Stephanie DelTorchio - Page 46 of 48 - Inspiration and motivation tips to empower you to do what you love before you die google4228e52aa5dfebc8.html
Good Enough Today
Holding Hands
The Five Minute Rule of Civility
Authentic versus Real Pumpkin Pie
Leaf Peeps
Double-Stuffed Greeting and Reward
16 Random and Not So Random Acts of Kindness
Pick the Orange Team
Be Naïve
One In A Million

Good Enough Today

Good Enough Today

In big bold letters the bumper sticker said: “I am not good enough.”

This statement, of course is a “feeling”. A bad one. And it is self-inflicted.

The full-to-capacity crowd at the daily I Am Not Good Enough cocktail party were guests in my head. Shit, I hand wrote the invitations with a calligraphy pen. I opened the door to every negative thought, life-sucking emotion and self-defeating attitude that whispered my way. Together we wallowed and moaned over cheap hors d’oeuvres and watered down drinks. They partied hard, stayed late and left behind a mental hangover.

My party ran in syndication for years. You’d think there were awards, perks or residuals for such a long run. Instead I ended up depressed and isolated with deep wrinkles across my face. Even I didn’t want to be with me.

Feeling good enough (or worthy enough) is different than actually being good enough. I may feel good enough to play recreational basketball in an over-the-hill league, but being an over-the-hill, petite female, I am not good enough to play NBA basketball. Let’s be honest here.

Good Enough Today

The Good Enough Manifesto

I am not delusional, but I am hard on myself when it comes to feeling good enough to do most things. Especially my lifelong desire to become a writer.

It started when I was about 12 and ended one day, just like that, forty years later.

The doors to the I’m Not Good Enough party closed for good. I can’t explain how exactly, but the why is easy. Exhaustion overtook my life. The repetitive chattering, uttered nasty barbs of my own construct finally took its toll.

It was a start. And it didn’t happen in one swoop. Changing the rhetoric from

I’m not good enough, to

I’m good enough today

gave me the latitude I needed to accept that each day would bring its own challenges. With a new shift in attitude I could handle the inevitable trips and falls. Knowing I’d done my best that day (and some days I totally sucked) had to be good enough if I was going to get to the next day and the next.

It’s a new party.

I write every day. My stuff isn’t brilliant or award-winning and that doesn’t matter. I sit down, show up and put in the effort to get better. The whispers and chatter around me are none of my concern. They can bang on the door but they’re not getting in.

I am Good Enough Today. It’s a feeling. And it’s good one.



Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio


Holding Hands

Holding Hands

In my former neighborhood, a petite elderly couple, guessing in their early 80s, shuffled up and down the street every day, holding hands.

A stylish, elegant pair, the man always wore a black felt beret and thin dark jacket. The woman dressed appropriate for the weather; a dress or skirt most days, then slacks when it cooled. They both wore white sneakers, laced not Velcroed.

They seemed glued to each other’s conversation, content in their own world, acknowledging no one passing by.

One Spring morning the woman stopped to admire a neighbor’s lilac trees in full bloom. She inhaled a sweet cluster and invited the man to do the same; he obliged and they shared a lovely moment. Then he snapped a few branches and delicately tucked them into her palm.

I imagined their long history. How had this precise, choreographed daily slow dance come to waltz into the neighborhood?

Perhaps they experienced young love, world travel, multiple wars, births of children, deaths of parents and friends, meaningful (or not) professions, communion with nature…all of it.

My last sighting of them was in early March nearly twelve years ago when I moved from the neighborhood. The woman dressed in a heavy coat, scarf wrapped around her head and twisted stylishly at the collar. His hand covered hers; he paused to take her elbow to ease her struggle onto the curb. There was a noticeable slow down to their dance, but they danced.

I wondered how many times over the course of their life, the simple act of holding hands had comforted or celebrated each of them.


Awesome LOVE

Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio

The Five Minute Rule of Civility I can be civil for five minutes

It takes balls to stand in the same air space as a person you’d rather squeeze the life out of. Still, my mother, a woman with great big balls believed anyone can survive a civil conversation for five minutes.

We’re grown-up big people. We know civility aligns with the rules of law and the Almighty. This is how mature adults (should) behave. Five minutes will ease you through a dreaded receiving line or a chance meeting at the deli. Five minutes is the average time it takes to floss your teeth, take out the trash and phone in a pizza order.

As an alternative to total avoidance, she suggested another, albeit radical approach. Go at it head-on. Be the friendly aggressor. Stick out your sweaty, shaking hand first. Say hello.

This is one of those situations where it sounds better on paper. Retreat in the opposite direction is more my style.

