the life – Page 11 – the chelsea chronicles

must have monday: change

We all get stuck in the rut of our lives. We set our alarm for the same time every morning. We perform the same workout. We eat the same breakfast. We wear the same outfits, have our same conference calls and attend the same meetings. We order the same foods at the same restaurants and we shop at the same stores. We come home at night, and if we are single mommies who work full time, we make the same dinners. Those same dinners, of course, being the ones we know we can prepare fast and, more importantly, our kids will eat.

But this week, when compiling my grocery list, I rejected the menu that has become our usual. After all, what a waste to have kids with a somewhat adventurous palate if you aren’t going to push buttons. And since I’m working from home this week – a camp-less week that had been designated for vacation time with mommy until I was overtaken by events and failed to plan anything that qualifies as away fun – I feel like I need to do something to make it interesting.

So in addition to daily swim lessons (“why do we need swim lessons when we know how to swim?”) and art class every afternoon (because mommy is working from home, not on vacation) I deemed this “try a new food every day” week. And when I made the grocery list, I consulted my little eaters.

Me: Will you eat salmon?

Jack: Well, we had it a few years ago at Jaxon’s house and we didn’t like it, but I like going fishing, so maybe we should try eating more fish!

Bingo.

Last night, they tried my chili-infused dark chocolate. They liked it. Tonight, we had teriyaki salmon and while Colin complained, he ate nine-tenths of his piece. Jack cleaned his plate. Tomorrow night, we’ll stick with the taco theme, but instead of filling them with beef, we’re having fish tacos. (I’m going to work that “I like fishing” angle as long as I can.) Wednesday night they’re with dad, but Thursday we’re going to see Spiderman, and I already suggested a stop at Oyamel to try grasshopper tacos after the show.

They’re into it.

We’ll try a new flavor of ice cream (cinnamon) in our maker on Friday and then regroup over the weekend, perhaps visiting the farmers market and picking out some interesting new items together.

While we aren’t spending a week on the beach or in Paris or some place exotically educational, we are making our own fun and pushing our limits.

But if I’m going to survive the week, they need to stay out of my dark chocolate stash.

all the news that’s fit to print

Yes, I have been missing in action. Well, not missing in a dropped off the face of the earth sort of way. But I didn’t spend any time during the week of Chelsea doing any writing that is worthy of sharing (I blame the heat) and this week has been a dizzying cascade of work, kids, camp, heat and stress, all without my daily dose of Biker Barre to keep me sane and balanced.

So what did I do with my time off? I shopped. I spa-ed. I worked out. I ate (a lot). I drank some nice wines. I took the kids to Philadelphia. We went to a Fourth of July parade, derby car race and river raft regatta. Then our hostess in Philadelphia – my roommate from college – came down to DC with me. We shopped more. Ate more. Drank more. I introduced her to the barre-spin double. We napped. We saw Magic Mike. We watched movies at my house.

It was a good week.

In terms of my styling projects, Chani did not end up wearing the Kate Spade dress to the wedding in Charleston because while it was 105 here in DC with a heat index of 115, it was 145 degrees with 300% humidity in South Carolina and the fabric was just too heavy and clingy for an outdoor affair. She will wear it a lot this summer though, so no regrets, and bought dangly purple earrings as I recommended. She still doesn’t have the perfect shoes to go with the dress, according to what I heard yesterday, so I’m going to work on getting her into a snakeskin pair as suggested by Rosana from DC Style Factory.

Terra did wear her green dress to the wedding and paired it with a bunch of gold jewelry: stacked bracelets, necklace, earrings. Apparently there is no picture that captures the entire look though so you will just have to envision its greatness.

I got eyelash extensions and I.Love.Them. I asked my technician to give me a length that doesn’t scream hooker, and I’m extremely pleased with the results. Now no matter how hot and sweaty I get or how much I cry, my eyes are never smudgy. I’m not sure it’s a sustainable budget practice, but I plan to at least maintain them through the hot and sticky summer.

Which given the way the climate is changing, could mean until November.

current obsession: biker barre

Spin in the morning. Spin in the evening. Barre at lunch. Spin-barre doubles on the weekends. Anytime of day everyday of the week is a good time for a class at the newly-opened Biker Barre in the Barracks Row district of Capitol Hill.

I won’t ever be able to run again, but a year and a half after my back procedure, I can finally spin. Varoom, just like that, I have found my new favorite cardio.

While I still miss the flexibility of being able to lace up a pair of running shoes regardless of the time of day, in any location, to hit the road for a run of any length, the robust schedule at Biker Barre presents numerous opportunities to get your workout in, whether you are a morning, noon or night worker-outer. And while my runs typically lasted longer than the 45 minutes you spend on a bike in spin class, the instructors (especially co-owner Katie Fouts) are especially diligent at ensuring you don’t leave an ounce of energy untapped. But if you do have something in the reserves at the end of your virtual bike ride, I recommend following spin with a barre class. The perfect combination of pilates and yoga, barre’s emphasis on core strength has been key to alleviating the residual back pain I still get from time-to-time. And it tones you in all the right places.

