chelseahenderson

birthday suit

My birthday has been fortuitously timed for the last several years. On the day that marked 40-minus-one, my dad happened to be in town. And since his birthday is the day after mine, it was never a question that we would go out to dinner for a joint celebration. Beforehand, my friends all met up with us for happy hour so he got to meet my people prior to going to dinner.

On the birthday known affectionately as the big one, I happened to be at the UN Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen. There I turned 40 under the lights and icicles of Tivoli Gardens surrounded by scores of climate-beaten friends. It was 20 degrees. It sleeted. We drank glugg. It snowed. We drank more glugg. We danced to bad 80s music at an Irish bar late-night. There might have been tequilla shots.

It was perfect.

Last year I was feeling a little less festive, but rallied nonetheless for happy hour and dinner. After all, who wouldn’t go out when their birthday falls on a Friday night?

Which brings us to 39 + 3. This year, one week from today as a matter of fact, my birthday falls on a Saturday.

In the continued spirit of serendipitous timing, my friends Tim and Sarah are having a black tie optional party that night. (I don’t know who actually opts for the “optional” given those parameters). So if my last official birthday in my “early” 40s weren’t reason enough, I they provide the perfect excuse to don sequins.

Of course, I am a horrible procrastinator so here it is one week away and I don’t yet have a dress. But here are a few I have my eye on.

Some quick thoughts:

I love the champagne color in theory, but I’m not sure whether it will camouflage with my skin tone too much. The sheath dress in the middle of her two sequined sisters I actually own in a slightly more stony shade, NWT, the victim of last year’s failure to make my office Christmas party due to a horrible stomach flu. I should wear this dress, as technically it is new. But one only turns 42 once. (Well, until next year and the year after that, as I plan to hit the age pause button for awhile.) There is so much fiscal responsibility in Washington right now though that I feel it is my duty to break the miserly mold that is de rigueur.

The plum dress is my perfect shade, but I am afraid it could be a little matronly looking. A definite must-try-before-buy. The blue sequined dress with dolman sleeves is gorgeous, but is the shape right for me? I love the cut out detail on the arms to show off my hard work in the gym, but the body of the dress will either work spectacularly or fail miserably.

The silver is hands down my e-window shopping favorite. I love the combination of long sleeves and a short skirt. But I have to make sure my new Twitter BFF DCCeline isn’t planning on this one for an event we will both be at later in the month, when I intend to get a second wear out of the birthday dress. Black Champagne will be my NYE, and sequins are mandatory.

And last year’s Christmas party dress? Well, I am eager awaiting birthday lunch with my friend Chris. He never fails to take me to the best suburban Virginia has to offer.

Black tie definitely optional.

all I want for Christmas (naughty version)

Hey, while one is dreaming of presents that won’t appear under the tree, why not kick it up a notch and fulfill some real fantasies?

All these items pictured speak to the playfully naughty in me. I was initially inspired by the ultra sexy but elegant chemise and robe from none other than my favorite lingerie shop, Coup de Foudre. I could totally Hugh Hefner through life in that getup. Or enchant for a night.

Shoes. My passion. Does anyone else get warm and tingly inside when holding a beautifully crafted shoe in her hand? I tend to buy shoes in twos (because I can never narrow it down to one) but if given the opportunity to own one of these two shoes, the fun and flirty satin platform pump by Butter or the reptilian Manolo Blahnik, it really would be a Sophie’s Choice moment for me.

Being a woman with short hair, I have been trying to integrate more dangling earrings into my collection. This Kendra Scott pair could be worn with a t-shirt and jeans, an LBD, or, as pictured, with an elegant outfit of seduction.

But no ensemble such as this would be complete without the perfect accessory. In this case, a little fleather whip is just what the doctor – or the dominatrix – ordered.

Have you been naughty or nice?

all I want for Christmas

Now that Jack has been reassured that Santa exists, he has been busy working on his letter to Santa.

Too busy.

While letters from years past have been Facebook-worthy in their sure little boy-ness (“gas mask [with hood]” last year or “one puppy [small]” the year before) this year my little consumer monsters would have made the Material Girl blush.

23 items on Jack’s list, including such treasures as an iPod touch (no), a video camera (no) and a DSI (no). So then we had to have a little talk about gluttony.

Me: There’s no way I am sending either of these letters to Santa.

