chelseahenderson

pretty in pink (and poppy and raspberry)

I usually hate pink. Well, hate is too strong of a word, so let me amend and extend my remarks to say I don’t love pink on me. Pink looks lovely on my friend Emily, on Nancy’s daughter Tess, and on the azalea bushes in my yard each spring. But it is not a color I find myself drawn to usually.

When Jack was a toddler, he went through a phase where he was obsessed with the color pink. I indulged his whim by buying him a pink oxford shirt, pink pajamas and even pink socks. I balked at the pink L.L. Bean jacket he wanted because (honestly) I caved to the social pressure that says boys can’t wear a pink jacket. I had a hard enough time explaining to adults why I let him wear pink; I did not want my kid to get teased at day care. I thus convinced him that orange (my true favorite color) was really sort of a dark version of pink. Jack wore orange jackets for the next several winters.

It is with this history of my tepid relationship with pink in mind that I share with you some of my latest obsessions for spring. I am shocked at myself that my eye continues to be drawn to a color that can only be described as resembling chewed bubble gum. When I am perusing J. Crew’s new arrivals, I usually fill my virtual fantasy basket with colors of black, purple and gray. But right now, I am slightly fixated on this pink cardigan and the candy-striped sweater in azalea and orange. The bright dahlia dress would also be a huge departure from my safe usual choice of navy, and may make its way into my closet the next time there is a 25% off everything sale.

Coral has also caught my fancy, thus this Simply Soles exclusive color pairing on my favorite Bettye Muller pump has my feet begging for spring (and a sugar daddy). Likewise the Function in Fuchsia by French Sole (a marriage of pink and orange) has me overlooking my usual hesitation about flats. One thing is clear, I am smitten with the cap toe craze because both these shoes will be on my wish list, along with the similarly hued earrings.

You’d have to be a caveman to not know Valentine’s Day is coming up (I have been methodically unsubscribing from every email that reminds me) but sexy underpinnings are not only for special occasions. I love this raspberry Chantelle set available at Coup de Foudre (the one vendor I will forgive for sending aforementioned V-Day reminders) and I understand from store-owner Valerie that my favorite Marie Jo bra will be coming in a shade of pink this spring too.

Rounding out my color fetish, Kate Spade’s Cobble Hill Leslie in cinnibar (the perfect alternative to the dove gray purse I am using now), a baby pink Love Quotes scarf, and Chanel lipgloss in a color named, I kid not, Chelsea.

Rest assured pink skeptics, in whatever manner I end up incorporating these happy shades into my wardrobe, I promise not to blind you by wearing them all at once. But on any given day, you will never know if I’m getting in my pink fix with the outfit under the outfit, so to speak.

Happy Anniversary

One year ago today, as I sat in my office feeling sorry for myself over my impending doom (i.e. the approaching date of my back procedure followed by two-to-three months of fashion confinement in a back brace) I decided I needed to channel my angst into something positive, creative and reflective of me. Facebook status updates didn’t seem long enough or to have enough reach. I was still scared of Twitter. Even a blog initially did not seem like a good fit. (Let’s be honest, I am not the most computer literate person. I still can’t figure out how to paste the code to Google Analytics onto my “page” so that I can see who cyber-stalks me.) But then I found a platform I could manage, and Styling My Back Brace was born.

I originally envisioned it as a way to visually portray the fashion limits and challenges posed by the brace I dubbed Beatrix. I would post photos of daily outfits and seek advice on how to style my brace better. Well, it didn’t take long for the outfit of the day component to prove a bust. Aside from not having an in-house photographer, for those first six weeks, I rarely got out of yoga pants. The blog evolved into a way to share my trials and tribulations, my observations and progress. The writing came surprisingly easily.

Styling My Back Brace allowed me to connect with people remotely because I couldn’t travel. Hell, I couldn’t even ride in a car for short trips out of fear a traffic jam would push me over my sit allowance. (15 minutes every three hours, so I had to time my drives to the city carefully.) Standing on the metro was permitted but as we all know too well, the train is not guaranteed to be the smoothest ride and can be uncomfortably crowded at the oddest of times. Even once I grew stronger and more confident in my modes of transportation, meetings had to occur some place where I could stand, so most often I met people in a bar.

Yes, I had a lot of lunch meetings standing at the bar. Betsy at Bistro Bis (a manageable walk from my office) still remembers what I like to eat, and more importantly, drink.

