Author: chelseahenderson

the fours have it

My unlucky number has always been four. And today, I turn it in duplicate. (How the hell did I get to be 44?) On top of it all, I have to spend most of this age in the year of 2014? What does this mean for the next 12 months?

I don’t even remember where and when the number four became a harbinger of doom. But we did make up recently during the playoffs. I was about to eat a fourth salted caramel with David Ortiz up to bat with the bases loaded. I started to stop myself, but couldn’t pull my arm back fast enough. I had just bitten into the delicious confection when he hit a grand slam. Which, by the way, is four runs.

With that spirit in mind, I refuse to feel jinxed. Whether today and the 364 days that follow end up as I imagine, plan, hope them to be, or something totally different, I will embrace each moment. Love. Laugh. Live. Create joy. Buy the expensive serum to ward off wrinkles. Wear the amazing push up bras (happy birthday to me) that defy what I know about my anatomy. And face it all with strength, grace and a sense of humor. Maybe just fewer salted caramels than I consumed in year 43.

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an update on the goals

Remember the 13 in ’13? Good, neither did I. In fact, I wouldn’t even earn a gentlewoman’s C if I were to grade myself. By my generous calculations, I fulfilled 3 out of 13 goals, which for you math geeks is 23%.

But rather than focus on what I didn’t do, I’d like to focus on what I did achieve.

I may not have published the sequel to My Night with George Clooney, but I did start my first novel – and am more than halfway done writing it.

I didn’t get spin certified (thank to the concussion I sustained one day before training was to begin) but I rediscovered yoga, which has been a savior.

I hosted nothing even coming close to a full-fledged dinner party, though I did have people over for a plethora of meals, including Thanksgiving. And I brought food to other people’s houses for their events. In fact, when I look back on the year, I cooked quite a lot. Sometimes just for me.

I didn’t make it to Italy or back to Hawaii, but I did manage New York City, Lake Michigan, Maine, New Hampshire, Philadelphia, Chicago and San Francisco/Napa. I made lots of treks across the river (and through to woods) to Nancy’s house.

I barely know more about Italian wine than I did a year ago, but I’m no longer reluctant to order it in restaurants. I mean, how am I really going to figure out that region if I don’t experiment and figure out what I like and don’t like.

I didn’t make an iconic fashion purpose, fall in love or refinance my house. But I went on some great dates, started my own company, found good life-work balance with the boys and had some great belly laughs. I tried to be a better friend, listen more, put my devices down when the kids are talking to me, and generally be more attentive.

I haven’t started to think about what challenges to set for myself next year. But in closing out 2013, I don’t look back with regrets, only awe at the way life evolves and my ability to adapt, at times with tears but mostly with grace.

Thanksgiving Eve

I like to feed people. It’s my way of expressing love. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and I can’t imagine a better way to give thanks to those who are important to me than to make them lots and lots of delicious food.

I started baking on Tuesday. I made pumpkin cookies with brown butter icing as sort of a decoy dessert for the boys while I made the prime time offerings (and kept them off limits until Thursday).

Yesterday I baked three batches of cornbread muffins for use in the cornbread, caramelized onion, sage and pork sausage stuffing (a departure for me which represents a hybrid of recipes from my friend Lexa, the high maintenance Martha Stewart, and Chris Kimball of America’s Test Kitchen). I also made a bourbon pumpkin cheesecake because Colin has never had cheesecake, and frankly I don’t like pumpkin pie.

I had a long to do list for today: bake the apple pie, prep the traditional mushroom turnovers, prepare the stuffing, brine the turkey. Done. Done. Done. And done. I feel like there should be more “dones” because each recipe had numerous steps and/or components. But now I’m finished way ahead of schedule. Run of show is sketched out for tomorrow. Wine graces my glass. Life is good. A shower would make it even better.

I have a small crew for tomorrow’s festivities. The boys, my sister Meghann, my DC sister Rayanne, and Nancy and her crew for their second dinner. I would welcome double the numbers but I’m thankful that I get to be surrounded by these important people in my life.

But they better bring their appetites. I have lots of love to express.

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photo shoot saturday

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I was very honored when the wonderful women of Periwinkle asked me to join other local bloggers for a photo shoot today for their holiday look book.

