Let Them Eat Cake

What makes you happy? Here's my list on this 23-degree February night:

Tory Burch. Stepping into the outlet store at Woodbury Commons today for the very first time in my life! Honey, I'm home. [I was there for a good reason, a quick visit to research a magazine article pitch. So there, Suze Orman!] I literally felt my joy meter jump--my spirit soared. This is fashion religion for true believers. The vibrant colors, the sequins and printed cottons, the beautiful bib necklace, the soft wools, the whisper of "Hey, don't you want a life like this? All color and fun and style--and beauty?" Also felt the love in the Kate Spade, Brooks Brothers [think elegant Love Story camel cashmere shell] and Burberry outlets. I vow to go back when the money comes in--and after I have put some away for Fig's college days.
Candles burning on the mantel.
Sugar--our Bichon Frise with hot pink bows and shiny black eyes--jumping up on Dan's or my belly to take a nap with us. She acts as though she owns us, not vice versa.
Sugar watching me through the glass storm door when I take the garbage cans out. Like a little mother, she won't rest easy until I'm back safe inside.
My father's laughs--fewer and farther between these days--and picking up the phone to hear him say "Hello, Al?"
Valentines in, like the one that came for Fig today from my sister.
Valentines out, like the chocolates I sent to Punch & Judy [blog name for the baby we loved and lost and love again, in a foster care arc] and her Mommy.
Cookies.
Chocolate.
Pink buttercream roses on a fancy bakery cake.
The memory of the pink layer cake my mother made me for Sweet Sixteen.
The flight of three perfect little cupcakes in chic pleated paper wrappers [honestly, they could be wrap skirts, they're so stylishly designed] that my friend Anne and I shared last week at a restaurant on Church Street.
Dan's aqua oxford shirt, the one I got him years ago that still looks so cute on him.
Peeks at Fig's awesome sketchbook.
Lots and lots of fashionable thick foam on my Starbucks cappuccino--I would be the crazy lady in the white fur hat who asks for a spoon and stands there [since the seats are all taken] spooning it off and savoring it as soon as it crosses the counter; drive home with it, and the cap collapses and disappears.
Paying overdue bills [direct conflict with buying of Tory Burch, chocolate, bakery cakes, cappuccinos and valentines--and with saving money for Fig's college days].
My amaryllis bulb, which is about to put forth a second stunning crimson flower, the beginning of which was cleverly cloaked in its dirty, papery husk.
The idea that we too are like the amaryllis--new beauty waiting to emerge, if we just peel back the crumply old layers protecting it and commit ourselves to growth.