my back and opened them again. I stared up at a serious crack, which I liked to think of as the Mason-Dixon Line of my ceiling. My seventh-grade history teacher would be proud she’d made that one stick.

I rolled over, then back again. I kicked off my ordinary covers. On the first morning I could finally sleep in, I seemed to be more awake than I’d been at this hour in decades. Go figure.

After a long, leisurely shower, a bowl of cereal, and an online check of the news and weather, I called Michael on his cell at 8:45 A.M. It rang twice, then cut off abruptly without going to voice mail.

So I sent him an e-mail. “Call me when you can,” it said.

A nanosecond later my e-mail bounced back. “Returned Mail: Permanent Fatal Errors,” it said.

I dialed his office number. At least that voice mail picked up. “Hi, it’s me,” I said. “I seem to be having technical difficulties reaching you. But the good news is I have all the time in the world now. Anyway, call me when you get this.” I laughed what I hoped was the perfect laugh, light and sexy. “Unless, of course, you’re trying to get rid of me.”

By 11 A.M., I’d watched enough morning TV to last me a lifetime, and I still hadn’t heard back from him. I tried to remember if we had specific plans for that night. Michael worked for the buyout company, Olympus, so we’d had to keep things on the down low. I mean, it wasn’t that big a deal. I was leaving anyway, and he’d be right behind me, so it was just a matter of time.

After the initial army of auditors had stopped acting like nothing was going on, when everybody with half a brain knew something was obviously up at Balancing Act, Michael had been one of the first Olympus managers to come aboard. He was handsome, but not too, and exactly my age, which gave us an immediate bond in an industry that more and more was comprised of iPod-wearing recent college grads. Some of them had become friends, at least work friends, but they were still essentially children.

Michael and I had commonality, both current and past. I was a Senior Manager of Brand Identity for Balancing Act. He was a Senior Brand Communications Manager for Olympus. Potato, potahto. The athletic shoe industry is market-driven rather than product-driven, which means, basically, that even though we don’t actually need a two-hundred-dollar pair of sneakers, we can be convinced that we do. Fads can be created, predicted, or at least quickly reacted to, and in a nutshell, that’s how Michael and I both spent our days.

But even more important, we’d both danced to Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” gotten high to the Eagles’ “Witchy Woman,” made love to “Sweet Baby James” back when James Taylor had hair. Maybe not with each other, but still, we had the generational connection of parallel experiences, coupled with your basic boomer’s urge to do something new, fast, while there was still time.

One of the first things he said to me was, “It’s business, baby.”

We were sitting in the employee cafeteria, and I felt a little jolt when he called me baby. He had rich chocolate eyes and a full head of shiny brown hair without a strand of gray, which meant he probably dyed it, but who was I to talk.

“Of course, it’s business,” I said. I gave my own recently camouflaged hair a little flip and added, “Baby.”

He laughed. He had gorgeous white teeth, probably veneers, but so what.

“What’s your off-the-record recommendation?” I asked.

He leaned forward over the button-shaped table that separated us, and the arms of his suit jacket gripped his biceps. I caught the sharp, spicy smell of his cologne. Some kind of citrus and maybe a hint of sandalwood, but also something retro. Patchouli?

“The first deal,” he said, “is always the best.”

“So grab the VRIF and run?” I asked, partly to show off my new vocabulary. Balancing Act employees, even senior managers like me, didn’t find out we’d become the latest Olympus acquisition until the day it went public. Since then, the buzz had been that the way to go was to take your package during the VRIF or Voluntary Reductions in Force phase. Olympus was all about looking for redundancies and establishing synergies, code for getting rid of the departments that overlapped.

Right now, the packages were pretty generous. I could coast along for eighteen months at full base salary, plus medical and dental. They were even throwing in outplacement services to help me figure out what to do with the rest of my life. The only thing missing was a grief counselor. And maybe a good masseuse. By the time we got to the Involuntary Reductions in Force phase, aka the IRIF, who knew what I’d be looking at.

Michael glanced over his shoulder, then back into my eyes. “Here’s the thing, Noreen. Or do you prefer Nora?”

“Nora,” I said, even though no one had ever called me that until this very moment. I’d been called Nor, Norry, Reeny, Beany, NoreanyBeany, even StringBeany, though I had to admit that one was a few years and pounds ago. Mostly it was just plain Noreen. Michael’s baby reeled me in, but I swallowed his Nora hook, line, and sinker.