I digress.

As my back healed and I shed the brace, I made the decision to keep writing under a different blog name. Even now, I still don’t go so far as to call myself a blogger. I think exactly three people have referred to me as such. Two of those people were kind enough to call me a fashion blogger, and one of my work friends called me a mommy blogger (he’s a daddy, of course). I’m neither one or the other, nor do I believe I write enough to deserve a blogger moniker. I’m just a woman who likes to occasionally chronicle her life (or wardrobe) for the world to read (or see). Along the way, I hope to entertain and every once in awhile, to inspire.

what’s in a job title?

I have to admit that in certain situations, I hate telling people what I do. (Not to be confused with telling people what to do, which I love.)

When I was a hill staffer, I felt there was something noble conveyed in my public servitude (except at my 20th high school reunion when I got blamed for high gas prices). When I worked for non-profits, there was a sense of do-gooder-ness that mostly drew admiration. By contrast, saying, “I’m a lobbyist” yields a look of suspicious disdain. Thanks, Jack Abramoff, for making the American public generally find corrupt the one profession that’s protected by the first amendment. (I have a lobbyist friend who likes to call himself Chief Redress Officer, a job title that’s definitely in contention for my next printing of business cards.)

Yes, I lobby, but I also do much more. I develop and implement legislative strategies primarily on issues pertaining to energy and the environment for a small consulting firm of which I am a partner and part owner. I know, I know, it doesn’t have the ring of “I’m a thoracic surgeon” or “I’m a Broadway actress.” But I really enjoy the work I do. Together with my partners, we create meaningful progress to make the world a better place.

Regardless of the personal satisfaction I get in this job which is the marriage of all my skill sets, let’s talk about the L word. People think we are corrupt, have three-martini lunches on a regular basis and are to blame for the [fill-in-the-blank] crisis. I’m surprised that as part of the Lobbying and Ethics Reform Act, Congress didn’t also require registered lobbyists don a scarlet L on our lapels to warn elected officials and their staff that someone of potentially ill professional repute is in the vicinity.

Some of the restrictions contained in the ethics law I understand. No more paying for luxurious golf vacations in Scotland? Makes sense. The cooling off period for senior staff before they can lobby a former boss is logical. The gift ban? Thank you. I have a hard enough time identifying gifts for those who are near and dear to me. I don’t need the added pressure of buying gifts for people I only have a professional affiliation with. But the meal ban? Come on. When I was a hill staffer, if I was influenced because someone had bought me a $25 lunch, that wouldn’t have said a whole lot about my character or integrity. On the rare days when I had time to take lunch away from my desk, I ate with a friend I hadn’t seen recently or someone I was working with to advance my boss’s legislative agenda so we could strategize over lunch. (I used to call that kind of lunch killing two birds with one stone until someone reminded me that the Environment and Public Works Committee staff shouldn’t condone the killing of birds, unless those birds are hunting fodder.)

What strikes me as the most absurd aspect of this law is that while I can’t offer a staffer a ticket to a baseball game or buy them a lunch, I can contribute money to a Member of Congress’s political campaign. In fact, as a lobbyist, I’m expected to make such contributions. Let’s think for one moment about which of these actions (providing meals vs providing contributions) really wields more influence.

The most upsetting part of the lobbying profession being dragged down the scale to somewhere between prostitute and drug dealer is that every time Obama says the word “lobbyist” he almost seems to spit the word out. Yes there were (and probably still are) corrupt lobbyists just like there are bad apples in any profession. But to blame lobbyists for the current broken state of our country is ridiculous. After all, in the end, we can make the case to redress grievances but we aren’t the ones who vote on legislative measures or sign them into law.

I resolve to write more

Goals. Resolutions. Whatever you call them, many of us set new, higher, more challenging expectations for ourselves at the beginning of a new year.

As you saw, I did mine visually in the form of a goal board. But all you seemed to notice were the shoes.

Yes, shoes figured prominently for both literal and figurative meanings, but what you never would have guessed, given how little I have written in the new year (as in, this is my first 2012 post) is that I made some writing resolutions as well.

Of course, I resolve to write more.

Last night, tired as I was, as I was falling asleep a post was taking shape. I thought about getting up and retrieving the computer, but then I made the age-old writer’s mistake of thinking my idea was so brilliant that I would remember it all in the morning.

I was wrong.

I resolve to write my ideas down when they come to me, even if it’s after midnight.

