Category Archives: things I heart

current obsession

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Let’s get one thing straight, I obsess about a lot of important things. My job, my kids, my life. The unexplained leak in the kitchen that I discovered on Tornado Friday. But the heavy must be balanced by the frivolous, and lately, the consumer goddess in me has been singularly focused on waiting for a certain handbag to go on sale.

The DVF Harper clutch.

I know, I just bought the Rita by Lillybee, the lovely bone-colored fine Italian leather bag that pairs beautifully with every bright color that dominates my spring and summer wardrobe. But I can’t use a bag of that delicate hue everyday. Already, I’m fretting over the faint marks of use that are making themselves apparent.

The DVF Harper clutch breaks all my handbag rules. The flap closure prevents quick retrieval of one’s phone. Unless one is using the strap, it needs to be carried. Carried. That means potentially left behind. It isn’t possible to secure it on a bar hook when out having a glass of wine. I probably can’t carry anything bulky in it, like the make up bag I tote around with me on a daily basis with my 7 lipsticks in it, or my sunglass and eyeglass cases. But I love it partly for its streamlined-ness.

If there is a purse fairy, I’d like an Hermes Kelly bag. But if the purse fairy is on a budget, yet still feeling generous, this handbag in a perfectly bold Chelsea color and an effortless envelop style would continue me on my journey (its a marathon not a sprint) to embrace wardrobe components that are slightly outside my comfort zone.

And it would give me one less thing to think about at 3:00 in the morning.

underneath it all

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http://www.brassierelingerie.co.uk/images/uploads/marie-jo-ruby-red-avero.jpgBack when I was doing my original blog (styling my back brace, for those of you who missed my period of Beatrix incarceration) I wrote a post on underpinnings. In excruciating detail, I shared both my perspective on the benefits of wearing nice lingerie and recommended my favorite designers. It was the most-read post I had (except I suspect my dad skipped it).  Given the popularity of the original post, I feel compelled to update you on my current lingerie discovery, one that may have changed my undergarment life forever.

About a month ago, I was meeting a friend at the E Street Cinema. Of course I was early, and my movie-partner was late. (In all honesty, he ended up being on time, which is early for him, but I anticipated he would be late.) I had always admired from afar the lingerie boutique Coup de Foudre, located across the street from the theater, but it seemed it was usually closed when I was in the neighborhood.

But there I was, early for a movie, tickets in hand, expecting to wait 30 minutes for showtime, so it only made sense to finally take advantage of the location and the time of day to check out its lacy offerings.

As the French say, oh la la.

I was instantly greeted by a beautiful French accent, and as my eyes scanned the walls the way my kids eye the candy aisle at the grocery store, the very helpful owner of the French accent came to my side to offer her assistance. My eyes were immediately focused on a beautiful cosmic blue Marie Jo plunge bra with this gorgeous daisy detail on the straps, so pretty you almost want your strap to show.

I was ushered to the changing room, the cosmic blue in my size in hand, but just in case I was wrong about my size, the very experienced staff was there to ensure the perfect fit. And when I say ensure, I mean ensure. Leave your modesty at the door, ladies, a small price to pay to walk away with the correct size in a bra that’s a flattering cut and shape for you.

The cosmic blue bra (and matching panties) went home with me that day, and I love so much how this bra fits that I went back the following week to buy it in black. But it was not an in-and-out-of-the-store experience. I was again ushered into the changing room, just to make sure the black fit as well as its beautiful blue sister. Of course while I was there, I tried on many other options, but in the end we agreed that the Marie Jo plunge is the style for me. How happy was I today when I received an email informing me that my new favorite bra is now available in ruby red.

The women of Coup de Foudre have seen “more” of me than anyone else lately, and I so appreciate their good eye and discriminating taste in lingerie. It truly was, as the name of their store indicates, love at first sight. But if you decide to take the plunge, just don’t buy my ruby in a 36B.

 

the boy who lives

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Why am I so obsessed with Harry Potter? Long before I gave birth to two equally-obsessed mammals, I devoured Harry Potter like I did Sweet Valley High romances when in the sixth grade. I had the advantage of the first two Harry Potter books being out when I first discovered the world’s most famous wizard, then I waited with great anticipation for each sequel that followed. Every time a new book was about to be released, I reread the entire series. That means I have read The Sorcerer’s Stone approximately six times (okay, seven if you include the time I read it to Jack and Colin).