I forced myself to focus. “Wall Street,” he was saying, “will expect some performance from the synergy created by combining companies. The way to get performance is to streamline numbers, to create efficiencies. Human resources, finance, operations, marketing—lots of overlap. Ergo…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Ergo?” I teased.

He raised his eyebrow to match mine, and even though it would be another two weeks before we ended up in bed together, I think we both knew right then it was only a matter of time.

I leaned my elbows on the table. “So, what?” I said. “I leave so you can have my job?”

“Off the record,” he said, “I’ll probably be right behind you. I mean, take my job, please. You’d be doing me a favor. I’m just waiting till they offer the VRIF package to the Olympus employees they’ve brought in.”

“Seriously?” I said. “You really think you’ll take it? And do what?”

He laced his fingers together behind his head and arched back in his chair. “Let’s see. First off, I think I’d light a bonfire and burn up all my suits and ties. Then I’d chill for a while. Maybe buy a van, find me a good woman, drive cross-country.” He smiled. “Then look around for a partner, someone to start a small business with.”

At eleven-thirty, I called Michael’s cell again. The second ring cut off midway, once more without going to voice mail. I waited, then pushed Redial. This time it cut off almost as soon as it started ringing. I sent another e-mail. It bounced back with the same fatal message. I called his office number, but when that voice mail picked up, I just hung up.

I was seriously creeped out by now. I thought about calling someone else at work to see if maybe there was a logical explanation, like everybody in the whole building was having both cell service and mail server problems, but I couldn’t seem to make myself do it.

I thought some more, then threw on a pair of slimming black pants and a coral V-neck top over a lightly padded, modified push-up bra pitched as a cutting-edge scientific undergarment breakthrough in subtle enhancement. A little figure-flattering never hurt, even if it was hyperbole, and if nothing else, the coral worked well with my pale skin and dark hair. The last time I’d worn it, Michael had said I looked hot. Smoking hot, come to think of it, though that was probably an overstatement, too.

The midday drive into Boston was a lot shorter without the commuter congestion. Who knew that unemployment would be the best way to beat the traffic? Still, I had plenty of time to get a plan. I’d simply pretend I’d left one of my favorite sweaters behind and wanted to grab it before someone ran off with it. And I was in the neighborhood anyway because I was meeting a friend for lunch. And I just thought I’d poke my head in and say Hi, Michael. And he’d say he was just thinking about me, trying to remember if we had plans for dinner. I’d tilt my head and tell him if he was lucky, maybe I’d even consider cooking for him. And he’d smile and make a crack about maybe it would be safer to get takeout.

The main lot was packed, but eventually I found a parking spot. I reached into my glove compartment for the lanyard that held my employee badge, slipped it over my head, and made for the front entrance.

When the revolving door spilled me out into the lobby, I held up my badge for the uniformed guard.

He waved his handheld scanner over the laminated bar code like a wand.

I headed for the elevators, the way I had a million times before.

“Ma’am?” he said.

I turned. He held up his scanner. I held out my badge again.

This time I watched. When the laser light hit the bar code, it flashed red instead of the customary green.

We looked at each other. This was the grouchy guard, the one who never said a word and always looked like he wished he were anywhere but here. I found myself wishing I’d tried a little harder to befriend him.

I laughed. “Well, I guess it didn’t take them long to get over me.” I gave my hair a toss. “Lucky me, I took a buyout. I just need a minute to run up and grab something I forgot.” He didn’t say anything, so I added, “A sweater. A cardigan. Black, with some nice seaming around the buttons. I’ll be back before you even start to miss me.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you do that. Orders.”

I blew out a gust of air. “Just call up,” I said. “Sixth floor.” I held out my card again so he could read my name.

He ran his finger down a list on a clipboard. “Sorry, ma’am. You’re on the No Admittance List.”

“You’re not serious,” I said, though it was pretty obvious that he was.

I waited. He looked up again. I met his eyes and couldn’t find even a trace of sympathy in them, so I tried to look extra pathetic, which by that point I didn’t really even have to fake.

“Maybe you can call somebody and ask them to bring it down,” he said finally. “On your cell phone,” he added.

“Unbelievable,” I said. I stomped across the lobby so I could have some privacy. Since I hadn’t really left a sweater behind, I decided to just cut to the chase and call Michael’s cell. Half a ring and it went dead.