Both boys returned with more appropriate lists that were limited to five items of varying sizes and price ranges, though neither list included the item they’re actually getting for Christmas.

All their list-making and prioritizing and editing and rewriting got me to wondering: if I had a Santa, what would be on my list?

Of course, aside from a binding global agreement on climate change from major emitters, some very classic items came to mind. New riding boots (I’ve had my eye on these convertible ones from Lillybee for awhile) and an orange wool coat with leopard print gloves. You have read of my desire for a new handbag (pictured is Emily’s coveted bag but in a gorgeous purple). I’m in the market for some funky jewelry that can be dressed up or down. And of course, while one is dreaming big and making lists, a Cartier tank watch.

I probably have a better shot at getting a Cartier watch someday than I do on an international deal on climate change.

I didn’t self reprimand my gluttony as I do not have expectations that a single one of these items will end up under my tree. After all, there’s really no one to share this list with beyond the blogosphere, and I’m sure Santa doesn’t follow me. As a half-time single woman/half-time single mom, I will look forward on Christmas morning to opening the gifts my boys make for me. This year I am hoping for one of Jack’s self-designed comic books, perhaps a box of Colin’s paper airplanes, and a jointly assembled pack of their “Magic Cards” which include a cross-pollination of the characters of all the mystical books they read, each assigned a point value and strength based on their activities in their respective books.

At least, those are the items I intend to ask for on my real list, the list I plan to give to the boys.

After the holidays, I can always buy myself the boots.

Yes, Jack, there is a Santa Claus

The other night, as I peeled the potatoes I was planning to mash to my usual perfection to serve with the Zinfandel-Braised Beef Short Ribs stewing in the oven, Jack came into the kitchen, a somber cloud hanging over his head.

Jack: Can I help you peel potatoes?

Me: Absolutely!

I handed him the peeler and he went to work. After about two potatoes, he stopped.

Jack: Mom, we need to talk.

After the initial elation that my child was about to have a grown up conversation with me subsided, panic quickly set in. What could possible be wrong that Jack would take such a serious tone?

Jack: I want you to tell me the truth, Mommy. I just need to know. (Pause.) Is Santa Claus real?

While I assumed this day would come (I don’t remember having this conversation with my mom, but I do recall noticing that Santa had the same handwriting as she did) I wasn’t expecting it to come so close to Christmas. I figured Jack wanted to believe and thus would continue to do so, not only for his own sake, but for Colin’s. So, the short of the story is, I didn’t really have a good answer prepared. I bought myself some time though by asking him what he believes. Then I pulled an answer out of thin air, but in retrospect, it wasn’t what I wish I had said.

I turned it into a discussion of faith. I told Jack that whether it’s God, Santa or climate change, there will always be people who try to shake your faith in what you believe. And in those times, you have to dig deep and figure out your own beliefs. Then stand by them. Kind of hokey, I know, but he accepted it.

Jack: Oh I’m so relieved! Mostly I wanted to make sure that when I am a dad, I don’t have to do all the work on Christmas Eve! Thank you, Mommy.

Upon greater reflection, here is what I wish I had said. Santa Claus as a living and breathing person who lives in the North Pole making presents all year round, Santa Claus as a man on a sleigh who delivers toys to privileged Christian children the world over does not exist. But what is real is the spirit of Christmas that Santa represents, a spirit of giving to others and creating joy. You can believe in Santa by creating and perpetuating the spirit of Christmas. Even on your Grinchy days.

The next time I have to have this conversation, hopefully it will be spring, well after the tree is down, needles are swept up, and stockings are put away. Regardless of when it comes, I will be better prepared.

Or maybe I will fall back on the age-old cop-out: go ask your dad.

a very newsy update

the scraped, primed and painted ceiling and walls of the guest room, the source of all my sweat equity efforts

I can’t fault writer’s block for my recent absence from the blogosphere. I’ve had several ideas that fell the wayside or were condensed into 140-character tweets. But fear not, I’m still here, thinking the same snarky thoughts.

I do feel like I should wrap up some loose ends, given how many questions and comments I get on previous posts. So for those who haven’t been sleeping at night wondering how my turkey came out or if I found a new purse, here are some updates to whet your appetite for more posts to come. Trust me, I have a lot on my mind that I want to share.

In no particular order, fall foliage. It’s gone. I’m no longer lounging under the brilliant canopy of autumn-hued trees. It was a spectacular fall, the best in my memory, and I hope fall 2011 is the new norm for the years to come.