I have a certificate from the Absence/Avoidance Institute.

Despite a near panic attack, I sucked it up at a funeral service when it would have been very easy to give my condolences to the family and slip out the side door.

An older woman, the source of many nightmares, sat a few rows away glaring in my direction, buzzing to the people around her. In my mind they were talking about me. Because ego always shows up first. In the past she’d meddled in my business where her only stake in the outcome, to make waves. Her disloyalty ended a lovely friendship, although honestly, I couldn’t remember the exact details that caused us to not speak for years.

Occasionally our paths crossed. We avoided each other in opposite rope lines at the bank or the same grocery register. Easier to look the other way or recheck the list than attempt civility.

www.befat.netI paid my respects and approached the woman, interrupting her mid-sentence. She looked up and examined my face for a moment, trying to place me, then returned to her conversation — parking suggestions for the next day’s church service. My ego got booted out the door on its ass, where it belonged.

I stood in her air space and held out my sweaty hand. To my surprise she stood up and took it. Her frail, boney handshake drew me into a sweet hug. She still favored Jean Naté. Twenty years had rendered its penance. Her slight frame thinner than I’d remembered, now as fragile as a China doll. I thought a good sneeze might shatter her into a million bits.

She softened even more when I mentioned just having made her One-Bowl-Banana-Bread recipe. That the well-worn, stained card she’d written when I was a new bride is still a family favorite. “I don’t bake anymore, ” she said.

And just like that it was over.

We parted, in less than five minutes, with no daggers or bloodshed or promises to see each other anytime in the future. It was a civil conversation, that’s all. I’d like to think we were both better for it.

My mother’s contention:

They’re going to talk about you whether you speak up or walk away. Leave them with a good story to tell.

In fact behind my back one of her elderly friends said, “Can you believe she had the nerve to smile at you and shake your hand?”

I checked my watch. Under five minutes.

And my pizza was ready for pick-up.


Awesome LESSON

Original graphic and Photo image: Stephanie DelTorchio (the recipe)

Authentic versus Real Pumpkin Pie

Authentic versus real pumpkin pie

My daughter was eight when we set out to make two authentic pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving dinner. Pumpkin pie from real pumpkins, not cans of pumpkin.

During the day-long event, I led the cheer: “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” and she’d chant back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!!”

We danced off to the market to purchase small sugar pumpkins for our authentic pies. She inspected each one to find four pumpkins identical in size and as pure orange as a Crayola crayon. This took an hour.

At home we gathered all the utensils and ingredients for the filling and crust. We even tied on matching aprons.

I cut and she peeled the pumpkins. We scooped innards and saved the seeds for roasting later.

While the pumpkins boiled we ate lunch and mocked “real” pies made from cans. Ours would be the most delicious pies the family ever tasted. “Authentic” was the new word of the day.

We made a snack waiting for the pumpkin to drain and cool. She got crackers and I reached into the pantry for the peanut butter. Sitting right there, mocking me, three cans of perfectly pureed ready-to-use pumpkin.

www.befat.netThe crust, made from scratch, was a fail-proof recipe given to me by my aunt. My daughter measured and mixed, incorporating little pieces of butter and shortening with her hands. The dough that should have resembled small beans looked more like Little Miss Muffet’s curds and whey. I made a second batch while my daughter looked for a Disney movie to watch.

The new dough rested as we ate lunch in silence, staring out of the window. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I said, and she answered: “I know. Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins.”

Making the filling became a math lesson. This skill surpassed the fine motor challenge to keep the filling in the bowl using a wire whisk. At this point any parent can appreciate the triple time it takes to do anything when you add in an extra pair of small hands. I sensed losing her to Aladdin.

We rolled the crust nice and thin fitting it in the pan, crimping the edges. Together we poured the filling then placed the pies in the oven until perfectly set.

“Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I chirped and she droned back: “Yeah, pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins. I said I know.”

I choked down two aspirins with a cup of coffee while she watched The Lion King for the twentieth time. It was early evening when the suckers came out of the oven. I pulled my daughter away from the TV to admire our joint achievement.

Her ho-hum demeanor changed on Thanksgiving Day when she got to tell everyone how she made authentic pies from real pumpkins. Such pride. By the way, they were delicious.

The next year, and every year since, I open three cans of pumpkin puree to make real pumpkin pies. It’s a running gag now. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I say and she chants back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!! In cans.”


