Sometimes It Hits You Harder Than You'd Think

I did not know her personally, but Elizabeth Edwards was a mother and a fighter and I admired her. A few words penned to honor her --

When We Wear Our Grace

We never know the role we'll play -
The mask we'll wear -

But we polish the heart on our sleeve -
Oil the armor we wear -

And paint the town -

Our shoulders bend but never bow -
Our eyes dull but never narrow their scope -

We wear this life -
Like an evening cloak -
Furling it out when the day is good -
Shielding ourselves when the pain sets in -

Our stature never humbles -
Our expectations tried and true -
Let us fight what tribulations must -
Break through -

Life is nothing -
If not spectacularly daunting and beautiful -
When we greet the day -
Wearing our well worn grace.

Fa La La La

One of my holiday traditions is to watch the National Lampoon Christmas Vacation while wrapping gifts. My favorite scene is when Chevy Chase gets locked in the attic. The number of mishaps that man experiences in the movie is mind boggling.

But I can relate.

From midnight on Thanksgiving onward I am all Christmas all the time. This is my favorite time of year.

But I have to tell you - it. just. may. kill. me.

I have found myself standing in a quiet spot of the house or office and giving myself a little pep talk.

"You can do this!", I say.

Over and over, quietly to myself.

I swear to god, the joy of the holiday has been eclipsed by one big f'ing list of things I need to do.

Because we spend every other year of Christmas in Alaska (this being that year), we celebrate two Christmases - the Alaska family Christmas and the East Coast family Christmas.

I even decorate our house even though we won't inhabit it for most of the Christmas season.

Because not only do I love Christmas, this is my job. There isn't anyone else to pick up the reins. The Angry Elf is not a myth.

So far my holiday season has gone thusly --

Right now half the basic Christmas decorations are still in boxes in the livingroom.

The nanny decorated our Christmas tree with my child while I was at work. Yep, no mother failure guilt there...not at all...

I think I've bought or found and pointed out more gifts for my in-laws than the love of my life (to whom they are related by blood).

I have bought a total of two Christmas presents for my family (East Coast Christmas).

I am logging 5 hours of sleep a night.

The love of my life has logged untold hours changing our flights three times over four weeks.

I have a spreadsheet of La C gifts broken down by which Christmas they will appear - Alaska or East Coast - and have thoroughly confused myself.

I have arrived at the office twice unshowered but with make-up on.

I just took a yoga meditation class and spent the whole hour cycling through my list of to do's freaking out.

There are two events between now and departure for Alaska that require a babysitter for which I have yet to procure said babysitter.

The thing that keeps me going?

It is worth it.

It really is.

When the lists get done or finally abandoned and I just let go and embrace the season, it will all come back to me. I will remember that Christmas is about faith. The faith that we get up every day for a purpose. It isn't about the lists. The destination. The pressure to wrap the right gift.

It is a season to celebrate that no matter what our faith, we are in this together, so let us make the best of it. We are more than our politics. More than our respective religions. We are family. And friends. And shoulders we lean on. And loves we draw strength from.

For one sparkling moment we are at our bright and shiny best. Reminding us that we can believe in whatever we want.

And that is a very good thing indeed.

Soup to Nuts

I am the first to admit I want it all.

I completely believe in the concept of Super Woman.

And why is that? What is my, our - us, as women - compunction to feel like we need to have it all? Do it all. Be it all. Is it because for so long we were given our roles in life? Is it that we are indeed the stronger, evolved gender?

Could it be as some have claimed, that we are selfish and egotistical, refusing to compromise our needs for the betterment of our families and the greater community?

Is this artful balance not simply living life to its fullest?

But what happens when the "all" takes on a slightly different appearance than what was in your head?

In your dreams?

Does it make a difference?

I recently made a decision that alters my "all". That changes the appearance I had developed of my palette of family, career, love, hobby and friends.

So now I am obsessed. I spend a great deal of time worrying that somehow I have compromised myself. I have failed to have it all because I have chosen not to take a certain step. To not gild a lily as my grandfather was fond of saying. Usually in reference to his perennial restaurant order of a Gibson and the end cut of roast beef. But I find the saying works equally well when applied to my life choices.

Because truly - why risk it? Why, when I think I have it all, why keep looking for more?

And that is where I am in my thinking today.

(Of course, a wise and dear friend has told me these things take a good year to work through, I hope I feel the same a year from now.)

So what do I conclude?

Perhaps, I haven't compromised my "all" one bit. Perhaps, I still have it and it is still complete - all the basic components teetering and swaying in happy mayhem. I just decided to stop looking for more.

There is a song I love by Terri Clark, "I Wanna Do It All" -
'I wanna do it all
See Niagara falls
Fight city hall
Feel good in my skin
Beating the odds
With my back to the wall
Try to rob Peter
Without paying Paul
I wanna do it all...'

You can do it all.

You just have to embrace what your "all" is.

Short People Got No Reason...

One of the things I love about blogs is that you get the chance to say that response that came to you three hours after the conversation ended.

Earlier today I posted a Facebook status that I want to clarify. So please join me at this intersection of social media as I respond to my Facebook posting comments via blog post.

First off, I do not read Marie Claire. Never did.

I was a Glamour girl.

But I do follow a lot of Twitter accounts that cover the gamut from the intellectual to the kind that tweet live updates of an entire episode of Project Runway.

I subscribe to this melange of information not because of some higher purpose but because I might miss something.

I might miss some nugget that will help me understand stuff other people already know. Seriously. Not kidding.

I might miss something amusing to share at the next cocktail party to help alleviate my painful small-talk phobia.

I might miss something that makes me interesting.

When the love of my life and I were long distance dating on opposite coasts for three years, I became accustomed to storing up morsels of information and stories to share -- kind of like a squirrel preparing for winter.

I find myself still doing that - delighting in the "find" of a special interest piece in the NYT or a blog on the web. Storing it away until I can share it with him.

Despite the fact that he is a mere twelve inches away.

Occasionally, I stumble across a gem of no reasonable interest to me. Does not impact me. Does not even remotely concern me.

But my blood starts boiling. My righteous indignation starts marching around and wagging its finger. And my brain and mouth collaborate on a sputtering, passionate discourse to which the beleaguered love of my life is the audience of one. Until I get a second crack at it after entrapping sis on the phone.

I have a bit of history with this and I have been known to actually act on my disgust.

I started this blog as a rant against a blogger who called Christina Hendrick's fat.

In high school I saw a Macy's ad on a bus for tween girl jeans that was so provocative I wanted to throw myself at the bus to cover it up. Instead, I launched a personal boycott of Macy's -- sitting defiantly on a bench outside the store glowering at my mother as she skulked in to purchase her Clarins. I am proud to say that my boycott lasted through college -- can I help it that Macy's is now a two block away lunchtime errand?!

Then there was the innocuous Washington Post article I read in college detailing the arrest of some middle aged mother arrested for growing marijuana. It was all well and good until the last line of the article asking really, what was the harm in what she was doing?

Oh boy.

My future law school student self whipped out a nice little retort editorial that went along the lines of -- SHE WAS BREAKING THE LAW.

Well, it was published and there was that awkward moment when a "young, not yet engaged to me, charmed by my footloose and accepting self" love of my life googled my name and found the editorial.

So.

Anyhoo.

My point and bless you all for hanging in there - my point is - I get mad about stuff that no one else might think is important.

But it just may be important to somebody and it may make a difference to them that someone else understands.

This is what I learned today from a 140 character tweet ---

* There is a show on tv called Mike & Molly.

* The characters are overweight.

* Marie Claire paid for and posted on the magazine's website, a blog post in which the author stated among other things that she was grossed out by watching an overweight person cross the room much less watch two overweight tv characters fall in love and all that entails.

* No one on the whole of Marie Claire's editorial staff found this to be offensive.

Okay, so I did a little digging past the 140 characters.