As Congress continues its journey toward deeper and deeper dysfunction, my job is going to feel akin to waking up every morning and beating my head against a wall.

I resolve to use writing as a means to personal and professional satisfaction.

When it comes to the blog, I would love to add an outfit-of-the-day component, though that option may be on hold until I find a boyfriend who can take daily photos of said outfits. (Honestly, I would probably suggest he take a week’s worth of shots over the weekend that I trickle out Monday-Friday since there is rarely surplus time in my weekday mornings. Doing so would be great for wardrobe planning purposes, and might give me more precious time in the morning to eat breakfast or sleep later.)

There is a goal I’ve had in my head since I was oh about 15 years old, and that is to write a book. How angry was I when Bridget Jones Diary came out. I could have written that book. I essentially did write that book in the form of the scores of journals I kept in my neurotic 20s. Sigh.

Last winter, when I was confined to the house in the back brace, I got about 10,000 words down on the latest idea in my head. But then the doctor cleared me to sit and drive, which essentially lifted my social confinement, and I haven’t touched these novel beginnings since then.

I resolve to finish my book.

I probably only have about 70,000 words to go. Give me ten days of solitude in a gorgeous setting that doesn’t have sightseeing distractions, wireless coverage or Congress but does have good end-of-the-day rewards in the form of wine and food and I know I can get it done.

Or find a new reason to bang my head against the wall.

Goal Boards 2012

The detailed post will come soon but for now, here is a visual representation of my goals for the new year. My blog and writing figure prominently.

I am a warrior

Some people belong to book club. I’ve heard of dinner club, cookbook club and wine club. But one thing I had never heard of until I made friends in Cheverly is Weekend Warriors.

I’m not sure whose conception it was exactly as I’m a recent inductee into this esteemed group, but several years ago my friends created the book club equivalent for home improvement projects. Think of it as a modern interpretation of barn raising. Ten families over 12 months come to one family’s house on the second Saturday of each month (except December and January) for half a day’s worth of work. Your month is predetermined at the beginning of the year and you are supposed to make eight out of ten months. Projects I’ve seen so far include building a greenhouse, landscaping, deck staining, painting (there’s lots of painting), plumbing work, tile grouting and of course, someone has to herd the children.

I don’t officially have a slot in Warriors until the 2012 cycle begins, but I still participated in a couple of projects over the summer and fall. Since I had helped in the 2011 cycle, and I drew August 2012 as my month for the next round, a couple of Warriors members suggested that if I had some small projects that I send a note around over winter break for a mini-unofficial Warriors gathering.

Do I have projects? I had some ceiling tiles that needed replacing in my basement (a constant reminder of the pipe bursting incident Inaugural weekend when temps were in the single digits) and I needed electrical work in the basement bathroom my brother renovated but was not comfortable doing the wiring on. These were two projects I could not do on my own.

I was overwhelmed by the number of families who came to help what were really two one-man projects. I could have called last night’s gathering “borrow a husband” instead of Warriors since really it was the Don and Rob show while their wives and I drank champagne in the kitchen, and the children ran amok until someone wisely turned on the TV. (A very rainy day prevented outdoor play.) In all, five families came over to enjoy homemade pizza, leftover Christmas cookies, champagne, Bell’s Winter White and the merriment that fifteen children (only four of which were girls) confined to the indoors can make.

And now, my ceiling tiles are replaced. I have power in my bathroom, though I need to take a trip to Home Depot before we can actually install lighting, but Don promises me this is a 15-minute job once I get the parts I need. We even got to do a little advance work on what my August 2012 project(s) should be. Do I want to rip out the carpet in the playroom/mommy cave and replace with wood or faux-wood flooring? Build a wine closet? The more we drank, the bigger the ideas seemed to get. But whatever project ends up being, it’s the spirit involved that means the most.

a miracle beyond explaining

Photo by Tom Lawler — Remember Beatrix the Back Brace?

You might have read somewhere that I have this back problem.

Over the last four years, varying degrees of pain from excruciating to consistently annoying didn’t always limit my activity (two marathons, multiple 4-inch heels) but it does tend to mess significantly with my sleep. It isn’t that I don’t have those nights were I zonk out into a deep and dreamless sleep (well, the dreamless part rarely happens). But chalk it up to a high tolerance for pain, a general acceptance of the situation even after so-called “surgery” to repair my torn disc earlier this year, or maybe a little avoidance too, on most days I don’t let it bother me and you wouldn’t necessarily see me after a rough night of sleep and know I’m running on fumes. (Or maybe you do and you are too polite to mention it.)