The one book that I had not read multiple times was the long-awaited last book in the series, The Deathly Hallows, which I had read (until this weekend) a sum total of once. Of course, I meant to reread it before the first half of the movie came out last November, but decided instead to reread The Half Blood Prince, one of my favorites. Then kids, work, and other books consumed my time and before I knew it, we were on the cusp of the hallowed (no pun intended) release of part two (otherwise known in my house as “the eight movie”) without my getting in a repeat read.

That did not diminish my spirit. The boys and I re-watched a movie a night leading up to the premier. I cried at scenes I have seen scores of times. I prepared costumes for myself and the boys to wear to the movie and a costume party afterwards. I continued to read The Goblet of Fire to Colin, but found myself weepy for no reason. When my friend Amy told me that her 14-year old daughter had proclaimed the movie release of Deathly Hallows, Part Two as the end of her childhood, it struck a deep chord.

I know Harry Potter lives happily ever after, so why all the emotion? I’m too young to look at Harry, Ron and Hermione as my children, but obviously am too old and too muggly to regard them as peers. While the Harry Potter series depicts a world that either doesn’t exist or we are not a part of (depending on your hopes and dreams) there are profound lessons in the experiences of these fictional characters. In a time marked by a serious lack of cooperation being displayed by political leaders, our elected officials could learn to rally together to confront a crisis. In an era where people believe what they are told without putting in the extra time to investigate, we could all learn to double-check sources and put critical thought into our positions. And in a world where friendships are maintained via text, tweets, and Facebook posts, we could all stand to remember that our personal connections make us stronger and need to be nurtured.

It is safe to say there is no book series from my own childhood that impacted me the same way Harry Potter did. As my kids grow older, I hope they will continue to reread the books, learn new lessons, and of course, memorize new spells.

I’m that mom

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I love baseball. I know there are many people who find its nine (if you are lucky) un-timed innings boring. I’m even one of those people sometimes. It’s all about the pace of the game. Unless the Red Sox are playing the Yankees and we happen to be on the assaulting end of an uneven score, give me a quick pitchers duel over a high-scoring pile-on any day of the week

Sadly, when it comes to Little League, you get more of the latter than the former. All I can say is, thank god for the mercy rule.

Saturday was my older son’s first little league game. The kid is a little behind his teammates in not only age (as the youngest on the team) and size (he is certainly the smallest) but also in experience. Last year, for some reason t-ball for his age group never organized, so he missed one last year of totally hitting the crap out of the ball and gaining the confidence of driving in a lot of runs. This year, he is old enough to play with the big kids. I swear some of them are already sprouting facial hair on their upper lip. Those first few practices, I was nervous for him, but it turns out, Jack has some natural talent. He is small but quick. He is aggressive. And this season, he is the starting second baseman because, according to his coach, he goes after a ball better than kids twice his size.

But put a bat in his hand and he hasn’t seen a pitch he doesn’t want to swing at, whether they cross the plate over his head or at his knees. Turns out, Jack is an all-glove, no-bat second baseman.

Yesterday, at his first at bat, I winced as the poor kid struck out swinging on three mediocre pitches. Like me, my son loves baseball, but given that he is only 9-years old, he doesn’t watch games for the thrill of a potential no-hitter. He wants to see homerun after homerun. He wants the Red Sox (his American League team) or the Nats (his National League team) to “get a lot of points.” And more than anything, this kid wants to make contact with the ball.

I knew he was sad after his second inning strikeout. I could feel it in his body language as he walked back to the bench to watch the player after him drive in a few runs. Between innings I said to my ex-husband, “he needs to not swing at every pitch. If he could work a walk and get on base, given his speed, he will score.”

Fast-forward to the fourth inning. Bases are loaded. Jack comes to the plate. He quickly goes down 0-2 in the count (swinging, of course). I yell to my ex, who is coaching third-base, “tell him to take the next pitch.” His dad is gesturing instructions to him, and of course, I’m not subtle so I am yelling this instruction myself because, let’s be honest, I am that parent. The pitcher winds up, delivers his pitch straight down the plate. Called strike three. Damn.