I know Marie Claire is not the gold standard for living. But I also know that despite ourselves we read Marie Claire and like-minded magazines.

Instead of wasting trees to write in to the Dear Editor section that the cover picture of Megan Fox had a lot of interesting tattoos, readers should write in that the magazine can keep right ahead with the unrealistic dating advice and the crappy clothes that no one can actually wear day to night and the impossible to replicate beauty how to's - but for the love of all that is good and won't melt in your mouth -- give it a rest.

Most healthy women are NOT a size two and are sexy, smart, successful and every other exceptional alliteration.

So no, I no longer read the Marie Claire type of magazine. But I work with young women who do. I have extended family members who do. I don't need to read it - but I am glad I found out what it says so that I can write my 140 characters, status update, blog post editorial that says -- hey, this is drivel. Move along. Nothing to see here.

Be sure to read a lot of other things too.

You don't want to miss anything.

Lady and the Snark

I regularly follow a DC-based fashion blog that I find incredibly interesting but whose author I cannot stand. I have never met this young woman. But I know. I just know.

Her favorite word is snark.

She wears bows in her hair.

If you are not sure why I have listed these facts let me clarify. To snark is a cop-out for not admitting you are just being rude. No one over the age of 10 should wear a bow in their hair - that includes cheerleaders, bless their hearts.

So why do I read this woman's blog? She does the grunt work of finding trends in different price points and tries out new beauty products so I do not have to shell out the greenbacks for every new fangled tube of youth.

What can I say? I am lazy.

Occasionally, she writes something rather scathing -- or just plain snippy -- and wraps it up with a bow she describes as snarky. When did writers decide it was acceptable to label their condemnations with this decade's "it" word for rude?

But I digress.

What sets off my inner tirade with this blogger is the absence of nuance in her posts. There are writers who share their scorn with such a soft, felt-tipped squib that the reader feels like they have just read the most heartfelt compliment.

And then there are the writers who deliver their acerbic verbiage with an axe that was left out in the woodpile all winter.

My fashionista blogger...well, let us just say she resembles the blogger without the "b".

So today she really opened a can.

Large breasts.

Small breasts.

Large breasts v. small breasts.

Does size matter?

Sweet jesus it sure does. And woe is the blogger who doesn't see that speeding train of angry reader comments racing down the track after the blog post stating that small breasts are better than big.

By this point darling reader you are wondering what the gosh forsaken point of MY blog post is and you are actually becoming uncomfortable about where I am going with this.

Here we go.

When will women stop putting other women down as part of making themselves feel good?

Is fashionista blogger entitled to write a lengthy blog post highlighting her realization that she is hunky-dory with her subdued chest? We salute her for her self-acceptance! Was it necessary to celebrate aforementioned sweet petite by stating that at least she is not burdened with those horrendous larger portions that will embarrassingly sag with age? No.

A thousand times no.

21 and counting reader comments said Non! Nein! Ni Hea!

So that whole nuance thing I keep looking for in fashionista's blog? It is that ability to pen an opinion and let it stand alone.

It is a demonstration of the author's commitment to her self-worth above and beyond any comparison.

Is this asking too much of any writer, any woman? I certainly hope not because that is what I am trying to instill in my daughter.

By the way, I have great cheekbones.

Just saying.

The Ramblings of a Woman in Need of Something

It's been quite a day, quite a week actually. Ah, hell the past six weeks have been interesting.

So I sit here at my desk at the office and am fielding emails from an alarming number of colleagues across several government agencies still working at 8pm - your federal government never sleeps! And I need to take a mental break.

I give you my Top Ten Things About Me That Are Not Important Enough To Actually Take Up Someone's Time To Share Them With So I'll Blog About Them ---

10. My podiatrist actually recommended I wear heels to even out my hips. He said two inches but I pretend he meant three inches.

9. I sweat profusely on public transportation - buses and subways - even when I am one of three people on said bus or train car - it is alarming but it is how I justify taking cabs.

8. I rarely try clothes on before buying them.

7. I would love to wear flip flops as commuter shoes but fear the scorn of fellow women / fashionistas.

6. I think Ira Glass's voice is depressing.

5. I am terribly jealous of Crown Princess Mary of Denmark. (Yep, I admit to childishness here.)

4. When I say something is "interesting", that is not a good thing.

3. I am obsessed with stories of tragedies and will Google for more and more details.

2. I feel guilty that I did not do more to acclimate our family dog to condo living.

1. When I am home by myself I hold whole fake, soap opera-y dialogues with myself -- including the other people.

The Promise of a Lifetime

Here is the poem I wrote for my husband and read to him at our wedding reception ten years ago today. No other words could be truer today. Happy Anniversary to the love of my life!!

This Promise

There is a silence
Broken
When a word
Is born -

Who could foretell
Who dared to dream
Yet here we are

What spinning universe
Fell out of sync
What power
Knotted in its own deceit
What desire
Quenched its enduring flame

And written song
Left unheard
Waiting still
For that voice
To make
The right touch upon our ear

The greatest pillars
Of history
Shook
With a mighty roar
I am sure
That foundations will falter -

That trees
Will sweep their stately
Boughs
To the ground
In prayer

On my soul
I swear
The sands
Will drink the overflow
of the ocean's tears

Because we loved.

Game Day

My senior year of college I played rugby - I needed something new - and during one game while I cradled the covetous ball, I was slammed on both sides by two of Amherst's finest. I am pretty sure the whole of Pioneer Valley heard the breaking of the four bones attaching my fingers to my wrist. As I lay on the ground where I had dropped to allow play to continue, I remember feeling stunned. Not physical pain stunned but stunned at how easily and purposefully the premeditated, brute force of the tackle had been delivered. I have been a tentative dancer ever since.

Somewhere in the middle of my career path I received a similar tackle. It was purposeful. It was forceful. It was premeditated and it left me stunned.

To be honest, it changed the way I work. The way I view the workplace. Now, the office is a pitch and the game is on. And I have learned to tackle.

I am not the wunderkind who flew up the career ladder, rather, I have zipped around like a tipsy bumblebee. While I have stayed consistent regarding the arenas within which I worked, my focus areas have been dizzyingly different. Truly. I skidded from education and youth to hospice and end-of-life care with a dog leg through international law.

Each punch, stumble, accolade, and day's end shows the world that I may be down, but I will never be out. The ball may not be cradled in my arms but it will...even if it means I have to do the tackling.

Through it all, I have felt the brightest light of commendation and the darkest cloak of betrayal and in between the slippery silk of disingenuosness. I have fired people, taken pay cuts, developed national resources, taken short cuts in my work, experienced negative treatment as a working mother, held colleagues and direct reports to impossibly high standards, taken personal days, worked through lunch with a sickening regularity and pretty much fought the good fight just like everyone else.

Lately the good fight has taken me on a longer daily tour of duty and so the blog has fallen by the wayside while I navigate this new phase of my flight of the bumblebee. You see, it would appear that I am in another rugby game.

I am cradling my ulcer and my career goals in my arms.

Tackled, I refuse to fall to the ground waiting for play to continue.

These Sneakers Were Made for Walking

A week or so ago I spent the weekend walking through Chicago.

I cried a little.

Cheered a lot.

Snacked quite a bit.

And drank even more.

I also thought about things. Just things.

Every year I participate in the Avon Breast Cancer Walk traipsing through 39 miles of a different city for two days flanked by sis and my buddy K. Just us and 3,000 or so other like minded women and men.

You would think that I’d be too busy, distracted, focused on blister prevention to spend a great deal of time contemplating anything other than the next rest stop.

But no. Over the course of eight years of these walks I have created and broken down life plans, made pivotal decisions, written poems and mourned opportunities missed – all while trotting along in a sea of pink.

Sometimes these discussions have been in conversations held with sis and K. More often than not however, it has just been me and my conscience working it out silently step after step, mile after mile.