I truly consider both exercises lifesavers.

But don’t take my word for it. Find your way to the Biker Barre studio. There are several pricing options available, whether you want to buy a one-class pass (with the second class free for newbies) or do what I did and buy the one-month unlimited option (there’s a special on that too).

Come to class. Prepare to sweat. Just don’t take my favorite bike.

summoning charm

If you know me, you might recognize (whether I have told you or not) that I’m going through somewhat of an emotional crisis. If you don’t know me or I haven’t talked to you about it, well, I’m going through somewhat of an emotional crisis. If you know me and I haven’t talked to you about it, don’t ask me to; honestly, I would have brought it up if I wanted to discuss the matter. And I don’t bring it up here as a way to initiate the conversation.

Instead I want to explore what people do to get through those times when faith is tested, strength is fleeting and resolve is necessary in larger doses than one typically possesses.

Times like this, I do my best to visualize a happy outcome. I don’t always succeed. Sometimes this happy visualization, while keeping me focused, can send me into fits of despair over the how and the when of its realization. I’m trying to get better at this technique.

I write. Then I don’t write because words seem inconsequential compared to what’s at stake. Then I write prolifically. Then I don’t. You might have noticed this trend.

I exercise like a you-know-what. I have never missed running more than I do now. If I could just go for one goddamn run, I swear I would be a bastion of self-assurance and stability. But the risk of re-injury is too high so if you need to reach me and I’m not answering my cell, I’m probably at Biker Barre, where I have taken up residency on a spin bike.

I open wine. I don’t sleep. I search the web for eye creams that will reduce puffiness, eliminate the soft purple hue that rings my eyes and mask to the world that I probably have just been crying. I take copious notes at work because I’m scatterbrained. I pack my schedule to the gills, then regret the decision when the time comes to keep those planned activities.

But today my tricks aren’t working. I need to do more to channel my strength and feed my faith in the future. I need to step away from the emotional ledge. I need to take deeper breaths than my psyche wants to allow.

You may not know the heart of my stress, but you probably have your own ways for summoning the qualities you need in times of mental anguish. I’m looking for suggestions.

And if you can recommend a good eye cream, the delicate skin around my eyes would greatly appreciate it.

friends

Facebook has forever altered the true meaning of the word “friend.” After all, I’m friends with people I haven’t seen in more than 20 years. I’m friends with people I barely know. Well, not anymore since I combed through my so-called friend list yesterday and weeded out 100 people whom I’m pretty sure I’d pass on the street without recognizing. These are people I haven’t had a real conversation with in years, if ever, and people whose posts I frankly never read.

I admit at times I could be a Facebook friend glutton, which is why I had friends from high school who never spoke ten words to me when we were actually there together, but lately I’ve been feeling a little dirty about the size of my Facebook universe. While the pages of the chelsea chronicles are open for all to read, and I certainly am not shy about bearing my soul here, you choose to read my musings. While I personally might find my own Facebook posts entertaining, it’s presumptuous for me to think that just because we once shared an English teacher, a zip code or drinks at a bar that you want my daily thoughts popping up in your stream. Or that I want to read yours.

Facebook serves a purpose for sure, one that I appreciate. After all, it helped me reconnect with my long lost cousin, Larisa. I have grown closer through the wires with people like Angie in Chicago. It’s also a great tool for cyber-stalking. And it’s nice to have a mechanism for keeping in touch with those friends and family members whom time or distance make routine communication challenging. But do I follow my best friends’ posts religiously on Facebook? Not really. I know what’s happening in their lives without social media.

I also have in my life people dear to me whose profiles you won’t see on my page. Our meaningful connections transcend the interwebs.

Recently, I’ve considered closing my Facebook account altogether. Until yesterday, I had close to 640 friends. I am chagrined that I still have have in the 530s, but I feel better about the depth of the connection I have to the remaining friends on my list.

bad outfit days

Just like every woman has a bad hair day now and then, usually coinciding with an event for which she’s extra focused on needing it to look good, like for a date, we also have bad outfit days.

Bad outfit days usually reveal themselves within minutes of their wearer being far enough away from home that it’s too late to rectify matters. Sometimes bad outfit days don’t make themselves apparent until after the outfit has seen several days of wear (not consecutively, of course). And under the worst case scenario, the bad outfit isn’t uncovered until many years later as the wearer combs through photographic evidence of days past. In the last case, these bad outfits aren’t just a representations of a long-gone trend or victims of the passage of time. You know deep inside they were as horrible then as they are now.