There is always that exact moment when the last shreds of denial slip away and your reality check bounces. I closed my eyes. Eventually, I opened them again. I called his office number. “You piece of shit,” I whispered to his voice mail.

I stood there for a minute, scratching my scalp with both hands. Hard, as if I might somehow dig my way to a good idea. When that didn’t happen, I walked out, without even a glance at the guard. I kept my head up high as I walked across the parking lot, in case someone was watching from one of the windows. I found my car and climbed back into it.

Just as I was getting ready to pull out onto the access road, I caught the purple-and-white-striped Balancing Act Employee Store awning out of the corner of my eye. I banged a right and pulled into a parking space right in front of it.

I stopped at the first circular display I came to and grabbed a pair of our, I mean their, newest shoe, the Walk On By, in a size 8 1/2. It was strictly a women’s model, positioned as the shoe every woman needed to walk herself away from the things that were holding her back and toward the next exciting phase of her life. Shed the Outgrown. Embrace Your Next Horizon. Walk On By.

Even though I’d been part of the team to fabricate this hook out of thin air, I still wanted to believe in the possibility. I handed the box to the woman at the register. I held up my badge. I held my breath.

Her scanner flashed green, and she rattled off a price that was a full 50 percent off retail.

“Wait,” I said. I ran back to the display, grabbing all the Walk On Bys in my size. Then I sprinted around the room, scooping up whatever I could find in an 81/2. Dream Walker. (You’ll Swear You’re Walking on Clouds.) Step Litely. (Do These Sneakers Make Me Look Thin?) Feng Shuoe. (New Sneakers for a New Age.) I didn’t stop until I’d built a tower of shoe boxes on the counter.

“Take a buyout?” the woman asked as she rang me up.

I nodded.

I gave her my credit card, and she handed me a bright purple pedometer. “On the house,” she said. “It’s the least Balancing Act can do for you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hooked it onto my waistband, and that’s when I started to walk.

Day 2

54 steps

UGH.

Day 3

28 steps

So this is rock bottom.

Day 4

17 steps

No, this is.

. . . . .

If you’d like to keep reading, you can buy The Wildwater Walking Club at these links:
Paperback: http://amzn.to/28Z2IP0
Kindle: http://amzn.to/2kIbN4K
Nook: http://bit.ly/1F4K7gy
Apple: http://apple.co/2qqhqZg
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2pyxms6
GooglePlay: http://bit.ly/2pabp0Y

Happy reading! Talk to you soon!

xxxxxClaire

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which is now a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com/read.

The post Looking for a good book? appeared first on Claire Cook.

And the MLD Hearts & Barks winner is

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I’m so happy to announce the three winners of the Valentine’s Day Giveaway! The three newsletter subscribers who will each received a signed and personalized copy of Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks are:

Carol G.
Leah W.
Debbie C.

Congratulations and I hope you enjoy the book! If you didn’t win this time around, don’t worry, I’ll do another giveaway soon, so make sure you’re signed up for my newsletter at http://ClaireCook.com/newsletter.

Here are the links to buy your copy of Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks:

Kindle:  https://amzn.to/2zvGDqM
Paperback: https://amzn.to/2ZFuomb
Apple: https://apple.co/2OgWQb4
B&N: https://bit.ly/2Zu61wm
Kobo: https://bit.ly/2PuN9c5
GooglePlay:  https://bit.ly/347X1Ma

If you haven’t started reading the Must Love Dogs series yet, here’s a link to the series page on my website to find out more: https://clairecook.com/must-love-dogs-series/

Again, congratulations Carol, Leah and Debbie!

Talk to you soon!

xxxxxClaire

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which is now a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com/read.

The post And the MLD Hearts & Barks winner is appeared first on Claire Cook.

Walking & Blooming in the Longest-Shortest Month

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Hi Everybody!

As I walked the beach this morning, “February” by Joan Baez was playing in my head:

The everyday turned solitary
So we came to February

I think we all turn inward in February, at least a little bit. It’s a great time to hibernate, to block out the world, to curl up with a good book, to think about what we want our lives to be, to take a nice long walk.

Lately I’ve been walking with Noreen, Tess and Rosie, since I’m working on the book to follow The Wildwater Walking Club and The Wildwater Walking Club: Back on Track. Walking with fictional characters is a lot like walking with imaginary friends, just less embarrassing as an adult. It’s so much fun to plan their next adventure.  