I believe there are two reasons that some of my best brainstorming, self-realization and inspirational confabs with myself happen during these walks. First, when surrounded by such examples of strength as breast cancer survivors, I cannot help but assess my own self worth and challenge myself. And second, 39 miles is long…unfettered time to think stretches ahead of you. No matter how many folks are walking with me, nobody can talk for an entire 39 miles and even if they could I’d probably kill them by mile 25.

While walking over the years --

I decided to be a whistle blower. A decision that was right but still haunts me.

I overcame my fear of having a healthy baby. For the most part --- I now have a beautiful baby girl … and a recently diagnosed ulcer which according to everyone is because I stress too much about things out of my control.

I wrote a novel – well, the beginning and end – which is currently residing unpublished in my head. Someday I will hole my self up in a cabin on a lake in Tuscany or the local Starbucks and it will get written!

Admitted to myself that I regret the professional path I have taken.

My now languishing personal shopper business plan was developed and subsequently launched -- briefly.

In Chicago I weighed some hefty thoughts. I rolled some life choices around in my mouth, to see how they would taste. This year’s theme was life in ten years. I have always been addicted to movies where the homely lead actress has a makeover or books where people work to recreate themselves. Fiction is always easier said / written than done.

But looking around at the women and men walking with me I realized that they had made over their lives and come out stronger. And they had no choice. No marathon walk to weigh the pros and cons. The survivor whose dreams were put on hold until she beat cancer. The son who lost his mother before he even got to high school. Lives changed – redirected – remade – redefined.

This year I will not leave my musings on the road. I will not take for granted the fortitude that accompanied me on my 39 mile journey.

They say we show our true strength in times of crisis. I wish to show my true strength every day. For if the Avon walks have taught me anything, tomorrow can change your life.

The Good Humor Man...Woman...Child

For today's post I have dredged up some comedic vignettes I penned about a decade ago. I seemed to have written them from a mother's perspective. How convenient.

IN LIFE

Enter Satan on a neon pink surfboard -

"Yo dude! How many times have you sinned?!"

The president of the PTA is mad.

He upstaged her son, the asparagus.

The holiday play could not be saved.

If I hang up I will have sinned.

I have not worked this hard to end up in the land of boogie boards.

So I tell her that her son stole the show.

He might even end up on Broadway.

You know, maybe play a vegetarian Hamlet.

She hung up.

That wasn't very nice - she never once said a word about my son the snowball.

Do you know how hard it is to put a straight zipper in a circular, bunny fur costume?

And then find out your son is allergic to bunny fur.

At 2am I baked thirty Christmas tree cookies for 15 second graders.

Then the fat kid in the second row threw up all over them.

At that point in life you just want to smile, stand back...and throw up on the kid.

The devil made me do it.

FOR THE BETTER

Something is burning.

But I am on the phone and cannot hang up.

After all, the nice lady is telling me that the florist's van carrying three dozen marigold's for Aunt Bernice's funeral -

Has been hijacked.

Hello dear - how was your day? Uh-huh.

Listen, your Aunt Bernice's marigolds are being sold on the black market in Akron, Ohio.

Oh and I discovered I used yellow fingerprint instead of mustard on the kids' sandwiches.

Watch out for that damp spot in the living room.

The blackened catfish exploded in the oven.

Someone put Snoopy stickers on my glasses lenses and I could not see.

Don't you agree that five looks like a three?

The pizza turtle arrives in exactly 29 minutes.

It is cold.

It has anchovies.

And the delivery guy has no change.

The successful warrior should have three weapons.

The power of fear, a big army and pizza delivery.

SO LITTLE TIME

I am late.

It is ten minutes to the hour when I will fall writhing to the ground in the midst of a nervous breakdown.

I am only too grateful to be spending the last moments of my sanity in a traffic jam and listening to the radio play something that sounds like "I bit your arm off in love."

Oh goody.

The couple in the car in front of me are obviously dying of some fast acting disease.

They seem to think there will not be time to make it to a hospital.

So they have commenced vigorously displaying their undying love for one another.

Right. Now.

Oh god.

It's catching.

The man in the car next to me is rolling his eyes at me.

What does it mean when he smiles at me like that?

Maybe his underwear is too tight.

I guess I'll never know.

His tie appears to have gotten wrapped around the steering wheel.

Now his eyes are rolling in the opposite direction.

God, men confuse me.

RECESSION FASHION P.S.

Memorial Day weekend is upon us and we can celebrate the beginning of summer! Whee!! Wear a comfy pair of shorts and a cool tank. Throw on some shoe bling and relax.

The Committee for a National Mountain Day

I was a giant goober this weekend.

I drove to Massachusetts for my 15th reunion at Mount Holyoke College and cried.

A lot.

I cried driving on to campus, I cried during the Laurel Parade, I cried driving home from campus, and even memorialized my shnuffles at one point on the love of my life's voicemail.

It is amazing how four years out of 37 can define you.

For many people the decision to attend college is intense. For a lucky segment of the population attending college is a given.

Whichever group you were in, chances are you spent a great deal of your high school years contemplating college and its myriad possibilities.

Admittedly, an all female college experience is a hard sell to the average hormonal teenage girl.

As I roamed campus this weekend, contemplating the art museum, the athletic awards, the faculty and innovative curriculum, I thought back to the point in high school when I made my decision to attend MHC.

My mother being of the era when women's colleges were the norm, was the one who introduced me to them - I actually think my best college interview hands down was at Wellesley. Mom even sent me on a prospective visit to Smith.

But Mount Holyoke wasn't on the radar screen. Something about her childhood chum Lou getting sent home from MHC for being scathingly unprepared in the art of constructing a good sentence had scared the bejeezus out of her. A cautionary tale oft repeated to me throughout my four years at MHC. I kid you not, on graduation day Momgoose let out a deep breath and said thank god they did not send you home like Lou!

The schools were nice, I liked New England and could care less by the women only thing - however I remained ambivalent.

But on that fateful prospective weekend at Smith my junior year of high school, I toodled over to visit my godsister at Mount Holyoke. We strolled across the campus chatting and eventually arrived at a waterfall.

Thirty-six hours later I arrived home to my mother's anxious inquiry - Did you just love Smith??

Actually no! I said. However, Mount Holyoke is the best school in the world! Did you know they have two waterfalls??

The best decision I have ever made was because of a waterfall.

I had no idea that I would meet the smartest, craziest, caring, uncommon women who would challenge me, love me, school me and accept me.

Whether we chose Mount Holyoke for its curriculum, riding or crew, the arts program, or because it had a waterfall - we came together and made a home.

And in the immortal words of L. Frank Baum -- There is no place like home.

What's on Tap?

"I find people with children to be tyrants," she said. "As someone who doesn't have children, I think children are fine. I don't think they own everything." (1)

Recently there have been a number of articles in The New York Times and Washington Post with negative commentary on parents of toddlers and babies hanging out in bars or popular restaurants.

This is not a new war -- parent v. non-parent brawls have been raging since the 80's. But now I have a perspective from both sides.

Among the apparent blights on a restaurant or bar's ambience is the intrepid stroller. I get that.

We got the Bugaboo Chameleon and all of its tricked out humvee glory. And man, is it a pain in the tuckus. It is bulky, heavy and maneuvers around corners with the agility of a rhinoceros.

I much prefer our current slimline Maclaren fold up - leaves us lots of space for the party of four at the table next to us -- make that six -- oh wait seven - to add chairs to their table as their friends decide to join them for dinner.

Another infringement on the dining / drinking experience is the child. They talk. Apparently, loudly. In a cafe. During happy hour.

That young whipper snapper generation thinks of everything! The new bar happy hour - a quiet, contemplative space. Genius!

But seriously, babies and children are loud. They can disrupt the low murmur of respectable adults enjoying an adult experience in a lovely setting.

They can...*ring* All the single ladies! *ring* All the single ladies! *ring* "Hello? We are at the steak house. What? Speak up I cannot hear you!"

...they can...