I had such an outfit that plagued too many days of my life two summers ago. I was experimenting with the mixing of patterns. You know, stripes with florals, florals with dots, dots with stripes. (J. Crew used to make it look effortless, though I’d describe their current combinations as erring on the side of the ridiculous.) Anyway, I had this olive green and ivory striped long-sleeved shirt. And I thought it would be super cute to wear with it a short-sleeved floral cardigan with predominant tones of olive, orange, pink and purple. I threw a multi-strand pearl necklace over the whole thing, paired it with jeans and waited for compliments that did not come.

Me: DC isn’t ready for this coolness.

I seriously thought my ensemble was awesome, so I wore the combination again. And again. And again. Then one day, I looked in the mirror and realized, “this is just awful.” (Or rather, that’s the sanitized version of what I said to myself.)

The point I’m trying to make is that bad outfit days happen to everyone. Maybe they happen to those who experiment and envelop push more than they happen to others. Or maybe because (for me personally) the pressure is high to always have on a great outfit, I’m more sensitive to the bad ones when they occur. Whatever the case, I typically advise to go with what your gut says when you stand in front of the mirror and ask yourself, “does this work?”

You just have to recognize that sometimes your gut is going to be wrong.

Operation Chelsea: interesting side note

Yes, I check out how many hits I get on my blog. I still get excited when the number tops 100. This figure might be abysmal to a quote-unquote real blogger but given that I write for fun, don’t have regular columns and routinely let myself be overtaken by writer’s block, busy schedules, and fatigue (in other words, I’m undisciplined) seeing the proof that I have any readers is affirming.

Sometimes, in addition to looking at the hard numbers, I also check out what search terms bring people to my blog. I like to see it when “chelsea chronicles” appears; it’s good to know not all readers happen upon me by accident or through Facebook. Other popular search terms that direct people to my blog’s door are lillybee or lillybee sizing, kate spade scout (I think I wrote about this purse a lot last summer) and even back brace styling.

As I sat down at the computer this morning to check out any additional dresses or comments that might have been posted to the guest of a wedding style dilemma board on Pinterest, I decided to check out my blog stats. Today’s stats page revealed that of my four readers thus far, three were directed to me by Facebook and one from a search engine. Imagine my surprise when, only one cup of coffee into the day, I scrolled down to see that the search term used was: milf gallery hot baby.

Do we think the googler of this phrase was disappointed in what he/she found? Of these four readers, three read Operation Chelsea: 24 Hours Later and one read Operation Chelsea. Was Mister milf gallery hot baby (yes, I am going to assume it was a dude) sorely disappointed to find a discussion of what to wear to a wedding? How many results pages deep did the guy have to go to find my blog? Out of curiosity, I ran the search myself and five pages in (which is much farther than I ever go in any Google search) my blog still hadn’t appeared. Was the mention of one dress being potentially too milf-y all it took to even register?

For those looking for a dress update, I didn’t place any orders yesterday. A combination of the flurry of late afternoon Pinterest activity, having two extra kids stay the night, and a complete and utter lack of decisiveness waylaid my intentions.

You (and Mr. MGHB) will just have to wait.

a girl’s gotta run

It has been 15 months since I laced up my sneakers and hit the road for a run. 15 long months of being crazy because I don’t have an effective replacement outlet for my emotions. 15 long months of feeling bigger than my skinny jeans like me to be because running is the only cardio workout that makes me feel close to svelte. 15 long months of envy, agony and depression when I see other runners getting to do what I so miss.

Being in San Francisco drives my desire to run more than any other place. I love the fog. I love the temperature. Running along the Embarcadero, exactly four miles from my hotel to Fisherman’s Wharf and back, there’s an eerie morning silence juxtaposed by the companionship of other committed runners.

As I sit here and glare at the cross-training shoes I brought so I could use what passes for a fitness center at the hotel, I know that if I had my running shoes this morning, I’d risk increased back pain for the joy of running. I’d kill to feel the dampness of the fog on my face and to experience the exhilaration of pushing myself to a faster pace. Because of my training sessions at Fitness Together, I’m much stronger now than I was 15 months ago, and I want to test that out too. Would I run faster? Could I run longer? Would I be able to attack hills with greater ease?

Oddly, I don’t even remember the Last Run. I doubt I knew at the time that it would be the last one. I’m sure I got up one morning before taking the back procedure journey and headed out the door for my morning run assuming I’d do the same the next day. Then the next day, I most likely couldn’t get out of bed.

I feel like I deserve a Last Run do over. I deserve a chance to bid running adieu. The hardest thing about not being in pain like I used to is accepting that I can’t pick back up and train for the Boston Marathon. I can’t even do the Capitol Hill Classic, a 10k which in the past I found “not long enough” but would do “for fun.”

