thirsty?

No, I’m not about to slip into the writer’s block abyss. Over the weekend, my time was consumed by a guest, the kids’ soccer games and football. (Welcome back, real refs!) Over the last few days, I had a carbon conference and a women’s business networking event to attend. Today, my head and shoulders hurt and my inbox is unmanageable.

In case you need something Chelsea to tide you over, you can read the guest post I did last week for my hairstylist, Mickey Bolek of Michael Anthony Salon, and in a few days time, check out another guest appearance I’m making for DC Wine Week. (Don’t worry, I will remind you again.)

If that isn’t enough, my goal is to have my short story ready for Amazon e-publishing by this weekend. And that I hope you put on your must read list.

on being nice

In the last week, I’ve been confronted by two real and painful examples of what happens when adults don’t stick to a rule they often reprimand children for not following: if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

While the first example is too personal to go into, this second infraction on the cousin to the golden rule came at a kids’ soccer game this weekend. Let me pause for a moment to express that even after seven years of watching my children play youth sports, I haven’t immuned myself to the way some sidelines parents criticize kids, coaches and refs alike. It’s infuriating and distracting. Youth sports are supposed to be fun. These children play not to win the world cup in peewee soccer but to run around and “learn” a sport. In the process, they get fresh air and an understanding what it means to be on a team. The coaches are all volunteers, usually parents to one or more kids on the team. These parents are not professional coaches but real people with full time jobs on top of their household responsibilities. For many hours each week they spend their “free” time with our kids on a soccer field.

At Saturday’s game, I was caring for our coach’s toddler daughter while he guided a field of seven and eight year olds in the chaotic art of soccer. Our kids don’t have many fancy moves. They don’t even get called for offsides yet. Most of them still follow the ball like a herd and freeze with fear sometimes when confronted by a chance to kid the ball. In other words, they play like little kids.

The team we were facing was a little more sleek and sophisticated. And they quickly went up on us by five goals.

After the 3rd or 4th opposing goal was made, some team parents started criticizing our own coach. I took exception not only because he’s a good guy doing a tireless (and apparently thankless) job, but because these loud mouths were making these comments right in front of our coach’s two children.

At first I tried a few gentle exclamations of my own. To his daughter sitting in my lap I said, “hey, look at your daddy over there! See daddy coaching! Do you want to wave to your daddy the coach?” To her older brother sitting on the grass I said, “is your dad taking you to your soccer game after he’s done coaching this game?” But subtlety is lost on the socially degenerate. After temporarily redirecting their tirade to the kids playing on the field with a “get the ball! kick the ball! pass the ball!” chorus (can we please have a moratorium on statements of the obvious from the sidelines?) they returned to their original target. This time I took a bolder approach. I turned around and said, “perhaps you’d like to meet our coach’s kids; they are sitting right here.”

I didn’t wait to see the deer-in-headlights looks that I’m sure they flashed. They didn’t make an effort to introduce themselves to said children, nor did they apologize, but their tone certainly changed. “Oh, he stepped up when no one else volunteered to coach the team,” I heard one dad say.

Yeah, that’s right. He volunteered so that we could have a team. A team you just spent the last 45 minutes yelling at because they aren’t playing up to your expectations. Maybe the kids can’t hear their coach because ten adults are yelling directives at them from the sidelines. If you are such an expert, get off your chair and volunteer to help at a practice or game. But don’t criticize our patient, unpaid and under appreciated coach for his efforts.

And most of all, when you are in a public setting, be nice. Choose your words wisely. And don’t just do this because you might get caught saying negative things but because it’s the right thing to do.

happy birthday, jack!

Photo taken on Jack’s California adventure.

Are you really 11 years old? I feel like you’ve grown up more in this past year than in all the other years combined.

Each day, you bring more joy into my life. I love everything about you (except maybe your stinky feet). I love that of all the instruments you could choose from, you decided to play the saxophone. I love that when I was flipping out because I thought my car had been stolen from the movie theater parking garage, you remained calm. I love what you can create with a pencil and a piece of paper. I love that you opted for a gingerbread-pineapple upside down cake instead of our usual themed cupcakes (even though I’ve mastered camo frosting). I love how you reason with me when there’s something that you want.