"Yeah, that steak house. No the last time we got seafood I got sick, remember? In July. I said July! Yeah, it was awful."

...pardon the interruption, there is someone across the room taking a cell call...

"So where are you? Let me ask. Frank wants to know where we are going next? Wait, Frank let me call you back, it's really loud in here! There's a baby ya know. A baby I said! Okay let me call you back."

Uh-huh. The baby is always the problem.

Yes, there are parents who treat the public landscape like their own personal daycare. Yes, I have wanted to throttle a munchkin or two on the airplane.

But.

Giving birth does not regulate one to the house after 4pm.

No, I am not going to haul widdums to the bar with me at 9pm and throw back a few before a couple of rounds of beer pong. But yes, when said pub has outside seating and it is 6pm on a Friday of a long week, yeah, I am going hook up the booster seat and grab a libation.

Not only is it my responsibility as a parent to pay attention to the environment in which I introduce my child but I am equally responsible to pay attention to how my child interacts with that environment.

I am aware of those around me - but I cannot help it if Baby C is having a bad day. I'll move as quickly as possible to extricate the wailing time bomb. What I wish is that everyone else had the same consideration - those with AND without children.

But I am not hoisting the gangplank for 18 years before I venture in to a three star restaurant with my whole family.

(1) New Baby Boom Fosters Culture Clash: Parents vs. Public Spaces By Annys Shin, Washington Post Staff Writer , Sunday, May 16, 2010.

Comfort Food

One of the very first things a mother worries about is food.

From how long to breastfeed to when to start solids to juice or no juice to peanut allergies to scheduling family meal time -- food plays a primary part of the mothering role.

Food is a wonderful thing.

Perfectly salted, warm edemame.

Deep fried snickers.

Liver pate on toast points.

I have no patience for food snobs.

A palate should sample, compare, reject and crave. Your palate should drive your food appreciation. You should not dictate what your palate will or won't like. This is the theory upon which I hope to approach food with Baby C.

As a mother of a daughter, I am well aware of the potential issues that may revolve around food as she enters the years of body awareness / obsession. I can only hope that I instill in her the same love for and appreciation of food that my mother instilled in me.

My mother was a gourmand before her time and still is - and I was blessed to sample the riches.

In my toddler years my mother was a SAHM and we started every day settling in to breakfast - me with my 3 scrambled eggs. Every day.

Dinner time was a nothing to it (!!!) feast of cheese souffle or chicken a la king with homemade pastry or prime rib and yorkshire pudding or brunswick stew.

The neatest thing about my mom is that she appreciates food at all levels of the spectrum. Many a weekend morning we would careen out of the house in our bathrobes to the Hardee's drive thru for sausage biscuits before the menu switched to lunch.

Dinner was ALWAYS sit down as a family. Always.

Even after the divorce and she was working her tuckus off we had a full dinner, table set, conversation rolling. Comfort food defined.

And on those nights when time was tight and her multi-tasking was stretched to its limit we still sat down to dinner. Like the time during tax season when we hit the local High's for banana splits for dinner -- we SAT down in the High's to eat them as a family and discuss our day before rushing off to the accountant.

Seriously.

I love my mom.

The other food lesson I have learned from my mom is that there is no proper food for a certain age. We ate what was served us and it was what my parents were eating and we did not leave the table until a good effort was made to eat it.

She did not obssess over whether, say, by introducing cheese grits before the baked potato it would decrease the likelihood that I would settle for the potato after enjoying the gooey grits. It was not an option - if the potato was on the table, the potato was it, take it or leave it. She was not alarmed that I downed her divinity candy like a child on crack because, I attacked the nightly waldorf side salad with the same vigor.

Mom was no food tyrant. We were not guilted into submission by tales of starving children. Rather it was her attitude toward food that drew us in. She just plain loves food. It is evident in the ease with which she moves in the kitchen, the pride in the presentation of a dish and her fascination with foods of different cultures.

For my mom, whether making a grilled cheese or baking sally lunn bread, food is creativity and comfort and caring. It is not a puzzle of creating the “proper” food combination to fuel the future Secretary of State. (Although…)

I was reminded of this a few weeks ago. At the store Baby C spotted a set of juice boxes. At this point we have not introduced juice to Baby C's food regimen. But lo and behold Baby C points to the juice box and says clear as day, "Juice!".

Well hell.

I started to fluff and flutter that she had obviously had juice somewhere. I was a possessed woman. No juice! No juice!!

Then my mom put it all in perspective.

"It is juice. Wait until she eats an entire bottle of Scooby vitamins in one sitting (that would be me) or actively requests a hit of the kiddy codeine (me again). By the way, do you think she would like some of my crab dip if I made it?"

We had not tested shellfish yet. Sigh.

Clearly, I need to take a few more pointers from mom. I need to roll with it and let Baby C join me as a non-discriminating admirer of food, glorious food!!

(Except restaurant buffets. They skeeze me out.)

For years to come I will make Baby C my mom’s recipes and hope that along the way I teach her manners, how to say grace, the right utensils to eat and cook with, to love family mealtime…to appreciate food.

In all of its many fabulous forms.

The Newest Entry in K's Guilt Hall of Fame

Mom guilt is universal.

I signed up for it, I get that. I accept it - not very graciously but I accept it.

Okay, so I fuss about it, obsess over it, over compensate...but still, it was no surprise that there would be mom guilt.

Recently, I have begun experiencing a new kind of mom guilt - a kind of sub-category I will call spousal guilt.

This sub-guilt comes with a nasty viral strain of annoyance making it rather complex and immune to known antibiotics such as massage, mystery books and jewelry.

Things at work have heated up recently and in true gentlemanly form the love of my life has offered on occasion to be the "pick up" for Baby C's care in the evening so I can work late.

Typically he has morning duty and I, the evening, which requires my leaving at precisely always too soon o'clock from work. Which can be frustrating if you have for instance, recently had your workload doubled.

So the guilt...

What if I do not feel like working late on the evening proffered??

What if tomorrow is better? What if it is better next Tuesday when, unbeknownst to me, hell shall wrent a jag in my deadlines and I will need to work late?

What if I say "No, thanks. Not tonight." - will that say to the love of my life that I am not really that busy such that I am not jumping like a parched runner in the Sahara 10K at the chance for time to keep working?

Is there something wrong with me that I am not grasping at every opportunity get my work done and excel, heck, maybe even exceed mine and other's expectations?

On a good day I say nay.

I say well, maybe it is because I lay awake last night making mental lists of house and work stuff and that my early morning accomplished two tasks around house before leaving for work and tonight when I get home I have four more things to get done and I'll actually probably toodle on some work stuff too -- so noooo...tonight isn't going to work to stay late at the office.

On an average day I figure I am really just lazy.

But there it is. A simple thing really.

A kind offer of time.

So why is it that my immediate thought is - Time on someone else's terms?

That, my friends, is my new guilt.

Campfire Songs

As we age we obsess over turning back the clock and how we want to be remembered.

When I die I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered over the Pisgah National Forest in Asheville, North Carolina. Because, nestled in Asheville is a place that defines how I want to be remembered.

Camp Kahdalea.

It is camp. In every sense of the idyllic, stereotypical, movie set way. And to a latch key, kid who made friends sparingly it was heaven.

I found my childhood soul mate in the form of rolling green hills and frolicking horses and wooden gazebos.

Over the years I was a camper, a junior counselor and a counselor at Kahdalea. Originally founded in 1962 by Julie and Monty Oates, my first taste of Kahdalea came tinged with the sweet southern caress of the strong, South Carolinian hand of Julie Oates – we learned riflery and we had nut cups at the end of summer banquet.

Nut cups. It was sublime.

(I later taught riflery as a counselor...yep, that was kinda cool.)

Although Kahdalea was sold, during my time there, I still believe the current owners understood then (and still do) what Kahdalea is and I plan to make sure Baby C gets to experience it.

What is “it”?