Awesome MEMORY

Photo: Stephanie DelTorchio (from my actual pantry)
Image credit: Pixaby

Leaf Peeps

Leaf Peeps 11.15.2015

One of the perks of living in New England is the daily color change of leaves. In ideal conditions foliage in New England, notably Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and western Massachusetts is truly breathtaking, and that’s no pandering statement.

When Mother Nature is in her full glory, “the best things in life are free” is never more true. Sometimes we’re guilty of taking the transformation from green to yellows, oranges and reds for granted.

For the price of gas, a hotel room and a hearty meal, “Leaf Peepers” or “Foliage Hunters” marvel at the dense colors with appreciative wonder. They come for a weekend and leave with postcard worthy images and quarts of maple syrup.

We natives enjoy the beautiful foliage season, too. What’s not to enjoy when the sun of midday shines from the bluest sky and illuminates the mountains and valleys?

As kids raking leaves meant a competition to see who could make the tallest pile. Then who could run fastest to jump in and destroy it. Over and over.

It’s the clean-up work of adulthood we don’t like. A lawn overtaken by leaves is not a one shot clearing. You rake and within a week the lawn is covered again. Where’s the fun in that?

But today I saw some incredibly happy adults doing an adult job with the levity of children.

  • A man with a leaf blower strapped to his back. He sang along to whatever music blasted through his headphones.
  • A woman on a well-worn riding lawnmower. Her broad smile and sweeping wave to passing motorists, as regal as a Homecoming Queen.
  • Another guy, also on a riding mower, made a game of “doing donuts”. The center of his lawn was adorned with a round rug of autumn leaves against the green turf.
  • An elderly husband and wife raked leaves in tandem. One can only assume they’ve had years of practice.
  • A dad raked several piles of leaves while his kids (or grandkids?) jumped in a pile. Then he ran with them and dove into a pile of leaves.

Today, if you’re lucky enough to live in New England, have some fun gathering your leaves. If you are a Leaf Peeper passing through, please come back and see us next year. The syrup will be waiting.



Photo credit: Michael Podger/Unsplash
Original Graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio



Double-Stuffed Greeting and Reward

Double-Stuffed Greeting and Reward

One of the 1,500 plus tasks under the job title “Parent” is to teach children etiquette and social skills. Item #874 is The Respectful Greeting.

As a child, upon meeting someone I was taught to stand still, be quiet, don’t move. Say hello if told to or risk going to bed hungry.

I might have learned a more global view, and better manners, had my mother sent me to (the totally fabricated) Mrs. Brown’s Finishing School for Girls, a place she threatened to send me more than once.

A foreigner friend pointed out my poor upbringing one morning when I ordered coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts. She deemed my lack of a proper greeting to the server and abrupt order request rude and impolite.

“Americans…You walk up to the counter and blurt out you want: Latte, extra shot of espresso. No greeting at all. Rush, rush.”

She gave me credit for saying please and thank you. Thanks, Mom.

Is this improper conduct nothing more than a culture difference? Yes, and no. Lack of knowledge breeds ignorance. In my case, I grew up an uninformed American child. Nothing more.

Do we miss the social cues to interact politely? Yes.

We’re in a hurry, always. We barely take a breath between checking off to-do’s. We don’t bother to look up and take a minute to make the person across from us feel appreciated, important, worth the muscle movement to offer a smile.

I took my friend’s sweeping admonition to heart and vowed to share this with my now grown up children.

My daughter started a new job in a new city. This change offered the opportunity to practice Item #874.

In the company cafeteria she noticed the servers seemed to go through the motions. They handed over whatever selections were requested from people who barely looked up from their cell phones or broke away from personal conversations.

To her credit my daughter engaged in conversation with the server. She said hello. Asked the woman, who looked tired, how her day was going. Is her family well? The server was taken back a bit, she said.

Only after establishing a respectful greeting did my daughter order lunch: a Caprese Panino. The server smiled. Then removed the tomato, mozzarella and basil from a premade sandwich and overstuffed a specially-made Panino.

While my daughter waited for the sandwich to grill, another person, busy texting on the phone, pointed to a pre-made panino. The server handed over a wrapped sandwich and smiled at my daughter.

Award that girl a Mrs. Brown’s diploma.


Awesome Kindness

Photo credit: Stephanie DelTorchio (my lunch!)

16 Random and Not So Random Acts of Kindness

World Kindness Day

In honor of World Kindness Day…

It’s easy to find an opportunity to show the world a little kindness. And it doesn’t take much to make someone’s day brighter or special or meaningful. Most of these ideas won’t cost a dime and the payoff may be priceless.