(You say you want to be a genetic engineer so that you can breed a lizard with a bird to make a dragon, but if that profession doesn’t give you fulfillment, I see a career in law for you even though I love you too much for you to become a lawyer.)

You’re learning patience. You’re learning how to be fair to your little brother, although sometimes when your friends are around, you forget. You no longer cover you eyes when there’s a kissing scene in a movie and you even brush your hair now. You love cauliflower, and thanked me for making it for dinner the other night. Last year, your teacher told me that being around kids like you made her wish she had had her own children. (I might have cried a little at that comment.)

You are empathetic, clever, funny.

I’m so happy to be your mommy, or as you have started to refer to me, mom.

9-11 eve

Eleven years ago today, the only way I thought my life was about to change forever was by the imminent birth of my child. I didn’t even know “it” was going to be a boy, so my bedroom had a bunch of neat little stacks of yellow, green and white onesies and blankets that I had folded as meticulously as I’ve ever folded anything. (Why can’t the nesting urge stay with us beyond childbirth?) On September 10th, 2001, I went to work and probably left my Senate ID in my desk all day since we didn’t need it to get anywhere but “on the floor.” Back in the day, anyone could walk underneath the Capitol, from the Senate to the House. Unsupervised. Security guards never made you take off your shoes. We made fun of people who wore their IDs around their neck or clipped to their belt. For the record, we didn’t have blackberries back in these dark ages either, though we did have these little pagers. The only time I consistently used mine was to go take a 45-minute nap at lunch in the nurse’s station during my last trimester of pregnancy. Emma, who sat at the desk in front of my office, was the only person who knew where I was, and if someone was looking for me, she could page me. Though she never did.

Then everything changed. Now we live in a society that grinds to a halt when someone accidentally leaves their knapsack on the metro. We look askance at people who might be different from us. We can’t get bottled water through security at the airport. Many families have emergency plans that don’t just include where to meet if there is a house fire, but what to do if there is another terrorist attack. The world is a different place than it was when we were growing up (isn’t that what people always say?) but yet, my kids walk to their bus stop every morning, they want to listen to “their” music, and they crack up at the mention of the word “fart.” (True, it happened today.)

Things change, yet in some very fundamental – and comforting – ways, they stay the same.

day three: manic Monday

I made it. It’s day three of the juice cleanse. I could quit now and have fulfilled my goal.

But I want to go on and complete a five-day regiment.

I’m addicted to my juices. I think about them second only to how much I think about shoes. Well, maybe third to how much I think about shoes and George Clooney.

I expected today to be a challenge because I had to venture outside the comfort zone of my house, where I knew I wouldn’t encounter temptation because the Executive Chef (i.e. me) wasn’t making anything noteworthy. However, while the smell of coffee at the office was divine, it didn’t send me over the edge. I toted three juices to work with me (green, spicy lemonade and a delicious cucumber-grapes-pears-ginger combo). I was strategically out during the lunch hour so I don’t know what my colleagues ate. What I miss most about solid food is definitely the social aspect. It would have been nice to have lunch today with my friend Beth (though she was very understanding and we rescheduled to “snack” next week). I’m without the kids this week and it would be fun to go out to dinner and have a glass (or two) of wine. By Thursday, I can. And I plan to do just that.

I’m a competitive spirit but only recently has this bug afflicted me in a goal-setting sort of way. When I was contemplating whether to hang up my juicer tonight, I thought, “why register for the 10K when there’s a half marathon?” So after work I went to spin, back to the grocery store for more produce and came  home to make two more days worth of juices.

Now, at the end of my day, I’m enjoying my hard-earned cashew milk.

I hardly know who I am!

day two: energized

What can I say? I feel good. As I mentioned, I had a great night’s sleep last night. This morning, I went to a kick-ass spin class and cheered on my friend Rayanne, who today completed a personal challenge of her own, to complete 32 spin classes in 26 days (by her 32nd birthday). I went home and had a juice, of course, then did an hour of yard work, including placing my new compost bin. I figured if I was making as much pulp as my juicer makes, now is as good of time as any to start something I should have being doing already. (Composting was also on my 43 by 43 list.)