Tears welled in my eyes as Jack dejectedly walked back to the bench. It was my fault he struck out and I knew it. I saw his coach put his arm around him and give him what looked to be words of encouragement. Would it be worse for him to have his mom come over and apologize in front of all his teammates? I couldn’t let my son sit there on the bench and cry. So I went over to give his shoulder a squeeze and tell him I was proud of him. As he looked up at me, I saw one alligator tear escape from him, but I also saw a look in his eyes that told me he isn’t going to give up.

I kept my bench visit brief and while he still struck out at the next at bat, he at least worked a 2-2 count first (and honestly, one of those called strikes was totally a ball, it never even got over the plate). I know at some point I will probably have to have the “there’s no crying in baseball” talk with him (and maybe his dad already has) but given that I both delivered the instructions that led to the tears and almost cried myself, maybe I am not the right messenger.

my girl-crush on Gwyneth Paltrow

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http://cdn.babble.com/family-kitchen/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/GP.jpgI am not usually drawn to blonds, but I admit it. I am totally in like with all things Gwyneth Paltrow. (Except, with all due respect, her singing.) Ever since I saw her in the movie Se7en with her then-boyfriend Brad Pitt, I’ve had a soft spot for her movies. (Except, with all due respect, the ones in which she sings.) How many times in my own life have I had a Sliding Doors moment? And the period pieces? Love. How I wish I could do a British accent.

I so wanted her and my other crush, Ben Affleck, to make it as a couple. That would have been quite convenient. But alas, he took the J.Lo detour. Gwyneth assumed a macrobiotic diet. And in some chronological order that I don’t know without looking it up, she won an Oscar, lost her beloved father, met Chris Martin from Coldplay and had babies named Apple and Moses. I still marvel that they didn’t notice (or perhaps they did) Apple’s full name is one vowel away from being Apple Martini.

Then, aside from looking hot for the Iron Man movies, Gp sort of slipped under the radar for me except when I came across the random shot of her in my InStyle magazine. She is definitely the consummate trend-setter, making every look seem effortless (except that one goth ensemble she wore to the 2002 Academy Awards). Something about Gwyneth’s style makes me want to grow my hair long, buy a closet of white cotton blouses, and wear Tod’s driving shoes.

A year or so ago, my friend Adrienne introduced me to Gp’s website and newsletter Goop. Goop! I love Goop! Granted, I am pretty sure I will never stay in any of her recommended hotels in Paris (unless I am there on my next honeymoon). I won’t be doing her insane detox program (though only Gwyneth could make me think twice about drinking kale juice for breakfast). And I certainly didn’t need to see her list of international apothecary drugstore products to know that I am a sucker for such a thing (after all, I discovered the Boots line that Target now carries when studying in the UK in 1991.)

And then there is her recently released cookbook, My Father’s Daughter. I have to admit, I bought it on a whim. I tend to be a little skeptical of celebrity cookbooks. Sophie Dahl’s attempt, Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights (which I actually first read about on Goop) sits in my kitchen without a single recipe having been prepared from it (though her recipe preludes are very entertaining and the photography is brilliant). But in two nights I have made three recipes from MFD and they all were fabulous. Even the kids cleaned their plates, which held such green things as kale and zucchini.

I do have to mock a little. Aside from her slightly preachy comments on organic and unprocessed foods (we know, we know) her recipes are peppered with comments like “good for the working parent” but none more so than ten-hour chicken. Having just roasted a chicken for the boys, which they declared “the best chicken in the world” I thought I should take a look. She bills this recipe as the perfect dish for the busy working parent. According to her recipe, put your whole chicken in a 200 degree oven before you leave for work in the morning, and when you get home that night, the chicken will be done. Yeah. Except most of us don’t have help who stay at our houses during the day to make sure they don’t burn down when we leave the oven on unattended for ten hours. An editor didn’t notice that maybe this is a great recipe for a cold Saturday when you don’t intend to leave the house but might not be not appropriate for those of us who neurotically check and recheck the knobs on our gas stoves before we leave the house in the morning?

But I forgive. After all, last night, my kids ate kale. Tonight, they ate fried zucchini spaghetti which is only significant (since they like zucchini) in that usually Jack won’t eat foods that touch. But he never once complained that his vegetable and his pasta were co-mingling in the bowl.

And if her recipes are so good, how bad can her detox program be?