HIIT

Writing a new book about the Wildwater women has also been a great excuse to add an HIIT (high intensity interval training) workout to my daily routine. HIIT has been around forever, although possibly not quite as long as this book I saw on a table outside a bookstore recently. (I used to own that book—and the leotard!)

Anyway, back to HIIT, it’s a hot new thing again, since study after study has shown that intervals can give you the biggest health improvement in the shortest time.

Essentially, in HIIT  you alternate quick bursts of high intensity with longer periods of lower intensity. So what I do is this: I walk the beach at a normal pace until I warm up, then I walk/jog as fast as I can, pumping my arms, for 20 seconds. (I do a quick count to 40 to get my 20 seconds in—close enough!). Then I walk at a regular pace for roughly 40 seconds. (About how long it takes for my heartbeat to slow to normal.) I do 8 sets of the whole thing—20 seconds hard, 40 seconds recovery. It’s amazing that in only 8 minutes, I’m sweating! So then I just enjoy the rest of the walk at my regular pace.

Just in case you’re looking for a new/old twist to add to your walking routine. You can also do HIIT on a treadmill or elliptical or standing in front of the TV—although the scenery isn’t as pretty!

RECIPE

I’ve also been trying to get more plant based whole food into my diet these days. I love the idea of overnight oats, because there’s no cooking. When you wake up in the morning, all you have to do is pop some in the microwave and you’re ready to go. So delicious, and it totally sticks to your ribs. My husband Jake calls it porridge, which always cracks me up and somehow makes it sound even more filling.

Overnight Pumpkin Porridge

I can pumpkin puree
2 cups unsweetened non-dairy milk
2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 package snack-size raisins
4 pitted dates, chopped
1 tablespoon pumpkin pie spice
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Mix it all together in a glass bowl. Cover and let it sit in the fridge overnight. Microwave individual servings until warm in the morning.

Note: I use almond milk and this pumpkin puree. Sometimes I sprinkle on walnuts and/or ground flax seed right before I eat it.

VALENTINE’S DAY GIVEAWAY!

A huge thank you to Weasley for posing for this great picture, and to Dawn T. for taking it. (If you have a fun photo of one of my books, with or without furbabies, I hope you’ll email it to me at Claire@ClaireCook.com.)

Here’s a little bit about Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks:

In the charming beach town of Marshbury, Valentine’s Day is in the air. But preschool teacher Sarah is feeling more relationship-challenged than ever. She just wants to survive February, the longest-shortest month of the year. John wants to elope, but it’s not exactly easy to find someone to watch their ever-growing four-legged pack, which now consists of two dogs and five cats.

Teacher assistant and housemate Polly’s baby bump is growing, too, and it’s a constant reminder to Sarah that everybody else and their goat seem to be able to get pregnant like it’s no big deal at all. Cupid’s arrows are misfiring everywhere, and even Sarah’s bossy big sister Carol’s marriage could be heading for trouble. And Bayberry Preschool has declared a moratorium on Valentine’s Day candy, so who’s leaving those conversation hearts taped to the classroom door?

So let’s do a Valentine’s Day Giveaway! Since it’s February, we’ll make it easy. All you have to do to enter is to be on this newsletter list. (If somebody forwarded this newsletter to you, go to https://ClaireCook.com/newsletter fast to sign up.)

Three lucky newsletter subscribers will receive signed and personalized copies of Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks. I’ll announce the winners right here on the blog at ClaireCook.com on Wednesday. Good luck, everybody!

If you want to just jump in and start reading Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks, here are the links to buy your copy:

Kindle: https://amzn.to/2zvGDqM
Paperback: https://amzn.to/2ZFuomb
Apple: https://apple.co/2OgWQb4
B&N: https://bit.ly/2Zu61wm
Kobo: https://bit.ly/2PuN9c5
GooglePlay: https://bit.ly/347X1Ma

If you haven’t started reading the Must Love Dogs series yet, here’s a link to the series page on my website to find out more: https://clairecook.com/must-love-dogs-series/

Some days you just need a nap in a sun puddle. (That’s Sunshine on the left, and his mom Pebbles on the right.)

Bloom!

I saw this lantana in bloom by the side of the road the other day and pulled over to take a picture. It made me remember this quote:

“The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size.”—Gertrude S. Wister

So true. In a few months, there will be such an explosion of flowers, I might have driven right by them. But this time of year, these crazy-early pink and yellow blooms fill me with such joy. I hope they do you, too.