Showered. Did laundry. Watered the plants until it started to rain. Hosted two additional kids for a play date. Made tomorrow’s juice. Took a 20-minute power nap. Rearranged Colin’s room. And most importantly, I decided to extend this challenge two extra days.

Unless the headache sets in tomorrow, that is.

day one: tolerable

green juice, spicy lemonade and the beet concoction

One of the reasons I’ve never been drawn to cleanses is that I really like solid food. I love the texture. I love the flavor. I love salt, butter and the delicacy of a perfect goat cheese or a melt-in-your-mouth filet mignon.

But I’m in a cleansing mode in other capacities. I’ve done closet and drawer purges for the boys and me. I “weeded out” the toys in their playroom. I’ve consolidated memorabilia. And I’ve tried to embrace happiness rather than obsessing about worry after worry. So in the spirit of this attempt to let go of the left rope (I’ll go into depth on this analogy another day) it seemed like an appropriate time to take on an internal cleanse. Plus, Nancy is out of town this weekend so temptation will be minimized.

In advance of the cleanse, I gave up caffeine a few days ago. I haven’t had any wine since Tuesday. And for 14 hours on Saturday, I drank my meals.

My day went something like this:

6:45 hot lemon water

7:15 green juice (celery, kale, cucumber, spinach, granny smith apples, parsley, lemon)

8:00-9:00 spin class

10:00 second green juice

12:15 first fruit juice, a combo of pineapple, granny smiths and mint

4:30 spicy lemonade

7:00 juice of carrots, beets, celery, apples, lemon

9:00 cashew milk (aka dessert)

I did better than expected but I won’t say it was easy. I almost licked the peanut butter knife after making the kids toast. I then had to make them lunch (more peanut butter) and dinner (leftover tacos). At soccer practice, one of the parents had the grill going and made hotdogs for all the kids. I hate hotdogs, but they sure did smell good. Kate and Rob asked if the kids and I wanted to go to dinner with them. It was hard to say no.

But I didn’t need to nap. I didn’t get too cross. I got only one headache when I stood up too quickly, and it immediately went away.

I don’t know what today holds, but after getting nine hours of sleep, I jumped out of bed. No headache. No fatigue. No cravings for my son’s peanut butter toast (yes, they eat a lot of peanut butter) or even for my typical morning latte.

Off to spin!

juicing

fruits and vegetables + juicer = green juice

I’m not really a person who runs from fad to fad. I bought my neon orange cross-body bag last summer before shades of tangerine tango were omnipresent. I was late to the Facebook, twitter, foursquare game. I don’t try to get reservations at the hot new restaurant anywhere close to opening night. And when it comes to breakthrough diets and revolutionary eating plans, they definitely do not appeal to me.

I had heard people talk about “juicing” but the idea of a juice cleanse did not appeal to me. Until a week ago, that is. I was inspired by the spintastic Ingrid at Biker Barre, who did a five-day cleanse last week and still managed to teach some of the most kick ass classes at the studio. A juice cleanse, one that really allows you to drink your fruits and vegetables sounded appealing to me, unlike the Master Cleanse Gwyneth Paltrow swears by, though she can do it because she has servants to run her life while she hallucinates on a diet of lemon water with cayenne.

I’m following the BluePrint Cleanse (BPC) but instead of purchasing their pre-made juices, I’m making my own, in my new juicer, at a fraction of the cost. (BPC charges $11/bottle x 6 bottles/day for 3-5 days. That’s a lot of shoe money.) After consulting both Consumer Reports and my most recent edition of Food and Wine Magazine, I purchased the Hamilton Beach Big Mouth Juice Extractor. This juicer scored one point lower than the highest rated model but at a lower price point.

I have the BPC recipes and I chose to do the introductory version (“Renovation”) for three days because I’m not quite as hard core as Ingrid. And because I love solid food.

If you want to come over this weekend for a jar of green juice (kale, apples, romaine leafs, celery, cucumber, parsley, spinach and lemon juice) or maybe a concoction of beets, carrots, and ginger, you are more than welcome. But please don’t bring a bottle of wine or vodka. I’m sure spiking your green juice is very much against the rules.

weekend warriors

Last year, I wrote about the “book club for home improvement” group that I belong to, Weekend Warriors. My friend Kara already expressed how fantastic this group of families is on her blog, so instead of repeating her declarations of love for these friends, I’ll let a picture (or collage) tell a thousand words.