The latest diagnosis for those who haven’t been following my progress is that the disc is repaired (so I didn’t wear Beatrix for nothing) but I have arthritis in the lumbar joints around where the damaged disc resided. This realization was good news to my physical therapist – because the pain is manageable – even if admitting I have arthritis feels aging to me.

Under the watchful eye of my PT, for the last three weeks, I have stepped up my fitness routine. The positive aspect to be pain being as a result of arthritis is that activity helps reduce the pain. That is, while I was restricted with the torn disc, with arthritis I’m encouraged to be active. With that in mind, I signed up for a package of personal training sessions at Fitness Together, a gym that exclusively offers individual workouts. I have taken a number (okay, three, but the results are amazing so it feels like more) of ballet barre classes at Red Bow Studio. Back in my weekly PT visits, my suite of exercises has increased in pace and difficulty, and each sessions concludes with an extended period of “body work” (code for deep massage) followed by 15 minutes of electro-stimulation therapy under a heating pad. All that and I’m still taking a killer amount of Naproxen, which is an improvement over the muscle relaxants and narcotics my doctor prescribed the last time I saw him.

As I mentioned, collectively we have been plugging along with this routine for about three weeks. Then on Christmas Eve, I woke up groggily, feeling rather puffy-eyed from my melancholy of the night before. As I lie in bed getting my bearings, I suddenly was struck by a sensation I barely recognized.

For the first time in four years I was waking up to zero pain. Zero. Not an ounce of stiffness, not any low-level lingering discomfort. On the zero-to-ten-zero-is-no-pain-ten-is-the-worst scale I was a zero.

On Christmas day, same deal. This morning, maybe just a hint of stiffness, but otherwise, no pain. I don’t know how to explain how I went from waking up – on average – as a seven on said scale to waking up a zero, but for now I am attributing it to this new increased level of fitness training and activity.

I still miss running. I still feel pangs of jealousy when I see runners on the road on my perfect weather days. Today I am going to pack up all the winter weather gear and clear drawer space for the new indoor workout clothes I got for my birthday. But for now, I’m going to savor these pain-free days and nights. I hope beyond hope they continue.

a holly jolly Christmas

The long-awaited hooded gas mask — Favorite Christmas Present

Since I made a number of my readers cry with my emotional porn of a post the other day, it’s only fair that I update you on how my Christmas Eve actually went down.

Counter to previously stated plans, last night I did not drown my sorrows all day and night while watching sappy after sappy holiday movie. I didn’t order take-out or make one lonely quesadilla or eat hummus and carrots for dinner.

Instead, I spent the evening with my kids.

On a whim on Christmas Eve Eve, I asked Ex if I could have my boys over for dinner on the 24th for a small window from 5:00-7:00. I knew that having a chance to see them, plus Nancy’s plan to come over late night would be enough to stem the tide of tears that were bound to be shed. As it fortuitously turned out, the window I wanted to see the boys happened to fall in the window when Ex and kids were going to go to church with his mother, a tradition none of the three of them was looking forward to.

Jack: We went to church last year, and I really think you should only have to go once every other year.

Ex (on the phone later): Giving them to you for dinner gets me out of church with my mom, so you can have them.

Maybe it was that I was generous with the champagne when Ex and his mother brought the boys over. Maybe it was the festively wrapped presents under tree, the Christmas cookies I had spent the day baking, or the smell of a chicken roasting in the oven, but minutes after leaving us to our dinner, Ex called and asked if I wanted the boys to sleep over at my house.

You know my answer.

We gorged ourselves on chicken and cookies. We tracked Santa on NORAD. We opened and put on our Christmas pajamas. Colin set a trap to test whether Santa is real.

At 8:30 they went to bed (not without significant complaint) and round two of my evening began. Nancy came over in her pajamas, bringing mousse liver pate, delicious cheeses and more bubbly. We watched Love Actually. And since my heart didn’t feel quite so Grinch-y tight, instead of buckets of tears, there was merriment all night.

Because one is never too old to learn from the good Dr. Seuss, let me end with the final words of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. This is how I feel about the last 24 hours: “Christmas day is in our grasp so long as we have hands to clasp. Christmas day will always be just as long as we have we. Welcome Christmas while we stand heart to heart and hand in hand.”