Talk to you soon!

xxxxxClaire

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which is now a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com/read.

The post Walking & Blooming in the Longest-Shortest Month appeared first on Claire Cook.

Sun Puddle

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Some days you just need a nap in a sun puddle.

CLAIRE COOK wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which has become a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Be the first to hear about new releases, giveaways and insider extras at https://clairecook.com/newsletter/.

The post Sun Puddle appeared first on Claire Cook.

Hearts & Barks

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Thanks so much to Weasley (and Dawn T.) for reading Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks and sending me this great photo! If you haven’t had a chance to read it yet, here’s an excerpt to get you started:

Excerpted from MUST LOVE DOGS: HEARTS & BARKS

Chapter 1

Valentine’s Day was in the air. Given my track record in the hearts and flowers department, there was a slight chance that this could turn out to be a problem. Just a hunch.

John and I kissed each other good morning, the five Fancy Feast paté-filled cat bowls I cradled in my arms pressed between us. He tasted like toothpaste and coffee, but in a good way. I lingered, taking in the woodsy smell of his soap.

When I juggled the cat bowls to rest my hand on John’s forearm, I managed to dunk my fingers into one of the two canned Blue Buffalo Wilderness-filled dog dishes he was holding.

“Eww,” I said.

“Not you,” I added. I was considerate like that. I hightailed it over to the cat-feeding station in one corner of the kitchen. Pebbles and her four kittens followed me single-file like I was the Pied Piper.

Diagonally across the kitchen in the dog-feeding station, John put the two upscale dog dishes down on the cracked linoleum floor next to the water bowl. Horatio and Scruffy Dog sat. They waited until John clapped his hands, then both dogs dug in.

The cats were already chowing down, since cats basically call the shots. John had accidentally done a little bit of clicker training with them while he was working with Horatio, but if we were going to take it up a notch, my vote would be to try to get the cats to use the toilet. Cleaning litterboxes for five cats was almost as much work as being a preschool teacher. And sometimes not all that different.

“If we make reservations today,” John was saying, “we’ve still got time to plan a quick Valentine’s Day elopement.” John’s Heath Bar eyes, circles of toffee ringed in dark chocolate, held my ordinary hazel eyes. I felt that same little jolt I always did. Well, almost always.

“How about Tulum, Mexico?” John continued. “No stress, no pressure, entirely laid back. If we’re feeling adventurous, we could get married on horseback.”

John ran the accounting department at a digital game company called Necrogamiac. We’d recently sold my tiny ranchburger, rented out John’s Boston condo through a short-term executive rental company, and bought and begun to renovate the 1890 Victorian I’d grown up in. John’s boss had agreed to let him work remote most days, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the ridiculous commute into Boston.

“Or even on his and her turquoise beach cruiser bicycles,” John said.

There should be a rule that people who work remotely shouldn’t start conversations like this on work mornings with people who don’t. That little love jolt I’d felt had been completely replaced by a hot streak of pressure shooting upward from the pit of my stomach, like mercury in an old thermometer. Maybe people shouldn’t start conversations like this at all.

“Turquoise?” I said. “Matching?”

John shrugged. “Unless you’d prefer separate colors. Or in the interests of simplicity, getting married barefoot on the beach could work.”

“You hate to go barefoot.” I gave the ancient kitchen clock a quick glance. “The soles of those Midwestern feet of yours are landlubber soft. Unlike mine, which were scorched from Memorial Day until Labor Day by the hot sand of the Marshbury beaches throughout my formative years.”

John gave me his you’re missing the point look.

I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “You know, Gandhi walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him frail. And because of his diet, he suffered from bad breath. This made him—wait for it—a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.”

John was still giving me that look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Polly putting on her coat as she walked by in the wide center hallway without glancing in our direction.

“Get it?” I said to John as the front door creaked open. “It’s a pun on supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, one of my favorite words in the whole wide world. I’m still not over the fact that I wasn’t old enough to get in to see the original Mary Poppins at the Marshbury Playhouse for free by saying the word correctly when the movie was first released.” I gulped down some air. “Basically, because I wasn’t quite born yet. But still—”

“Besides,” I said, interrupting myself, because somebody had to, “eloping on Valentine’s Day is the ultimate cliché.”

John slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose and closer to his eyes, perhaps the better to see me. “Or the ultimate romantic adventure.”