On Saturday, the Warriors came to my house, read the list I had prepared in advance, and conquered my projects. We painted the living room. We installed surround sound (and by “we” I mean a team of guys led by Neil, an Emmy-winning sound technician for NPR) and the backyard was laboriously cleared of the weeds and debris that had been encroaching on my house. The kids potted flowers for my front stoop. We painted the exterior of my front and back doors. Emily (and kids) power washed the side of my house. Curtain rods were hung in the playroom-slash-office, and Ritzer removed the door that had served as a barrier between this room and the rest of the house. Rob (and kids) made a cork board out of exactly 128 wine corks. Afterwards, we ate three different types of chili. We drank beer. We drew for 2013 months.

There had been a moment as we neared the four-hour mark when I looked around and thought to myself, “I have a long night of work ahead of me once the whistle blows and everyone leaves.” But no one put a brush down or otherwise stopped working until the work was done. In fact, a few guys are coming over later this week to make the wires to my speakers “pretty.”

The entire process made me teary, though by my own rules, there’s no crying in Warriors. There is dreaming though of my 2013 turn, coming in April, a perfect month to really landscape that yard of mine. In the meantime, I will enjoy the process of participating in other people’s projects. (It’s much less stressful to go into someone else’s house and tackle their needs than it is to manage your own.) And every time I see the results of the hard work of these good friends, I smile.

my psychic reading

Today I had a psychic reading.

It had been many years since I consulted the mystical for answers to my burning questions, so when a dear friend offered up the name of the psychic she had been using for 12 years, I didn’t hesitate to schedule a phone session with him.

After wrestling with a good 20 minutes with the Western Union website so I could pay him in advance, I finally made our scheduled call.

We didn’t exactly start off on the right foot.

He immediately took my full name and started to make some numerology calculations based on that name. As it turns out, my entire name is cursed.

Majesty: Your middle name is Ingrid? You have to lose that. It’s a negative name. Just go to the records office and have them take it off your birth certificate.

Me: But I’m named for my aunt.

Majesty: And your first name? It’s a beautiful disaster. You need to lose the “a” at the end of Chelsea so I recommend you change the spelling.

Me: But I have spent years mocking people who make up alternate spellings for my name.

Majesty: If you lose the “a” and spell your name Chelse, you will have total protection your entire life.

Me: Sigh

Majesty: But the worst is Henderson. This name means divorce. Everyone with this name gets a divorce. Why did you take it back after your own divorce? You need to take the name of your second husband, if he even ever marries you because I’m afraid the negative energy of your name might prevent that from happening. You need to change it to Hunderson.

Me: So I should change my name from Chelsea Henderson to Chelse Hunderson?

I think not.

But then things took a turn for the better. Numerology must not be for me because I got a lot more out of the tarot card reading he did. The top ten takeaways:

1. I am quite fertile. In fact, I have a third son I haven’t given birth to who is really pissed off that I have not let him be born yet.

2. I need to stop worrying about crap because everything is going to be fine.

3. I will get married again and will get pregnant and release baby #3, but in the Jamaican way, pregnant first, then married.

4. I will build my dream home.

5. I should start my own business immediately because I will be very successful at it and will rise to a high station in life.

6. I have artistic powers and should try writing a book because it will be a best seller.

7. I have met my soulmate and should have no fear, there are great and mighty days to come.

8. I will live until I am old and gray. (Though I am gray now, as Mickey can attest to.)

9. I should embrace a more vegetarian lifestyle and get some rest because I don’t sleep enough. (What exactly do vegetarians pair with cabernet sauvignon?)

10. I should make things happen instead of waiting for them to happen.

As the tarot card reading consumed much more time than the numerology portion of our call, I was able to abandon the despair at my name and absorb his insight. Which at this point really centered around one recurring word: fertile.

Majesty: In fact, I think you should change your middle name to Myrtle.

Apparently, it’s less cursed than Ingrid.