If you are the worrying type, stop. I’m not going to do it. I know my doctor would kill me if I went back to him and had to explain what I’d done. I know my cross-trainers would not give me the support I need to make the run pleasant. And I know that I’m so very lucky to have been relatively pain-free recently and that I’m lucky I get to wear heels.

A quick run down the hallway in said heels is going to have to suffice for now.

chasing the sunset

I don’t know if it’s always like this when you fly west in the evening, but from my usual window seat I witnessed a two-hour sunset. How I wanted the plane to catch up to these brilliant shades of orange, blue, purple, moss and brown, all fading into the blackness of night. My mental race toward this sunset became my survival tool for the first few hours the flight, which my travel companion jinxed at take-off.

See, there’s this little known fact about me is that I have a totally irrational fear of flying. Irrational, that is, for someone who flies as frequently as I do. Take-offs are rough and I usually cry. Mid-flight turbulence sends me into fits of anxiety. Every single time I fly, I’m convinced my plane is going to make the evening news. Since I have no control over what happens on these flights, I instead have rituals. I must buy a magazine. I must drink a tomato juice. I try my hardest to not sit in a row that has the number 4 in it. (I usually book a seat in a row number that corresponds to a special day or month in my life.) These rituals make flying moderately bearable. One of my best defense mechanisms is to fall asleep before the flight even takes off. But rarely do I sleep the entire flight, and most often, I’m jolted awake from my safety net somewhere over Oklahoma.

Until last night, there was really only one person in my life who knows the true extent of my flying neuroses and it wasn’t Amy, as evidenced by this conversation:

Me (getting teary): I hate take-offs.

Amy (scowling): Why?

Me: I’m scared to fly.

Amy: Oh, come on! God won’t let this plane crash with you on it.

We were doomed for sure. I had no wood to knock on, no available course of action but to squeeze my fists tight, close my eyes and hope for the best.

Once I dared open my eyes, the sunset served as a distraction for me. I made outfits out of the color combinations. I pictured prints infused with these hues. I imagined what it would be like to see this sunset with feet actually touching soil. I wondered how long it would last. Eventually, it lulled me to sleep until the plane started to make its initial descent.

A very turbulent landing left even the cavalier Amy a little white-knuckled.

Once safely on the runway, I realized I never drank my tomato juice. I never read my magazine. Which means only one thing: I will need two of each on the return flight.

what my car says about my kids

A few weeks ago, I was quite dismayed when my dad, who was visiting from California, noted that I do not keep my car in the same pristine condition he keeps his. Funny because I’m otherwise a rather meticulous person. As in, I hate clutter. My house is not always “clean clean” but it’s usually straightened up.

Of course, when I first bought my pretty “blue ribbon blue” Prius in late 2009, I instituted a no food policy for the kids. They are no longer of an age where I feel like I have to indulge every hunger pang, and we don’t really take road trips that would justify bringing food for the drive. But sometimes the post-soccer-and-baseball game snacks end up being consumed in the car, there’s the occasional bottle of water (fine) or Capri Sun (sticky) that is opened, or a kid will get in my car at the end of the day so hungry that he starts pulling out his uneaten lunch for the three-minute drive home from school.

But really, the little bit of eating that happens in the car does not contribute greatly to its non-pristine state. Honestly, it’s the quirky personalities of my kids. Let’s explore what really does litter my car.

1. Sticks: In case you didn’t realize, a stick makes a very fine wand. A larger stick might make a great staff. The staffs usually get thrown in the back of the car; the wands end up crushed on the floor of the backseat. If there were a TV show about stick hoarders, my boys would be stars of the premier episode. Colin hasn’t met a stick he doesn’t want to keep forever.

2. Books: I gave birth to two voracious readers. While Colin (like his mother) cannot read in the car without wanting to hurl, Jack can read all day long, regardless of the speed I am driving, whether I’m moving the car forward or in reverse, and no matter the time of day. Right now there’s a Batman book in the car, The Complete Guide to Rocks and Minerals (rocks are also collectibles) and The Amazing Adventures of Ordinary Boy. The boys never know when they might want to read about a conventional superhero, an everyday character they can relate to, or look up a rock they found on the playground.

3. Paper and pencils: Colin may not be able to read in the car but he can draw and when Jack isn’t reading, he’s usually drawing. Their illustrations (and rejects) blanket the backseat of the car because I have a hard time throwing them away. They are art. I leave their strewn papers untouched until they get stepped on enough times to tear or render a footprint impression.

What does the interior of my car say about my kids? They are stick-obsessed readers who love to draw.

If I drove a luxury car like my dad, I might be more strict. But I can console myself with the condition of my car with the though that some day, the Prius is going to be theirs. Then this mommy is going to buy herself a car worthy of her great shoe collection.

I might allow myself to drink a latte in said car. But definitely there will be no sticks allowed.