I chugged some coffee, made a mental note to cut back on my morning caffeine and leave the stale puns to John, who was better at them. I looked at the kitchen clock again. Wondered if I had time to point out a few of our many and myriad elopement obstacles before I was late for work.

For starters, John and his dog Horatio had been a package deal. Right after we’d decided to buy my family house, a feral cat we named Pebbles had given birth to four kittens under the front porch, and we’d kept them all. Scruffy Dog was our most recent canine addition—she’d been a stray, and she and Horatio had fallen madly in love at the beach. It took John a while to come around, but eventually he did the right thing and Scruffy Dog became part of our pack.

It wasn’t easy to find someone to keep an eye on seven pets, plus my father, who’d come with the Hurlihy family house and was even more work than all the animals put together. My pregnant and single assistant teacher Polly had moved in with us, too, after being traumatized when a nor’easter rolled through her waterfront winter rental on the other side of Marshbury. And last time I checked, my brother Johnny was still separated from his wife and living out back in my father’s friend Ernie’s canned ham trailer.

Both my father and brother appeared to be madly in love with Polly, so even if she was willing to take care of the animals, who would protect Polly?

As if that wasn’t enough, John and I had put trying to have our own baby on the backburner until we finished renovating our new old house. My father had moved into his fancy man cave which took over the old garage as well as the former secret room above it. John and I were settled into our new private sanctuary on the second floor of the main house, and we even had a locked door that protected us from the shared space below. We were waiting for a frost-free stretch so my sister Christine’s husband Joe could break ground on the new garage addition with a second private entrance for us.

A thaw in February in Marshbury, Massachusetts seemed about as likely as John letting go of his ridiculous wedding fantasies. I mean, what part of I don’t want to get married and risk screwing up our lives did he not understand?

Life was just too damn complicated.

John and I stared each other down.

“And now,” I said. “I’m officially late for school.”

* * *

Twelve minutes later, I hit my blinker. If my commute to Bayberry Preschool was a minute or two longer, the heat on my trusty old Honda Civic probably would have kicked in. I shivered as I hung a right off the main road, peered through the porthole I’d managed to scrape in the February frost, gazed up at the gray bruise of a sky.

The trees flanking the long uphill drive bowed under the weight of the heavy wet snow. “I feel ya,” I said. “February is no picnic for teachers either.”

“Love Stinks” was playing on the Marshbury classic rock radio station. Of course it was. I sang along with J. Geils at the top of my lungs, really belted out the part about how till the day that you die, love is going to make you cry.

I passed a totem pole made of brightly colored clay fish that now looked like they were dotted with huge fluffy white cotton balls. A row of painted plywood cutouts of teddy bears appeared to be wearing snow helmets.

Fortunately, the pavement had been well-sanded to protect our precious students and their designated drivers from any potential black ice lurking beneath. I managed to whip into one of the last remaining parking spaces in the upper level parking lot without taking out one of my colleagues’ cars.

I stayed put until the song was finished. You can never be too careful, so I liked to make sure I turned off my radio on a positive note. When the Turtles started singing, “Happy Together,” I breathed a sigh of relief. If fortune telling by radio wasn’t a thing, it should be.

“I’m not really late-late,” I said as I climbed out of my car. “More like fashionably late-ish.” I threw my teacher bag over my shoulder, skated across the parking lot in my purple UGG knock-offs.

Even in winter, Bayberry Preschool was that perfect combination of artsy fartsy and impeccably groomed landscaping that kept the students happy while allowing their parents to justify the exorbitant tuition they paid. Snow-covered boxwood sheared in the shape of ducks edged the walkway to the Cape Cod-shingled building. Someone had whimsically tied camel-and-red plaid scarves, possibly real Burberry, around their topiary necks and rested child-sized metal snow shovels with red handles against their topiary bodies.

“You quack me up,” I said as I boot-shuffled past the ducks. My breath fogged out in front of me, creating a flimsy pocket of warmth.

Any day now, my bitch of a boss Kate Stone would hire a chainsaw-wielding ice sculptor, like she did every year, to turn a massive block of ice into a perky penguin or polar bear, while our students looked on. The kids would be moderately impressed by the ice sculpture. Mostly they’d beg for a turn with the chainsaw.