My turkey. If you read my post, then you know I was poised to host Thanksgiving for the first time ever, and I was seeking turkey recipes. Thanks to all who submitted their favorites. I used the version submitted by my friend Stephanie, who has used it ten years running, although every year, her mother-in-law still declares, “why Stephanie, I didn’t know you could cook!” Now, my bird did not come out as juicy as Stephanie promised, but that’s my fault for screwing up the weight-time conversion and leaving it in the oven a little too long. Regardless, Colin ate both drumsticks and there weren’t as many leftovers as one would think given we were five adults, five kids and two turkeys (yes, someone didn’t trust me and brought their own).

A new fall/winter purse: There’s still no new handbag dangling off my arm, though I have test-run many models. The favorite thus far is my friend Emily’s purse, but even though she lives in Chicago and we have owned the same bag before, I am hesitant to click purchase. A big Kate Spade sale after Christmas and continued ennui with my current bag might cure me of that though.

The Sweat Equity Challenge: No, I did not end up tackling a household project every week between September 18th and Thanksgiving, but I did do eight weeks worth of projects in about a 5-day period, which explains why I still have repetitive stress disorder in both arms (I’m an ambidextrous scraper/painter). The lesson learned: next time hire someone to do the work or find a boyfriend who is handy around the house.

My fall wardrobe refresh: In October, I took advantage of a 25% off J. Crew sale to purchase some new staples for my fall wardrobe. What a bust. First of all, I kid you not when I say each of the five items I ordered was shipped separately. Secondly, I ended up returning everything except the pencil skirt in harvest tweed. The camel sweater was not the right shade (nor was the blouse) and the plum capri pants looked like pajamas. The red pants, which I had high high hopes for, weren’t lined and it took 15 seconds of standing in front of my mirror before the itching began.

So that is pretty much my life to date. Stay tuned for my musings on Santa Claus, Christmas lists, and of course, my upcoming birthday.

December 17th for those who don’t have their calendars marked.

homage to fall

Photo credit: Tom Lawler — Taking the Lillybees out on a fall day

I don’t mean to be so self-serving as to direct your attention to a photo of myself (even if it is a great picture, if I do say so myself). What I really want to highlight is how beautiful DC’s Fall 2011 has been. Every one of my favorite colors is captured in this photo, and I do not recall a fall that has been as brilliant or splendid. Or quite as long. I know, I know, I just jinxed us, right? But I have already asked the weather gods what sort of sacrifice they need in order to (1) feel the strength of my appreciation; (2) extend (is that too greedy?) this season; and (3) ward off a crappy winter.

During these insanely busy last two weeks, I have tried to walk a little slower to my meetings, spend more time looking out my office window, and generally just appreciate this weather that is not hot and humid, wet and wild, or bone-chillingly cold. I’m not really a stop-to-smell-the-roses kind of person, but I have definitely paused to appreciate the season.

Sorry if it rains later.

words are not enough

I rarely suffer from a lack of words. I use them to complain about the mundane. It’s too hot outside, or maybe too cold. I snagged my new tights, poor me I can’t run anymore, and how about those pet peeves? The restaurant down the street isn’t serving my favorite soup. Soccer practice every night is inconvenient to the working mom. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Then something happens and for one moment (or a sleepless night) you are reminded of how lucky you are. Suddenly you’re entirely grateful for the soccer schedule, snow or no snow.

Bad things inexplicably happen to good people, and it’s with this sense of bewilderment that my heart goes out to my little sister’s best friend Ashley. On Halloween, while many of us chased our costumed kids down the streets of our hometowns, as our kids approached houses to beg for candy (sometimes forgetting to say “trick or treat” and even more often forgetting to say thank you) Ashley gave birth two months too early to baby girl Harper. When I saw the news on Facebook, I did the math in my head and optimistically thought of the preemie babies I know (and know of) who were born that early and who are now thriving children.

It’ll be okay, I reassured myself. It’s Ashley. She is maybe one of the nicest young women I know. (I want to call her a kid because I’ve known her since she was a child.) Ashely has a fantastic sense of humor and radiates warmth. Ashley and Meghann came to DC for Inauguration weekend in 2009, and she might be my favorite guest I’ve ever hosted, which is why I felt especially bad that on the day before Inauguration she was awakened not by an alarm clock but by a string of cursing from me when I woke up that bitter cold morning to frozen pipes that had burst in the basement. Ashley is poised. Ashley is strong. Her baby will be fine.