As part of my effort to encourage the opening of an outpost on Capitol Hill, I said yes. Plus, who doesn’t want to be dressed in festive attire to have a photo taken?

So this morning, with my hair expertly styled by Mickey Bolek and my yoga pants on (for downward facing dog plans later in the day) I set out for my modeling gig.

The shop was decorated for the season and mimosa offerings graced the counter. Owner Elizabeth Mason was decked out in an amazing fur vest and had her own camera in hand, taking shots aside the photographer.

For my first look, I wore skinny jeans, a tunic blouse and black cardigan with leather detail on the sleeves. Kitten heels, bling and a wreath in hand, I played the part of holiday shopper.

A surprise second look may become my birthday dress. They squeezed me into a black v-neck Trina Turk dress, more bling, and my favorite accessory, a glass of champagne.

Overall it was a festive morning, and I can’t wait until the catalog comes out. I took the early shift, so I also look forward to seeing how the bloggers who arrived later in the morning were styled.

In the meantime, if you need a holiday outfit or just a gift for a friend (or your favorite blogger) head to Periwinkle. I can’t promise the treats and champagne will be available, but you can still soak up the season and maybe get some shopping done.

working for myself, day one

Today I officially begin working for myself. Mark this as the first day of my new professional adventure. And by adventure I mean that I plan to tackle messes, convert the playroom into an office and otherwise preempt my usual forms of procrastination so that when it comes down to the task at hand, finishing my novel, I have no distractions.

It’s kind of amazing how much more productive I already feel at 9:45 this morning even though I haven’t even had a shower yet, and since I didn’t need to take a shower by any specific time, I got to sleep an hour later than usual. I successfully fed and got two kids off to school (okay, I do that most mornings) but this morning I could do it with a smile and not the proverbial whip that I usually carry because I’m trying to get myself ready too among the chaos.

The second load of laundry is running and I unloaded the dishwasher. I cleaned out one of the drawers of the drafting table I’m using for my desk, a space that previously housed a variety of little boy trinkets, all covered with a film of pencil shaving dust. I made a to do list and paid some bills.

Now, I feel somewhat settled and ready to write, though I am a little jittery from too much coffee. And I even have a starting place. Last night my instructor posted her critique of my major writing assignment of the semester, 5000 words of my story ending. But before I sit down to tackle her comments, there’s a new chapter idea brewing in my head that I feel compelled to start. But before that, I have this post to finish. And after that, I think the book shelf needs reorganizing.

And then at some point this afternoon, the professional adventure will begin.

Happy anniversary, George

A year ago today, I self-published my first story with help from Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing. It was short. It wasn’t overly promoted except perhaps in these pages. It never went viral. My fantasy of appearing on late night TV has not been fulfilled. But it was an accomplishment nonetheless.

I’d estimate that a couple hundred of you read it. Frankly, I have not. Not since doing a final run through anyway before hitting click and committing it to the electronic world forever. I just can’t. And especially now, eight weeks into my writing class. I already suspect what my flaws were. I can be at peace with it all by thinking that someday, you all will call it my ‘early work’.

My full-length novel, which does not feature an appearance by George Clooney, is developing nicely. The Stanford online writing class has provided me good structure, feedback and a community of fellow writers. In two weeks, 5,000 words of my ending will be workshopped. While at the start of this class, I dreaded my workshop week, now I look forward to it.

I can’t say for sure how far along I’d be right now in writing my novel if I hadn’t taken the baby step of writing My Night with George Clooney. So on this, our anniversary, I think of George and apologize that he’s been folded up in a box since our return from Hawaii.

I promise to pull him out to celebrate the completion of No Working Title Yet.

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lovable losers no more?

I’m taking a break from the blogging hiatus to say, wow, the Red Sox are World Series champions once again.

I don’t mean to gloat. If Facebook is any meter, I realize many of you are “sick” of the Red Sox winning “all the time.” I get it. Three titles in ten years is not too shabby. But it’s still hard to undo decades of suffering, passed from generation to generation of New Englanders. I recall a conversation 16 years ago when my friends Amy and Thom announced they were pregnant, and Thom said, “I want a girl, but I won’t get one because my teams never win.” (As a matter of fact, they did  have a girl.) I share this example to illustrate  how New Englanders think. Three World Series titles will help in our collective recovery but you can’t just shed overnight a mentality built on a foundation of disappointment after disappointment.