Polly was standing in the hallway, staring at our closed classroom door. A fringed burgundy blanket-like poncho skimmed her seven-month baby bump. Her black maternity leggings were tucked into cozy gray slip-on shearling ankle boots with buttons on the sides. Strands of silver sparkled like tinsel in her auburn hair, and her freckles popped against her pink cheeks. She looked like a ripe pomegranate, only cuter.

If I ever managed to get pregnant, I’d probably end up looking slightly cuter than a sumo wrestler. A flash of envy came out of nowhere and caught me by surprise. I liked Polly. I was happy for her. But I wanted what Polly had. To be pregnant, even pseudo-sumo wrestler pregnant. Unfortunately, my biological clock was barely ticking anymore, so it probably wasn’t going to happen.

I slid out of my long black puffy down-filled coat, which John had recently found for me in one of the boxes I’d been getting around to unpacking.

“You beat me,” I said. “Imagine that.”

Polly ignored my feeble attempt at late-to-work humor and kept staring. A tiny pink candy conversation heart was attached to the door with clear plastic tape at grown-up eye level. I squinted, pulled my reading glasses out of my bag so I could actually read it:

CRAZY 4 U

“Ooh,” I said. “Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer, as opposed to your usual bevy of not-so-secret ones.”

Polly’s cheeks went from pink to pinker. It was kind of heartening the way available and unavailable men flocked around Polly like so many knights in shining armor. Maybe that thing about men needing to feel needed, to have a purpose, was actually true. I wondered if John would dust off his coat of armor if I ever got pregnant. He was just dorky enough to literally have a coat of armor. In high school, I probably wouldn’t have given him a second look, but I’d matured enough to think that John’s residual dorkiness was a part of his charm.

A picture of John parading around our new master suite in his shining armor and nothing else popped into my head. I wasn’t much of an armor expert, but in my version the suit of metal was open in the back like a hospital johnny. I had to admit John looked pretty fetching from that angle.

I shook my head to dislodge the image, checked the time on my big analog teacher’s watch. Then I slid out of my faux UGGs so I wouldn’t track slush into our classroom while I hunted down my teacher slippers.

The outside doors opened, and the first of the students blew in with a cold blast of air.

Polly ripped the tiny heart off the door.

“Good reflexes,” I said. “If anybody sees that, we could be brought up on Valentine’s Day candy charges.”

“I have to get up every hour to pee anyway, so if one of us has to go to prison, I’ll go.” Polly held up the miniscule pink heart. “Shall I put this in the teachers’ room with the rest of the contraband?”

“No way.” I held out my hand. Polly gave me the heart.

I tossed it up in the air. We both opened our mouths. Polly caught it, possibly because she was eating for two now.

Four-year-old Juliette kicked a Gucci Kids boot toward her cubby. “Is that candy?”

Polly giggled. She started to choke, which made her giggle harder.

“It’s just a vitamin, honey,” I said to Juliette while I thumped Polly on the back.

Keep Reading!
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Shine On!

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A big thank you to Cathie G. for reading Shine On (again!) and sending me this photo. If you haven’t had a chance to read it yet, here’s an excerpt to get you started:

Excerpted from Shine On: How To Grow Awesome Instead of Old

Flipping the Switch

The thing about life is that it sneaks up on you.

Especially if you’re as good at denial as I am.

So there I was, reinvention to the left of me, reinvention to the right of me. Reinvention is the story of my own life. It’s my passion, my life’s work. I wrote my first novel in my minivan at 45. At 50, I walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the movie adaptation of my most well known book, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack.

I’d gone on to write thirteen novels, turned Must Love Dogs into a series. Reinvented my publishing career and become a New York Times bestselling author under my own steam. I’d even written my first nonfiction book, Never Too Late: Your Roadmap to Reinvention (without getting lost along the way), to share everything I’d learned on my own reinvention journey that might help other women in theirs.

I was strong. I was invincible. I was—.

Getting older by the nanosecond.

As Dr. Seuss said, “How did it get so late so soon?”

A milestone birthday is on my horizon and I’m not sure what to make of it. How to deal with it, or even if I want to. What it means. What it could mean.

Further complicating things, if I’m really honest with myself I don’t like how I’m feeling physically, not to mention what I see when I forget to look away and accidentally catch myself in the mirror. And given the way the years are flying by, the startling disconnect between who I am on the inside and the stranger I see reflected back at me doesn’t seem likely to get better.

And, oh, those existential questions. Who am I? What am I here for? What do I want my life to be? What do I want to look like? (Okay, maybe that last one isn’t quite existential.) Wouldn’t you think we could ask and answer these big questions once, or even twice, in our lifetime and then shift into cruise control?