Still, I hugged my kids extra tight (in front of their friends which makes Jack a little mad these days) as they left for school. I made a mental note to pick up baby Harper a little Capitol Hill tee shirt the next time go to at Eastern Market. But then baby Harper’s condition turned out to be worse than feared and a decision was made to fly her to Boston where she could receive medical care from a specialist. Sadly, for some reason I will never understand, Mother Nature had other plans. Freezing rains caused the pilots to have to turn the helicopter around and return to Bangor. Baby Harper died.

I can never imagine what Ashley, her husband, and their families are going through. In the last few weeks, my step-sister lost her beloved grandmother and my father his life-long best friend. But they were, to quote from a tale told in one of the Harry Potter books, greeting death as an old friend, after well-lived lives. To lose a baby, who in those short months of pregnancy comes to represent every hope and dream you have for the future, is a tragedy that no one can ever be prepared for and that will change Ashley’s outlook forever.

I wish so many things for Ashley. I wish she had carried baby Harper to term. I wish she’d had time to hold her baby close, coo over her, and count fingers and toes. I wish she’d had time to relax (albeit nervously) and enjoy those first few moments of motherhood instead of experiencing in the worst way the fear and panic aspects that go along with the job.

Whether it is too hot or too cold outside or we are too busy or annoyed at something menial, time is the one constant and sometimes the one thing we don’t have enough of. I wish for Ashley that she and Harper had had more of it together.

the long lost art of letter writing

We rarely write letters anymore. When was the last time you received a newsy, handwritten letter in the snail-mail from a dear friend or family member? (The only one who writes to me these days is the woman from the Tom Ford cosmetic counter at Bergdorf where I bought two lipsticks over a year ago. It’s nice that she still sends me the occasional note with color swatches and samples, but for once I would love an unexpected letter in the mail.) Do you remember the last time you were excited to retrieve the mail because you were anticipating correspondence from someone you had recently written to? On that note, when was the last time you actually wrote a letter?

A piece on All Things Considered that aired in September featured two women who had become pen pals in 1960, stayed in touch all these years, and just recently met. It was one of those stories that you stay in your car and finish listening to because it’s so touching. A month later, I’m still thinking about this story. It struck a chord.

As a kid and young teenager, I wrote letters all the time. I remember summer vacations at my dad’s, waiting for letters from my girlfriends back in Maine. Those letters were my connection to who broke up with whom, what new school clothes had been purchased, and all the happenings at the local mall. They sustained me. But more than that, they deepened our friendships.

I even had a pen pal from Austria. I don’t remember the details of how our correspondence came about, but her name was Elsa and she once sent me a Christmas tree ornament. I remember the delicate texture of the air mail paper and how European handwriting just looked different from American scrawl. We kept in touch all through high school and a little bit into college. Over the years I had other pen pals from distant lands. These relationships gave me insights into countries I had never visited and lives I could never imagine. Contrast that to today where I have close friends whose handwriting I could never even identify because we only communicate electronically.

Clearly letter writing (and notes… I’m sure kids don’t pass notes in study hall anymore) has been replaced by email and texts. Even my grandmother emails. I get the benefits email provides, such as instant gratification, but here’s the thing: would I ever let my kids email with some stranger in another country? Not on your life. While there is no way of knowing whether Elsa in Austria was really a 13-year old girl who liked the same music I did, a paper and ink relationship was safe. But more than that, it was profound.

Would the women profiled on NPR had remained lifelong friends if they casually emailed instead of letter writing? Will anyone ever write love letters again? Will my kids ever have a pen pal? Attention spans today may be short, but letters provide a chance for longevity. History needs letters.

So if you want to go old school, write me a letter. I promise to keep the letter (for posterity) and even to write back. You don’t even have to send me lipstick color swatches.

my very first turkey

I know that it seems very department store of me to be thinking past the next holiday (though I’m not quite as bad as retailers who have been on Christmas since Labor Day) but for weeks I have been unable get my brain off of Thanksgiving. While it is undeniably my favorite holiday (is there any other day that is so centered around food?) this year I am particularly excited because for the first time, I’m going to host.

There is just one little detail that plagues me. I’ve never cooked a turkey.