In celebration of World Kindness Day, here are a few suggestions:

  1. A smile. It’s been scientifically proven in face-to-face interactions, people reciprocate their conversation partners’ genuine and polite smiles with matching smiles.
  2. A handshake. Use hand sanitizers before your touch your face, but before that, offer a handshake to the doorman, train conductor, trash collector, school crossing guard, etc.
  3. Letting someone in line. At the check-out line, coffee shop, deli, post office, etc. Step aside and offer to let the person behind you go ahead.
  4. Paying it forward – those random acts of buying coffee for the person behind you in line. Find a place today to do this.
  5. Give up your seat. On the train or bus for an elderly person, a pregnant woman or someone who looks like they need to take a load off their feet.

    Read to someone. An elderly person, a child,  your significant other (maybe a love poem, the back of a cereal box!). Or read the sign that says 12 Items or Less and Be Kind; take your 15 items to another check-out.

  6. Call your Mother or Father or Spouse or Child and tell them how much you love and appreciate them.  Laugh with them when the laugh at you, especially your kids, for “being weird”.
  7. Leave notes around the office. Or slip a kind message across or under the table. A kind word to a co-worker today lessens the stress of whatever crap is going down in the meeting.
  8. Hand out chocolates. Who doesn’t love that! Dove Hearts are nice. They come with sweet messages that make more sense than fortune cookies.
  9. Leave a positive review. Pick your favorite local shop or restaurant and write something nice. A great meal. Great customer service. The window display.
  10. Purchase whatever the local kids are selling to raise money for their trip, etc. If you are nixing the sweets or carbs or don’t need another calendar, buy it anyway and pass it on.
  11. Offer to walk someone’s dog. You’ll get the exercise, give someone an extra hour of time and make a new friend.
  12. Be kind to yourself. For one day treat yourself like you would if you got to spend a day with favorite music or movie star.
  13. Say Hello, Good Morning, Good Afternoon, Good Evening. To every person you meet. Greet people in their native language, if possible.
  14. Put the toilet seat down, or put the toilet seat up. You’ll know.
  15. Be kind to the planet. Recycle or Upcycle something.



Image source: iClipart; Original design by Stephanie DelTorchio
Smile source

Pick the Orange Team

Mashed or Baked?

Black pair or Brown pair?

Coke or Pepsi? I drink neither, but pressed to pick one, my favorite is whichever brand produces the best SuperBowl commercial.

Most choices we make are actually personal preferences. Choosing one over the other is not a life-changing experience.

Exception: Green Team or Orange Team?

This choice requires more thought.

To ride Disney World’s Mission: Space at Epcot Center you must choose the Green or Orange Team. The popular attraction is a centrifugal motion simulator thrill ride. It simulates what an astronaut might experience aboard a spacecraft on a mission to Mars, from the higher g-force of liftoff to the speculative hypersleep.

I’d all but given up rides that go around and around, upside down, back and forth or propelled up and dropped down. Tower of Terror anyone?

I considered the choice to be a little brave and step out of my comfort zone in an effort to face my fear of throwing up in public.

You’re given several opportunities to choose from two levels of intensity while waiting your turn at Mission: Space. The Orange Team is the more intense experience, while the Green Team enjoys the same visual attraction but with less intensity. Of course “intense” is relative to your ability to handle motion sickness and scream “Mommy!” at the same time.

The Green Team experience is a motion simulator ride that does not spin. According to the warning signs, it’s less likely to cause motion sickness. Less likely.

The Orange Team experience uses a centrifuge (spins around and around). It further tilts (upside down, back and forth) to simulate speed and tremendous G-forces during launch and re-entry. I recalled the condition of my daughter’s doll after a spin in the washing machine. Never found the leg.

The wimps who opt-out are moved directly through to the gift shop, naturally.

I’m no wimp but I’m not adventurous either.  I over-interpreted every warning notice: More likely to blurt obscenities. Dizzy as a top. Black out. Become permanently disoriented. Crap in your pants.

I swore allegiance to the Green Team.

Until I got to the entrance.

The young attendant’s smug face, trained no doubt to analyze fear, certain I’d follow the older crowd. To his surprise, and mine, I picked the Orange Team.

I rode it out and exited a bit shaky but with all my limbs intact.



Image source

Be Naïve

Several years ago I had an epiphany to publish a bi-weekly community news tabloid. The idea arrived complete with shooting stars and blaring trumpets. In the background, Woodward and Bernstein, legitimate journalists, wept over their Pulitzers.

Enter Little Susie News Girl with no experience whatsoever. No knowledge of printing press applications. Or the boiler room politics behind the publishing and distribution industry.

Creatively, “The Evolution of Sex Education in America” received high praise from my professor for its exceptionally neat penmanship.