It is not a memory, not the time the horse bit my leg open while I was teaching riding, not a particular friend, not learning how to rock climb, not Slippery Rock or Ghost Town Amusement Park, or seven 10’s in cabin inspection worth of Biltmore ice cream or Christmas in July.

My second to last summer as a camper I was tapped to be an Honor Camper. Girls are selected based on a specific trait that they have exhibited in an exemplary fashion throughout the camp term.

A handful of girl’s each summer are chosen to wear the silver K on their green kerchiefs, sit on the Honor Council and lead Friday night campfires every week.

I confess I am not sure today, where my silver K and kerchief are stored.

But I do remember the characteristic for which I was tapped.

Dependability.

(Some of you can stop laughing now.)

I am 37 years old. I was tapped to be an Honor Camper when I was 14.

Twenty-three years later I still cringe when I realize I have engaged in undependable behavior.

For every unreturned email, lapsed thank you note, plan cancelled - I feel it in my gut that I am letting a third party down – Kahdalea. And frankly, that kills me a bit more than the impact on the poor soul I have just blown off (without meaning too!).

I confess that I believe I have not lived up to the expectation – the strength - that others saw in me.

And those of you, who know me well, know that I try. I really do. But dependability is not necessarily in my top three attributes.

So that is the “it”.

One thing. One silly camp ritual. One major impact on a young girl.

In this day and age of botox and cleansing diets and pilates and all such forms of regaining or clinging to youth there is only one thing I regret about aging.

That I have lost that which made me stand out among others; that made others have faith in me.

So with every pilates hundred to wear last year’s size jeans, I will work to gain back the right to wear my silver K.


RECESSION FASHION P.S.
The nude shoe is "it" this spring and summer. I am in love with the Nine West Gleamy heeled sandal in Natural Leather. Wear it with shorts, cargo pants, jeans, or sassy sundresses.
http://tinyurl.com/y7cze2p

NOT The One With Joey's Bag

God forbid you are in an accident; the enduring fear is that you are not wearing clean underwear.

Seriously, is this really a consideration? If laundry has gotten that out of hand I’m going commando before I dig in to the dirty clothes pile.

And I guess that puts a whole different spin on things.

But really it is not what I am wearing but rather what is in my purse that I have always thought mattered more should perfect strangers need to identify me.

I tip toward the morbid in my inner monologue. So much so that in my twenties, a time when I took a lot of long walks by myself, I ordered a Road ID velcro info tag that attached to my sneaker.

I chose that brand primarily because in addition to emergency contact information, you could add a brief motivational statement. In case I was a missing person I wanted to have something that the media could share that helped give some insight about me.

I know.

Anyway, as you know by now I love fashion and have been pouring over the lists of spring must haves. For all of my fashion passion I have never grasped the “It Bag” concept.

Why does a bag define /chronicle who you want to project?

For a woman, it is what lies in the depths of her purse that speaks more to the life she leads than just a trendy vehicle for carrying her wallet.

The truth is our purses and their contents are an intimate, all access pass snapshot of who we are, what we prioritize and how we live.

In the 90’s many of the beauty and fashion magazines regularly had a “What’s in Your Purse / Make-up Bag?” piece featuring a model or celebrity. Inevitably a famous mother of twins carried her beauty essentials of *just* Chanel lipstick and argon oil, gum, keys to her Saab and her Crunch Fitness membership ID.

Um, yeah.

I used to try to create a perfect purse and its contents in my mind that would convey the person I was aspiring to be – a buttery, saddle colored, leather Chloe hobo bag containing a deep amythest python clutch style wallet, my passport (just in case), a decorative lipstick case (okay, seriously, who has time to snap open a case, remove tube and swipe on your lipstick?!), a book I am halfway through reading and my old Blackberry (I loathe my iPhone but please don’t tell the love of my life!).

And here is my purse in real life as of this moment – a JPK Paris cocoa, nylon and leather bucket bag (washes off anything, this is more for me than the 20 month old) containing:
- a stretched out red leather Levenger wallet with receipts from my exciting business trip to Philly,
- a pepperspray dispenser bedazzled with Swarvoski crystals and a skull and bones motif,
- four finger crayons in blue, purple, red and green,
- a small black nylon bag with two bobby pins, three bandaids and two different kinds of chapstick,
- a book I haven’t started but have been toting around for a month,
- a key chain with a stuffed lobster in a mini MHC tshirt,
- two cheerios,
- a receipt from my Bliss facial,
- my iPhone *sigh*,
- my federal government id with the broken key to my file cabinets (rob this cubicle!),
- two miniature 1000 Grand chocolate bars, and
- a skin brightening serum for which I paid too much.

I would like to think that if anyone found my purse they would think I was a pretty decent person. I am fairly down to earth (chapstick & Philly) and care about safety (pepperspray & bandaids). I am a mom (crayons & cheerios) but I am also a woman (facial receipt & serum). I have dreams (the unread book) and reality (the work ID).

Not sure what the stuffed lobster says.

I think though that I am okay with what the contents of my purse say about me. I like the jumble of chaos and splurge and real that accompanies me every day in my purse. It is a comforting reminder of who I am and the life I am building.

RECESSION FASHION P.S.
I own four different kinds of mascara. I adore mascara. I never *ever* leave the house without mascara. On a recent trip I FORGOT mascara. Crisis. I ran to the nearest mascara supply - Rite Aid - to get mascara. Now I am not totally ridiculous - knowing I had a supply at home I grabbed the Wet n Wild econo-brand mascara and called it done. Well hello bright eyes! For $1.99 I have found my new go to mascara -- Wet n Wild MegaProtein Mascara in black. One swipe (post eyelash curler) and I had glossy, long lashes. No kidding. $1.99. Run. Now.

A Link On The Laurel Chain

March is National Women’s History month.

This is a recent honor for the month better known for its lion and lamb-like qualities.

I have spent some time assessing how to approach a posting about this honor to females. I considered everything from erudite musings to feminist debates to just plain snarkiness.

Then yesterday a headline caught my eye and I knew what I wanted - needed - to say.

In January, 15-year old Phoebe Prince, committed suicide allegedly as a result of vicious bullying by students at South Hadley High School in South Hadley, Massachusetts.

Up to the moment I read that headline, the name of that bucolic town in Western Massachusetts represented to me a community of female empowerment, intellectual enlightenment and all things good.

I attended Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts. Mount Holyoke is a women’s college and next door is Smith College, another bastion of female education. While the two institutions exhibit different personalities they share the same mission of creating a space for growth and leadership of women, for women.

To know that just down the road from my beautiful school, recently a young women was so lost from her own self-worth that she gave up, is heart wrenching. And to know that other young women played a part in destroying her self worth is even more disturbing.

Bullying has become an extreme issue in our schools. What was once a mild playground initiation has become a physical, sexual and mental torment that is resulting in an alarming pattern of teen suicides and hospitalizations. While states are stepping up and passing anti-bullying laws and schools are implementing bullying education, there are other factors impacting kids that encourage them to bully.

We can impact society’s youth. By our example, our vigilance, our ability to recognize another woman for the value that she is.

How lucky was I to spend four years in an environment that showed me what I could accomplish and prepared me for the slings and arrows of the world - to be immersed in a history of women leading, fighting, solving and inventing.

And down the road was South Hadley High School where young women were maybe not (I dare say probably not) getting that same message.

This is March, Women’s History Month. We would not have a history if there had not been women before us who linked arms with one another and said “You and I are worth it!”

So, what have I done to share this power with another young woman to continue the laurel chain?

Not nearly enough.

The Road I Wish Was Less Travelled

"Sometimes it's a bitch; sometimes it's a breeze." - Stevie Nicks

I have been in a funk.

I find that the rhythm of my life leads me through this funk with a certain predictability. I am one of those people that needs alone time - time by myself to gather my thoughts, my sense of self and sense of place. While this sounds rather enlightened, it merely means I need everybody to clear out so I can just be by myself for a minute. If I do not get that time on a regular basis things really go out of whack.