I know this lack of large fowl experience will shock anyone who knows that I love to cook, although I will admit I did not always have a strong kitchen reputation. When I was married, many of friends didn’t realize I like to look, let alone that I can cook. My ex-husband often (okay, always) did the cooking, thus the number one question when we separated was not “what happened?” or “how are the children taking it?” but “who is going to cook for you?

(For the record, the second question was usually, “do we have to wait so late to eat now that you are cooking?” as ex was notorious for putting dinner on the table well after 10:00pm.)

I have certainly rediscovered myself in the kitchen these last few years, but do remain grill-averse. I firmly view grilling as a man’s job; after all, it’s called manning the grill for a reason. But anything else in the kitchen, I can do. And do well. I think. I haven’t cooked everything. I haven’t cooked a turkey.

Thanksgivings past have found me at BFF Nancy’s house, and last year at my dad’s. But this year, I want to host (by the way Nancy, is all this okay with you?) and I can’t wait. Except my brain might explode from all the turkey recipes I’ve read in the last few weeks. The pressure is on to prepare the best, and I want to exceed my own expectations. When it comes to the sides, I know I’m good. Mashed potatoes I make better than anyone. And stuffing? I have a great sausage stuffing recipe. Brussels sprouts with bacon, green beans with caramelized shallots, homemade cranberry sauce. Check. Check. Check. And of course, I can’t forget the traditional family appetizer and both of my sisters’ favorite Thanksgiving food: mushroom turnovers.

But turkey? Should I brine it? Should I stuff it with the stuffing or cook the stuffing separately? Should I order one from Whole Foods? (Kidding.)

Consider this post a plea for your experiences, ideas, recipes and guidance. Consider this post a contest. The one who submits the best sounding recipe, the one I ultimately use, has an invitation to join us at our table.

I can’t guarantee how the turkey will come out, but I promise the wine will be very very good.

pet peeves

It seems like a good time of the year (or maybe just a good time of the month) to delve into some of my worst all-around pet peeves. Some of these have been said or written before but bear repeating. I know I am mostly preaching to the choir and that none of my dear readers are guilty of or responsible for any of these complaints of mine. Feel free to share yours back. It seem like a good day to have a rant-fest.

1. Tourists take note: on the metro, we stand on the right, walk on the left. If you happen to be standing on the left and I say, “excuse me” (in a very polite voice, of course) don’t mouth off about how “everyone in Washington is always in such a hurry.” Yes, we are in a hurry. Guess what? We have a country to run. So kindly step out of the way and let me pass.

2. The metal clicking noise made by a pump that needs the heel tip replaced is worse for me than hearing nails scratch down a chalkboard. This shoe foul is particularly bad if said click is made when the offender is walking on a marble floor, and worse if that marble floor is in the Capitol where there is a cobbler conveniently located. (As in, there are no excuses for not getting it fixed.)

3. Restaurants that use white linen napkins. Are you really telling me that there is no such thing as a lint-free napkin? And instead of just having black napkins upon request, how about you default to the use black napkins and keep the white ones on hand for the random person wearing white? This practice would make sense especially in cities where the majority of folks dine in their professional attire, which more often than not (in DC anyway) comes in varying shades of black, navy and charcoal. Even a lint-roller couldn’t help me the other day after a run-in with a particularly linty napkin.

4. It hurts my eyes to look at women wearing pants with floating hems. You know what I’m talking about. Their pants have been altered to be worn with flats or a kitten heel, but then they wear them with a higher heel and the edge of the pant leg dangles awkwardly somewhere between the ankle and the ground. It’s the equivalent of men wearing high water pants. I know it sucks, but you have to have certain pants you are committed to wearing only with heels and some you are committed to wearing only with flats, and get the lengths tailored accordingly.

5. I beg of you, wear seasonally (and weather) appropriate footwear. While I do admit that before my physical therapist banned me from wearing flip flops for anything but a walk to the beach, I had been known to push the envelop on how long into the season I could wear them for my (short) walk to the metro. But then investing in a good pair of weather-hearty boots for winter was the best decision I ever made. Similarly, UGGs anytime, but particularly UGGs in the summer (with shorts!) totally gross me out. UGGs in the rain, I just don’t get.

There you have it. I apologize if I offend anyone but luckily it is National Champagne Day, so go out tonight and raise a toast to this sparkling elixir of the gods. Just make sure your napkin doesn’t throw up lint all over your pants, whether they are hemmed to the right length or not.