My art portfolio sat in a cardboard box in my parent’s basement labeled “Stephanie’s middle school crap”.

Not to mention I’d never sold anything to anyone. Ever. Unless you count the piss warm lemonade charitable neighbors gagged down. Coincidentally on the same really hot day Neil Armstrong walked on the Moon. One giant leap…

My lack of credentials held no restraint against my passion and purpose.

Our town published a daily broadsheet, but I fell in love with the smaller shopper-type free papers I’d seen at rest stops and quickie marts. Without a formal business plan or a bankroll, I forged ahead to become the next Lois Lane of yard sale and fundraiser announcements.

I romanticized the feel-good position of being editor-in-chief. I’d wave the power of the press in favor of the little guy. The underserved. Small business owners and all the non-profit organizations with wrapping paper and candy bars to sell.

Parents and little old ladies arrived in droves like starry-eyed pilgrims, with notices scribbled on a napkin in one hand and no money in the other. Steady and loyal customers booked two-by-two inch paid ads to support the tabloid. Relationships were key. Something I might have learned had I gone to business school.

There were months and months of mule work to learn the production process, layout and design, salesmanship, accounting — I loved it all.

I mostly enjoyed the people I got to meet. Pat, my printing contractor, was the quintessential newspaper man; tweed blazer with suede elbow pads, the scent of printer’s ink and pipe smoke swirling about his office.

Interestingly, he attributed my success as a legitimate resource in a small community to my lack of resume.

“Your naivete is your greatest asset,” he smiled.


I did not know what I did not know which propelled my curiosity. At the start, my fears of failure were non-existent. Had I understood the dynamics of the business, the costs and the sheer time commitment involved, I would have most certainly taken another crack at a lemonade stand.

That little newspaper had a good run for a few years before I moved on to other writing platforms which I also knew nothing about!

Naivete is still my greatness asset. What’s yours?


Awesome CHOICE

Credits: iClipArt

One In A Million

For one bright shining moment, at about age six or so, my grandmother made me feel special.

This elderly, sweet woman lived in America for some sixty of her 82 year-long life and never truly mastered the English language. She got along just fine with the grocer and school teachers by communicating with smiles and hugs and food offerings, usually homemade bread fresh from the oven.

My visits to her house with my father involved a form of charades. She talked with her hands of course, animated fun for a kid, and injected a few single syllable English words for good measure. This is how she introduced some guy named Mario Lanza whose scratched record she played over and over on the Hi-Fi. She encouraged me to dance while she clapped and sang every word of every love song to perfection.

Then she served me steaming hot coffee and sesame cookies without asking my father’s permission. Later, he rolled his eyes during the ceremonial cleaning out of the refrigerator. My tiny grandmother shut him down with a few choice words delivered in a big loud voice. She’d examined my boney arms from wrist to shoulder, disappointed with the findings. I’d inherited a too thin frame from both of them. She could fix it.

Out came the Jello, chocolate pudding, and leftovers covered in aluminum foil. Her endless presentation of foods needed no translation. Cold chicken, pasta and meatballs expressly for me. A trifecta of gastronomic delight.

The visit ended at the front door. Her hug surrounded me as we melted into each other. A pinch then a kiss on each cheek. This demonstrative show of affection was nothing more than an elaborate rouse. It masked the treats she covertly shoved deep into my pockets before whispering “Dooshie Pie” in my ear. (It sounded like that.)

On the walk home I asked my Dad what “Dooshie Pie” meant. He shrugged it off. “You’re one in a million,” he laughed. It was a lie.

My dad called all his kids “one in a million,” in loud, clear, undeniable King’s English, and often. Usually after we’d screwed up his radio station, taken something from his tool shed to build a street jigger or spilled milk at the dinner table.

I waited for his “Dooshie Pie”, the one my grandmother tenderly bestowed with a smile, a kiss and treats. Instead, while my mother cleaned up whatever we’d done, he uttered between pursed lips a few half-made-up Italian gibberish words. One learns early in life a curse word in any real or invented language is exactly that.

My dad’s “one in a million” speech reached beyond our home. He evenly distributed between political candidates, the gas company, the driver who cut him off on the highway, and practically anyone who knocked on the door looking for a donation during baseball season. Further confirmation of my diminished value among millions of people.

For years I looked for a bright side to this equation. And I think I found it.

I recently read there are now 7 billion people on this planet. If I am one in a million, there are 7,000 people on this planet just like me — lucky enough to have had a grandmother like mine. Or a dad who was very inventive with the English language.


Awesome MEMORY
Awesome LOVE