Merry Christmas!

blue christmas

I love Christmas. I love decorating the tree, wrapping presents, seeing the surprise on my kids’ faces when they open their gifts. I bake a gazillion different types of cookies. I don’t always get presents out the door on time, or cards out at all some years, but that’s more a product of a busy life than any lack of spirit.

One of the aspects of the season I love most is Christmas music. I don’t let myself turn it on until December 1st, then I pretty much play it all the time until December 26th. Christmas music generally puts me in an upbeat mood. Who doesn’t love a good rendition of Baby, It’s Cold Outside? I like the classics sung by the likes of Dean Martin just as much as so-called “alternative Christmas rock.” Jack Johnson’s surfer version of Rudolph is super clever. Who can feel Grinchy when listening to Carol of the Bells?

But this year’s Christmas spirit feels a little forced. While I outwardly cloak myself in proclamations that I’m loving the quiet stress-free-ness of this year’s holiday, it’s clearer and clearer to me that this year I’ll have a blue blue Christmas.

This year, the boys are with their father.

It doesn’t mean I won’t see my little bundles of joy, but they won’t sleep at my house on Christmas Eve. My tree won’t be the one they rush to first upon waking up at an hour that will undoubtedly be unreasonable. The stockings I hung by the chimney with care won’t be the first they pillage.

We have this little Christmas pajamas ritual where everyone gets new pajamas on Christmas Eve to wear to sleep that night. I bought theirs not really thinking that they won’t get worn until December 26th. As a single mom, I buy myself a pair too. Similarly, to maintain the illusion of Santa, I fill my own stocking, usually with beauty products that I am running low on and would have had to replace anyway. But do I bother this year with my pajamas? Do I fill the stockings the night before or wake up Christmas morning and do it. Do I set out cookies and milk and a note? “Dear Santa, the boys aren’t here tonight but take my word for it, they were mostly good this year. Love, Jack and Colin’s Mommy.”

In 2009, the first year I had a Christmas without the boys, my sister Meghann came to DC. Maybe it’s the 15-year age gulf (she’s young enough to be my daughter) or her own overflowing sense of Christmas exuberance, but having her here gave me reason to be full of Christmas cheer. This year, despite the joy I try to project in civilized company, internally I’m a little Ebeneezer Scrooge, a little George Bailey and a lot dreading Saturday night.

I try to tell myself it won’t always be this way. I have confidence that at some point I will have a significant other who will be here to keep my spirits in check (or at least wipe away my tears) even when the boys are not. Or maybe in 2013 – my next Christmas without the boys – I will travel to an exotic destination. But these thoughts of Christmases future won’t soothe as I get through the next 36 hours.

It’ll be me, a log in the fireplace, a bottle of champagne and as many sappy Christmas movies as I can line up. No church, no gourmet dinner, no caroling.

If I am going to lay around all night, I might want those new pajamas after all.

on turning 42…

birthday-palooza3 — On the swings of Tivoli, birthday 42 minus 2.

I can hardly believe two years has passed since I was a little bundle of stress about turning 40.

And not much has changed as the years tick up. I’m not a birthday dreader, per se. But I think it is safe to say that I love the build up to my birthday more than the actual day itself. I start counting a month out. I make lists for the cyber world in case there is a birthday fairy who wants to know my deepest wishes. I plan my birthday outfits with great care (or mighty haste, depending on what else is going on in my life). The anticipation fuels me. Then birthday eve approaches and I panic.

Except last night.

Maybe it was the excellent company to keep my mind preoccupied and the sparkling bubbles to soothe my angst. Perhaps my steely calm can be attributed to the lack of tequila shots. Or that the residual jet-lag from my whirlwind San Francisco trip and the cold I came home with left me more sluggish than normal by the end of this week. Whatever the reason, last night is the first birthday eve that did not include an emotional breakdown at some point in the evening. (I’m sure Kate and Rob, Rachel and Sandra are quite thankful for my fortitude.)

But the water has to go somewhere, so while last night the flood was dammed, today I could end droughts in several parched countries. From the early wake-up to Jack serving me breakfast in bed to the drive to and from the gym, well wishes on Facebook, a lovely rendition of Happy Birthday to you sung over the phone, my tears runneth over.

However, this afternoon, just as quickly and furiously as the tears flowed, they stopped. I’m not saying it’s rational, I’m just saying it is how it is.

And now, let the celebrating begin.