The path always starts out the same – my schedule is on overload. I am double-booked, Plan B’s are called in to action, my sanity savers fall by the wayside and soon ain’t nobody happy cause Momma ain’t happy.

Then begins the potholed and rutted dirt road of discontent. I am irritable and cannot be pleased because while my life is full and vital, I HAVE NO TIME FOR MYSELF. Ah, the inevitable blow up (the sign reads Bridge Out). I start ticking off all the stuff that needs to get done before I can relax. Because here is the kicker, I do not delegate. My name is K and I am a control freak. The love of my life, with the “here we go again” weary voice asks what he can do to help only to hear me shrilly remind him that only I know how to fold laundry. You see how this goes…

Then I hit the long, two lane highway of procrastination. Piles are so high, lists are so long, my guilt is so strong, that I cannot muster the wherewithal to do anything. My brain merely circulates the phrase “I am a sloth.” over and over and not even hearing an annoying song on the radio can dislodge it.

I soon arrive at the winding mountain road where each hairpin curve alternately represents self-doubt and guilt. Hairpin curve #1 – My proposal just got rewritten three times at work so I am frantic that people are wondering if I can do my job. Hairpin curve #2 – I am a terrible mother because today I would rather come home from work and take a hot bath and go to sleep than cuddle and play with my toddler. Hairpin curve #3 – I go ages before checking in with my friends and live in fear that one day they’ll get tired of it. Hairpin curve #4 – I snap at the love of my life, then spend the next 24 hours agonizing over how many more snaps he’ll put up with.

Eventually, the road ends at the ocean. I have a couple of hours or a day to myself to do what needs to be done for me. Often this entails a day of organizing closets. Really, that is all it takes. However, I never underestimate a mindless moment that erases, for a brief instant, any reminders of obligation. On a recent girl’s weekend away, I left my friends and returned to my hotel room in the afternoon to just be – essentially, I stalked around in my underwear eating Funyuns from the bag and watching reruns of the King of Queens. And I felt like a million bucks.

While You Were Out...

I am off for a week of relaxation and respite.

While I am gone I thought I would share with you some blogs that I read. They are inspiring, fun and beautiful insights in to people's lives.

I believe each of the authors is courageous and I think of them before I hit the "publish" button on my posts.

I hope you enjoy them too!

My friend Julie and her determined journey toward adoption that is so full of grace.

http://tinyurl.com/yad5wtr

My friend JB whose convictions are as strong and steady as his shoulder in friendship.

http://tinyurl.com/yjgrg33

My friend Mike whose soul fulfilling cycling journey to raise funding for Parkinson's research made me laugh, cry and cheer.

(This is not a blog with current posts but well worth the read.)

http://tinyurl.com/ykk8v8t

Enjoy!!

Recession Fashion P.S.

I adore this fashion blog - Cheap Chicas.

www.cheapchicas.com

Sense-ability

Every now and then there is a scent that wafts by or a song overheard. A brief taste that dislodges distant memories. A moment remembered.

You know the kind of memory of which I speak. They sneak up on you and for a few pleasant seconds you are transported to a time and place that make you smile.

While these memory snapshots are fleeting, there are a few that I hold in special rotation.

The smell of Grape Hubba Bubba

Warm sun. My sister is inspecting the summer reading list - prioritizing which Newbery Award books "we" would read first. List in hand we walked down main street to the public library. A small town affair in a stately, old brick building cooling itself. In through the screen door to the darkened, quiet; sis would check out the maximum allotted stack of books. Back down main street I would trail behind her. Next stop Gray's drugstore where we would stock up on Hubba Bubba, cowtails, bottle caps and giant sweettarts. Once home, the main event of the day began with a lick of the lips and a rattle of the cellophane book cover. Sis began to read outloud.

Polka music

As Secretary of the Senate for the Student Government Association my junior year of college I edited the SGA newsletter every month. Procrastination often found me very early on Sunday mornings plugging away at the computer in the SGA office - read closet - for the Monday deadline buried in the back of the Blanchard Campus Center. That first morning I lost one of my nine lives when the polka music came blasting over the PA system. As I skidded around the corner to the main part of the campus center to see what was happening, I am not sure who was more startled - me or the housekeeping staff. And so we settled into a routine, the staff and I. My very own Sundays in the campus center with polka.

Atlantic Ocean breeze

There is a certain smell possessed by the Virginia section of the Atlantic Ocean. When mixed with the scent of freshly laundered linen and an old school wall air conditioner, you get The Avamere. At least once a year, I am transported there purely by a ghost scent. The Avamere is a past era where the switch board operator listened in to your room and send a messenger to the beach to let you know your baby had awoken from the nap. Where Clarence, the owner, greeted three sometimes four generations of a family summer after summer. Where you dressed for dinner and as a 7 year old you delighted in the glamour of shrimp cocktail. Everyone rocked on the front porch facing the ocean after dinner and we were the early explorers of the 17th Street surf shops. The Avamere is long gone, its comforting facade a hazy memory reflected in the shiny new high rises.

Our sensory abilities give us the gift of survival and pleasure so that we fully engage and enjoy life.

Our senses play so many roles. They warn us, they indulge us, and they guide us.

They show us what is ahead of us.

But perhaps their greatest ability is when our senses remind us of where we have been and what we have been through.

RECESSION FASHION P.S.

Run, do not walk to get this great jacket for spring and summer. This jacket from White House Black Market will shine at work, star with jeans and make any LBD stand out from the crowd!

http://tinyurl.com/ybml5dc

Beachy Keen

Itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny; may not be for you or me.

A few days ago I was discussing swim suits with my sister. It was not wishful thinking – in a few days I am blowing this literal popsicle stand for the golden beaches of Jamaica to celebrate my tenth wedding anniversary. A few short weeks later sis is hitting the rarefied sands of Grand Cayman.

Thus, like the annual exodus of the bear from hibernation, we were poking our noses into the air and reviewing our options for exposure.

I may have mentioned that now that she was of a certain age, the string bikini was less of an option.

Silence.

Don’t get me wrong – sis is a bird-like specimen who has to blow out her stomach to fill out a size four. (We look nothing alike. I got the Nordic genes…oh yay.)

So clearly she COULD wear a string bikini quite well. But…and here I will trot out my favorite mantra of all time…just because you CAN, doesn’t mean you SHOULD.

My daughter is going to learn to loathe that statement.

Because even 40 year old actresses whose whole life revolves around being at peak physical attractiveness, look atrocious in a string bikini. (Hint: CLICK HERE FOR PHOTO EVIDENCE)

At some point, age appropriateness wins out over our body’s ability to stay young. Thus, the string bikini, the mini skirt, and the skinny jean stop making you look good and slide rather closer to making you look like you are trying to shave seven years off your age.

You would be better off just making do with the thrill when the obviously in training tween waiter asks for your photo ID as you order your cocktail.

This hardly means bikinis are out altogether. Cleavage at any age, when done right - can cause its own heat wave. There are plenty of well cut bottoms that still use words in their descriptions such as “low rise” and “rio”.

You can still be a sexy beach bunny - just a wiser, more experienced rabbit!


RECESSION FASHION P.S.

Ever since Victoria's Secret started putting 13 year old models in their swimsuit photos, thoroughly skeezing me out, I troll the Venus swimwear catalogue. Not every suit is a winner but they have a plentiful selection and a super swim bottom style finder.

Here are two winners:
http://tinyurl.com/yeqoeca
http://tinyurl.com/y8oonxl

AND Swim Bottom Style Finder: http://tinyurl.com/yl2tby4

Olympic Inspiration

This weekend has been rather humbling.

It started like any other - takeout night, Jonah's Treehouse for the Coop, a workout here, an Whole Foods visit there. I never saw the Olympic gold or the emergency room visit coming. Nor did I see their inevitable connection.