With that said, on my drive in to work this morning I thought to myself, I just have to accept it. We fully put to rest any lingering impacts of the Curse of the Bambino with our first World Series clinch in Boston since 1918. We are the 21st century’s answer to the decade in the 20th century when the Sox won titles in 1912, 1915, 1916, and 1918. Maybe it isn’t a jink to say “I think my team is going to win tonight.” Would the outcome of last night’s game been any different if I had gone to bed in the 7th inning? Worn a different color bra? Gone to the game in person?

Of course the answer is no, but if 80 years from now, the Sox are in a drought rivaled only by the one we endured until 2004, I take full responsibility.

hiatus

I just wanted to issue a warning that I won’t be writing much. Wait, let me rephrase that: I won’t be writing here much.

In an emotional moment over the summer, I started researching MFAs in creative writing. It turns out most of the good programs are located in bumblefuck America, and while I can fantasize about living a completely different lifestyle with my boys in Iowa, I know that’s not in the realm of the possible.

But through this exercise, I discovered that Stanford offers online creative writing courses. One in particular caught my eye: Novel Writing Back to Front. Since coming up with the ending is always the hardest part for me whether writing a blog post, email or story, it sounded perfect. I set a calendar reminder to sign up on the date registration opened.

Coincidentally, that day happened to be the one when I lost my car for 2.5 hours at DCA. Once I got home, the insurance assessor was there to investigate my flood claim. By the time I got to my computer, the class was full.

“I will just have to be self-motivated to write,” I told myself.

A month later, I hadn’t committed a single word to paper. Last week, I took some time to meditate and made a promise to myself that I would find a way to be disciplined about writing. When I was done, I had an email from the universe, I mean, Stanford, informing me I was in the class off the wait list.

Class started last week. I was officially in by Wednesday. Due Friday was the first assignment: 750 words from anywhere in your novel except the end because we workshop up to 5000 words of the ending for our final class project.

750 words of a novel I haven’t started writing? And a 5000-word ending by October 25th? Well, Wednesday night, I wrote 750 words. Then Thursday I compulsively revised and refined until at 11:38pm when I was comfortable enough to post my work on the discussion board. Then I waited nervously for responses from the instructor and my fellow classmates.

The feedback was all good. “Rich and believable” dialogue, according to the instructor. “Have you considered screenplay writing?” a student asked. Part of me was disappointed in the lack of criticism. I want to get better. But another part of me was fueled to expand those 750 words into nearly 8000 by the time the weekend was over.

So while I’m not writing here, I am writing somewhere. And I can tell you now with the greatest assurance that nowhere in the last 5000 words of my novel does a main characters sleep with a celebrity.

That story has already been written.

apathy

In case you missed it, there was a mass shooting in our nation’s capital on Monday.

Sure, the twitterverse was abuzz with rumors and inaccurate reports all day long, but as far as I can tell, there was more horror expressed over the show Breaking Bad than there was over real events unfolding in DC just days after the 12th anniversary of 9-11.

My office had a staff meeting. Hardly a person mentioned the manhunt going on merely a mile away. The Nats game wasn’t postponed until late in the day. I didn’t see tears or panic-stricken faces. And personally most upsetting is that not one member of my family (except soul sister Kassie) checked in to see if I was okay.

I’m still trying, days later, to come to terms with the apathy of those who shrugged off Monday. Is it because we as a nation are desensitized to acts of violence? Is it because the shooting seemed “contained” to a military base or that the victims were less innocent because of where they worked?

Maybe I’m more sensitive because I was a few blocks away from the Navy Yard at the time the shooting started. Maybe I was on edge because for the entire day the authorities were seeking a potential second shooter who could have been hiding anywhere. Schools were locked down, as was my beloved Senate, leading me to fear a crazy person in camo with a gun was making his way toward the complex where so many of my friends work.

This shooting didn’t garner the nation’s tears the way Sandy Hook did or its attention like the Boston Marathon Massacre. But it was scary, and I know I’m not alone in feeling frustrated at the tepid reaction to Monday’s tragedy.