I’m old enough to know the signs: It’s time to get my act together.

Again.

As I ponder some more, I realize that what I really, really want to do is figure out how to grow awesome instead of old. How to shine on, and hopefully on and on and on. And because the comment I hear most often from my readers is, hands down, Ohmigod, you’re writing my life, I figure that if I’m struggling with all this stuff, I’m not alone.

So let’s do this. Let’s figure it out together.

Defining Midlife

Just so you know, my definition of midlife is anytime from 40’s-on-the-horizon until we die. I have absolutely no intention of ever calling myself part of whatever the next category is. Upper middle age? Lower old age? Endlife?

So for the purposes of this book, and maybe even for the purposes of our lives, let’s think of midlife as the forty-to-forever stage.

Location Scouting

I’m picturing us standing at the crossroads of awesome and old. It’s not quite as nice a place to be as that corner in Winslow, Arizona made famous by The Eagles in “Take It Easy.” A song that, by the way, is now playing nonstop in my head.

Friends of mine once drove cross-country just to stand at that corner, which has been commemorated by Standin’ on the Corner Park. Two days later they finally pulled off Route 66, “Take It Easy” blaring, singing along at the top of their lungs, only to find a detour around the legendary spot. They circled around and around, trying unsuccessfully to get closer, which made for an entirely different kind of song. Sheryl Crow’s “Detour?” Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game?”

So if we’re going to have an epiphany, or even two or three, as we reinvent our lives to grow awesome instead of old, we should choose our breakthrough locations carefully, right?

I start considering the epic possibilities. I could follow the inspirational breadcrumbs and spend a year in Provence—or more likely six days and five nights if I can find a really good deal. I could eat my way through Italy, meditate my way through India. I could hike the Pacific Crest Trail, at least as far as my fear of heights and my trusty walking sneakers can take me.

I could walk Spain’s Camino de Santiago, one of the most famous pilgrimage routes in the world. I once did a book event that included speaking to a large group and having lunch with a smaller gathering of women afterward. One of my luncheon tablemates had just retired after thirty-some years of teaching. She told me that she was leaving the following week to walk “The Camino” with her husband, a longtime dream of theirs. They’d signed up for a tour from Leon to Santiago that would require them to walk five to eight hours a day for two weeks straight.

There was nothing about this woman that exactly screamed fit. “Wow,” I said. “Good for you. So what are you doing to get ready for it?”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound just like my husband. He’s been training every day for months. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take my time.”

It’s been a few years, but right now I imagine heading off to Spain only to find this lovely woman still sitting along the side of the road. Maybe we could walk together.

Instead, I decide that I’m not feeling very epic or high drama right now. I want to make this awesome thing work within the confines of my everyday life. To see if I can figure it out without having to book a flight, pack my bags.

What I really want to do is to find myself without having to lose myself. Or maybe in a way I’ve already lost myself, so I might as well just cut to the chase and find myself again. Sort of a reinvention staycation, something we can all afford, something that doesn’t involve leaving behind our oversize containers of shampoo and conditioner as well as our favorite pillows.

It’s official. At least the first leg of this journey needs to happen at home. That way when we do decide to go somewhere, we can take our awesomeness with us.

Keep reading! Buy your copy of Shine On: How to Grow Awesome Instead of Old: http://amzn.to/28Zm89u

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which is now a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com/read.

The post Shine On! appeared first on Claire Cook.

Kindness Rocks!

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I love the #SSIrocks project! I found my first painted rock at the gym this week, then left it on the St. Simons beach this morning for someone else to find and enjoy.

Do you have painted rocks hidden where you live? (So far, I’ve heard about them on Whidbey Island, Nashville, Reno, Deland FL, Kennebunk ME and Goose Creek SC.) It’s all about spreading creativity and kindness and brightening the day of whoever finds the rock. There’s usually a hashtag or a Facebook page written on the back, so when you find a rock, you can post a picture.

Let me know if you find a group near you—or decide to start one yourself!

Shine on!

xxxxxClaire

Claire Cook wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was 45. At 50, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack, which has become a 7-book series. Claire is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Amazon bestselling author of 19 books as well as a sought-after reinvention speaker. Read excerpts and find out more at ClaireCook.com.

The post Kindness Rocks! appeared first on Claire Cook.