Saturday night Alexandre Bilodeau won Canada's first gold medal of the 2010 games. Almost as well highlighted as his unlikely mogul prowess was his older brother with whom he was best friends. His older brother, shown cheering on the sidelines with all his heart, has cerebral palsy.


After his win Alexandre was asked what was his inspiration. Most people might remember his interview for his girlfriend throwing herself at him for an olympic sized snog. I, however, can still hear his words.


"Even if it is raining, I'll take it, I'll go train," Bilodeau said. "He [brother Frederick] doesn't have that chance, and he's having a smile every morning he wakes up."


I, too, have cerebral palsy. And find myself in the Jekyll and Hyde limbo land that is to wake up smiling every morning knowing it could be a hell of a lot worse but also waking up knowing that there are many every day things I cannot do.


Hearing Bilodeau's words were inspirational. We should all greet each day to give it everything we have got, to not waste what we have been given -- no matter how flawed.


So I awoke this morning thinking how much I needed that reality check. I used to be fearless - rock climbing and water polo and rugby and national presentations in four inch heels. Clearly, I don't wallow in the negative of CP.


I have, however, found myself frustrated more often by what I cannot do, since the birth of my daughter. But today, with Bilodeau's words echoing in my head, I was mentally charged and ready to attack the day - reminded that I have so much to smile about.


Hours later I was rushing my 18 month old in to the emergency room with a deep, bloody gash in her forehead. In that moment, I was drowning in fear.


Not the fear you would think, I knew intellectually that she would be fine. The wound would heal, there was no neurological damage, she would forget about this day very soon.


All I could hear in my head was - What if she is noticeably scarred? What if she looks different than other little girls? I was all over the negative.


While I thrill at the thought that Baby C will defy stereotypes, bust through barriers and display all the traits of a baby buffalo; I want her to do so without any physical anomalies.


Illogical. I know.


I do not want her to be perfect, far from it. I want her to have ruts and ridges, just not the kind that make store clerks ask her if she has tried some new kind of therapy or have little kids stage whisper ask their mothers what's wrong with her.


Hypothetically.


I wanted to stand up and shout, "I told you so!".


I told you that all of my irrational fears would come true. I told you so when I grilled my doctor about CP lightning striking twice, I told you so when my family tried to assure me that Baby C would not face my challenges.



Yes. I told you so.


I told you life wasn't easy. Accidents will happen. Challenges must be faced. What ifs will plague you. There will be blood and tears and fear.


And even, lasting mementos of a life lived in full.


Tomorrow morning I will wake up smiling. Because I can and so can Baby C and for that I am blessed.

Mars and Venus

Maybe my Tivo is to blame.

Or Mad Men.

I never watch commercials anymore. So imagine my shock on Sunday during the Super Bowl when I discovered that the advertising creative community had sunk to that of its lowest member.

And no, I am not talking about the Tim Tebow commercial, I will spare you that diatribe - I will say that the ad's premise would have resonated better with me had it just been any average mom with an average kid. Anyhoo.

I am referring to the tired and overplayed themes of "please, take my wife", philandering, wives emasculating men, etc. predominating this year's Super Bowl commercials. According to Shannon O'Toole, author of Wedded to the Game, women make up 43% of the NFL fan base. This number may not be exact but most polls have shown that over the past 15 years the percentage of female football fans has increased.

Seriously, we still think plain girl versus pretty girl is enticing to any consumer?

It does make me wonder who the heck was in the room when some yahoo sold the humor in the concept about a woman stealing her husband's spine so he would shop with her. Yeah. Give me a minute to stop laughing. Me and the other women who make up 46.5% of the US workforce.

Once I stop laughing, I would like to point out that the unemployment rate in January for women was 8.6% and 11.2% for men.

I shudder to use the following phrase for the 3 zillionth time -- but in this economy, you would think advertisers would shy away from alienating any consumers. You would also imagine that advertisers' research and development departments would do a little detective work to come up with informative nuggets such as:

That 75% of the employed women hold full-time employment. That means women drive a lot of the consumer market. They buy for themselves, their significant others, their children, and their friends.

Women earn 73 cents for every dollar a man makes yet women make 85% of consumer purchases.

This means that there is...was...a possibility that a woman watching the Super Bowl would engage with Teleflora, E*Trade, Bridgestone, or FloTV. Yep, I am calling you out just in case anyone forgot who spent millions of dollars on advertising to insult the majority of potential consumers.

So, Bridgestone et al., take a long hard look at these numbers and try again - the Super Bowl comes around again next year and I hear the economic recovery could take awhile.

Eighteen Months

This week the Super Cooper will be a year and half old and the Winter Olympics start.

Exactly eighteen months ago Cooper was born on the first day of the Summer Olympics. I can honestly say that when she was born I thought I would be the perfect mom. I would be so together and get it all right. Or at least not care what other moms thought about my mothering skills.

Yeah, well, I was wrong.

So, so wrong.

I have been less than perfect and lord knows, I barely get it right. I'll never understand why they let someone still trying to figure things out, guide another being through life.

One thing I have begun to take in stride is worrying about parenting critiques. I am sadistically addicted to a local moms listserve that serves only to shred my parenting self-confidence. There is no end to the list of parenting faux pas in which I appear to have engaged.

So today, in full disclosure, I give you 9 moments in Olympic Cooper parenting history.

1. I have let Cooper watch television -- she is especially fond of Spanish court tv and ice skating.

2. I have introduced Cooper to the enjoyment of the enveloping quiet of the car while I have returned the shopping cart.

3. I have never, wondered, questioned or begrudged Marta, our nanny, the free down time when Cooper naps - whether she watches tv, takes a nap, whatever, I figure it makes her happier and rested for the rest of the day.

4. On multiple occasions I have kept Cooper in her pajamas all day, even while running errands.

5. One of Cooper's first words was bye-bye, practiced each day as I leave for work -- and I am totally alright with that.

6. I have flown Cooper cross-country, roundtrip, twice as a lap child.

7. I never gave Cooper rice cereal, she started eating with fruit solids.

8. Cooper has a suggested bedtime.

9. Weekly dinners tend to be heavily populated by takeout food.

My next faux pas will be keeping Cooper up for the Super Bowl.

Now she is starting to mimic me and this holds potential for even greater faux pas. I guess it could be worse...it has only been eighteen months.

Sharing is a Two Way Street

Driving in DC, many people have experienced various levels of road rage. I know I certainly have – I have a mental picture of a weeble wobble© world where I can vent my frustration by just ramming into the offending car but it just weeble wobbles with no harm done.

However, nothing spikes my blood pressure like driving on the road with a bicyclist.

More than 52,000 bicyclists have been killed in bicycle traffic accidents in the U.S. over the 80 years the federal government has been keeping records. No argument, that stinks.

It is not an ideal situation – large, fast moving, metal and steel objects sharing a relatively small space with completely unprotected human beings on two thin wheels. Yep, pretty much a recipe for disaster. The majority view of cars and bicycles sharing the road is akin to David and Goliath.


However, may I remind you, David won that battle.

In my experience, the bicyclist is one of the most entitled creatures I have found in the commuting world. They are quick to howl and flip you off if you begin to turn right and did not see them in your blind spot. But they are just as quick to weave in between cars in traffic and ignore stop signs trying to skim through the intersection between moving vehicles.

Let me go out on a limb here and make a suggestion – If bicyclists consistently followed the basic rules of the road with the same dedication they request of vehicle drivers, the roads may just be safer for all.


RECESSION FASHION P.S.
The stupid groundhog may be lazy but we can still dream about spring! DC spring usually has a nip to it so skip past the woolly and slip on this bright cardigan!
http://tinyurl.com/ybs6af2

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Friday was my annual review at work. I wore a suit.

I was also approached by a number of people asking why I was wearing a suit on a Friday -- an habitually casual dress day in the Federal government. When told I was dressed for my review the responses ranged from a snort, to confused looks, to being called a suck up.

Seriously? A suit that says I respect professionalism, am proud of my work ethic, and yes, want to present a polished appearance is snort-worthy? Apparently, this makes me a bit of an amusement.

Am I the only one who positively cringes when I see baseball hats, bare midriffs, and shorts proclaiming the wearer to be juicy, strolling through the White House tours? Or that flip-flops are the preferred summer business attire staple?

As most of you know, I love clothes so I do march to the beat of my own drum in that regard.

My colleague and I often debate the purpose of professional clothing or the fact that professional attire should not fade in to anachranistic oblivion. I often come away from these discussions with the uncomfortable feeling that I am a snob.

If I am, than I will own that. In this instance.

My colleague has a valid argument that often people feel they should be judged on the quality of their work not the type of clothes they are wearing. This makes sense. I do not prescribe to the dictate that only a suit can look professional - there are plenty of professional outfits that do not involve the black or navy suit - but so often we zoom right past the compromise zone. I have arrived at meetings with outside contractors who are wearing unpressed khakis, sneakers and a sweatshirt.

And I think - Oh, they must have forgotten they had a meeting today. Sorry, but that is my first thought.

Let us not fool ourselves. Clothes are not what drive business decisions, nor is your business attire a competency in your performance evaluation. Clothes are, however, another way of expressing who you are, how you want to be perceived and they can set the tone for interactions with others throughout your day.

When we walk out of our front door every morning, we begin a journey of mutual respect in interacting with our professional colleagues that day. I respect the decisions and values you make today and vice versa. I respect your time and energy you are sharing with me today. For me, part of that is showing up presenting a tableau of polished, prepared professionalism - from my brainstorming abilities to my pressed skirt and combed hair.

My review went really well. I am pleased and my future looks bright. My director never once commented on my suit or the fact that it was a Friday so I need not have dressed up. I doubt she even noticed.

RECESSION FASHION P.S.

So snow came, it lingers and it shall come again. SOS!! Save your shoes!! While still looking stylish! Try these yummy boots on for your commuting pleasure.

http://tinyurl.com/ygg5pnr

Safety First

I like to be liked. It is not as if I go along to get along but I do work hard not to ruffle feathers. I have had my Sally Fields' moments when I realize people like me and it amazes me.

I admit I tend to sugarcoat things, worry too much about what others think of me, and spend a lot of energy being deferential to complete strangers. I keep my cards close to my chest for the simple reason that well, I would rather play it safe.

A lot of effort goes into living your life in neutral. You fear that moment when emotion might overtake careful control. I do not really know when that fear of isolation took over my socialization skills but I battle it back continually.

During the State of the Union, amidst the pundits, the anticipation, the politics and the prose I envied President Obama. He stood up in front of the globe and said just what he thought. He told off the Supreme Court, chastised the Republicans and even smacked his own party on the nose. Just like that. He did it knowing he might lose some friends, anger people and be validly refuted.

It was like watching an American Idol audition -- horrifying yet you wished you had the guts to do it.

This blog is a sign that I am making great strides in moving outside my comfort zone. What if you do not like what I have to say? What if you never realized I held that opinion? What if...my daughter grew up to view me as inauthentic?

Life gives you many chances to hide your feelings and many opportunities to share them. You can find yourself agreeing with someone because you have known them forever or keeping quiet about something because someone you admire would not agree with you. The perspective needs to change for me, I need to value my own voice.

I will continue to strive toward my own Sally Fields' moment where, I like me, I really like me.

RECESSION FASHION P.S.

I received a Nine West gift card for my birthday - oh lucky me!! - so I have been scoping the site. I adore these on trend for spring gladiators (in grey leather) to wear with capris, minis and jeans!!

http://tinyurl.com/yep27gw

Little Bowls

**Today I am honored to share with you a piece from a guest blogger. Shelley Cohen is an amazing woman, mom, wife, environmental warrior and, luckiest of all for me, friend. I hope to showcase more of her life snapshots that she has so artfully displayed in today's post.**

Little bowls. I have tons of little bowls. Little bowls stacked in cabinets and stored in drawers. Little bowls for dunking, little bowls for condiments like wasabi and spicy mustard, and even little pickle and olive bowls.

In my world, lots of little bowls translates to being a hip hostess. I could throw a mean party and serve an array of exciting hors d'oeuvres, petit fours, and munchies to satisfy even the most discerning palates. Each hors d'oeuvres required it own array of specialty bowls to complete the taste and visual look of the dish. Cocktail franks with gourmet dipping mustards, sushi dunked in wasabi and soy, and mini crab cakes with a dollop of old bay sauce were all crowd pleasers. As the hostess, I was thrilled by the chorus of ohhhs and ahhhs received from grateful guests.

Now-a-days, my little bowls have transitioned to a different, and some would argue, more meaningful/less shallow purpose. My little bowls fit perfectly into the grasp of a special pair of little hands. Ten little fingers wrap delicately around my hip little bowls, carting around precious cargo like blue berries and Cheerios, bobbling up and down as she darts from room to room and tries gingerly not to spill. Her palate is equally as discerning, and her reactions equally as appreciative. Except now, verbal accolades are reduced to one word… WOW.

I may no longer be the ‘hostess with the mostest’, but now I am the mommy with lots of little bowls of love.

RECESSION FASHION P.S.
The beaded shoulder epaulet is rather trendy at the moment - but it likely will not be this summer or next fall. For $68 satisfy this unique and subtle trend with an understated dress.
http://tinyurl.com/yf3sjfg

Betting the Millennium

Yesterday I spent the day at the Microsoft offices in Chevy Chase, MD for a unique meeting between Microsoft bigwigs, a small federal agency and a handful of teachers and students from around the country.

There are 100 million youth ages 3 to 24 in the United States. The Millennial Generation, as they have been tagged, has a 31% minority population that makes them more diverse than the current U.S. population of adults aged 25 and older.

So yeah, Microsoft is interested in these folks! But not necessarily the way you think. Yesterday's meeting was to formally announce Microsoft's START program - a service-learning program focused on technology.

Some of you might be aware of my first professional love - service-learning. Service-learning is an educational pedagogy that integrates service projects with classroom learning. It engages students in the educational process, using what they learn in the classroom to solve real-life problems. In short, it makes the often obscure and repetitive classroom lessons relevant to the student. If implemented correctly, this pedagogy places students in the community in complex service projects that provide them opportunities to put the classroom knowledge to reality - preparing tax forms for elders, providing computer engineering assistance to non-profits, or mentoring ESL students to prepare them for proficiency testing.

It is nothing short of magical to listen to students talk about what it means to be a student in a school that practices service-learning. They get IT. They get what it means to be depended upon, to accomplish something and the reward is in the accomplishment. They can see the future and their place in it.

Yesterday I met five kid from South Philly, Tupelo, Missisippi, Fairfax, VA and New York City's Lower East Side. I have nineteen years of education, travelled extensively, had access to extraordinary resources and people and I was humbled.

We spend a lot of time caressing our youth as they travel the "right" education path - extracurricular activities, sports, unique experiences abroad, internships - it is a formula parents know well. In the meantime, there is another education path equally well travelled - weekends spent refurbishing subsidized housing, evenings spent teaching newly immigrated families how to use a computer, apprenticeships - it is a formula parents should get to know better.

There are 100 million members of the rising generation. There are 100 million opportunities to develop a thoughtful, engaged and prepared citizenry. The global tomorrow is a very different playing field than that to which we have become accustomed. We must replace entitlement with ingenuity and innovation. We must readjust our appraisal of the best and the brightest.

If yesterday is any indication of tomorrow, I am reminded of the old adage "You cannot judge a book by it's cover."

RECESSION FASHION P.S.

Nautical is up for spring and summer! A simple way to make it happen - a tee from Old Navy at a steal!! (Pick the blue/white stripe.)

http://tinyurl.com/yd94rbx