the life – Page 14 – the chelsea chronicles

summer in the city

I suck at summer. It is most definitely my least favorite season. First of all, who can expect to be presentable when faced with heat indexes of 116 degrees? If I wanted to live in India, I would move there. Secondly, maybe this is exclusive to DC and people who work with Congress, but summers are always the busiest time of year. So not only do you have to run from meeting to meeting, dressed professionally, but you have to do it in weather that puts even the heartiest of stock in jeopardy of swooning.

Granted, this three-day (maybe four, meteorologists are now saying) heat wave is not the norm, but how long before it will be? I love how health experts warn us to stay hydrated, keep electrolytes up, and most importantly, avoid caffeine and alcohol in this weather. Are you kidding me? I need the caffeine to keep the engine running if I am going to be forced to live as though I have a hot steaming washcloth wrapped around me for the next four days, and I have not yet encountered alcohol-free Chardonnay. Caffeine and alcohol will make these dog days tolerable.

I dream thoughts of fall (tall boots, cashmere, gloves, scarves) but also long for an ocean breeze or perhaps a chilly New England night that calls for a sweater. A down-and-back business trip to Portsmouth, NH on Sunday and Monday, where the forecast calls for a very manageable high of 75 degrees, seems too good to be true.

On the positive side, this morning marked the first time in seven months that I did not look with envy at a (crazy) person I saw out on a morning run.

glorious pasta

I have been slightly obsessed of late with the idea of making fresh pasta. I’m sure that those who know I like to cook are surprised to learn that I do not regularly crank out my own fresh noodles. I have to admit to having been slightly scarred by my first attempt, more than 15 years ago, when my roommate Cathy and I decided to make fresh pasta for her boyfriend-now-husband and my boyfriend-of-the-month. Did I jinx our attempt by buying fresh pasta as backup? Or maybe we relied too much on the fact that Cathy (née Licata) is Italian-American. Aren’t Italians born with the ability to effortlessly make pasta? Okay, her pasta maker didn’t come with directions. We could figure it out, right?

Wrong.

Fast forward to the present day. For the better part of six months, I have been watching the pasta making class schedule at Hill’s Kitchen, but every time a class was offered, I either had the kids or a can’t-get-out-of work event. It turns out my friend Adrienne bought spaces in the class for her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day (too cute, I know) and after taking the class themselves, they very graciously offered to impart their new found knowledge on me. All I had to do was bring the wine.

I don’t think I have ever been so intimated by a bowl of flour, salt and eggs. I have kneaded many a loaf of bread in my day, and I always make my own pizza dough. But I admit to being intimated by these simple ingredients and what I was expected to produce out of them. Luckily, Adrienne was a patient teacher, so I followed her lead with my own well of flour and eggs. After we let our pasta dough rest (during which time we moved on from sparkling wine to chardonnay) on came the part that I most dreaded: turning the dough into long strands of edible glory.

By the time I had watched Adrienne’s tutorial with the pasta maker and took my first turn running the dough through it, I was hooked. Then I tasted the fruit of our labor (served simply with olive oil, freshly grated parmesan and fresh basil) and I knew what my next kitchen toy would be.

This morning, on a whim, a craigslist search yielded what I thought I might find: a couple looking to off-load their pasta maker, new in the box, a duplicate wedding gift they never got around to exchanging. It now sits in my kitchen, next to my already dogeared copy of “The Glorious Pasta of Italy” by local food writer Domenica Marchetti, whom I had the pleasure to meet in person at a recent book signing of said book.

As for dinner tonight, Adrienne was kind enough to send me home with extra pasta. My only struggle is what sauce to make.

I’m officially reunited with my kitchen.

doctor, doctor

It turns out, my doctor knows something about his specialty. A few weeks ago, I had an appointment with him. (I know, I have been holding out on all of you who love the doctor stories.) In advance of this scheduled visit, I prepared a list of all the physical activities I was going to get his clearance to do, as well as tactics for how to get him to say yes. I figured that between my lobbying skills, eyelash batting ability, and very tender emotional state (read: tendency to cry at the drop of a hat) I would walk away getting what I want. Which is essentially to exercise again.

After all the “hi, how you feeling, what is your pain level today on a scale of 1-10?” stuff was out of the way, I went down my list.

Me: Can I take spin classes?

Doctor: No.

Me: Can I do the ballet barre class I was doing before the procedure?

Doctor: No.

Me: Can I swim?

Doctor: No freestyle. No butterfly. And be careful with breaststroke too. Modify it to look more like side-stroke.

Me: Pilates?

Doctor: If you have the instructor call your physical therapist and get a briefing on your procedure and what you can and cannot do, then you can take Pilates.

At this point, my eyes swelled with tears, as if on demand. This menu of options is not exactly going to get me back into all the nice clothes hanging in my closet waiting for the return of my pre-Beatrix figure. But he was not swayed.

Me (batting eyelashes): But doctor…

Doctor: Listen, I gave you Pilates and swimming…

Me: I don’t consider your description of swimming to fit in my definition of real exercise.

Doctor: I don’t want you putting too much pressure on your back and swimming can do just that. And I feel like if I leave an appointment with you having given you less than 50% of what you want, then I have won.

Well this morning, I went to the pool for the first time. There were a few other swimmers. I sized up the competition. I planned on swimming for 30 minutes. I made it for 20. I did manage to “beat” those swimming in adjacent lanes (not that they knew they were racing) and I did not modify my breaststroke. I tried one lap of freestyle, and it was, I hate to admit, uncomfortable.

I guess on this point he wins. But I am going to redouble my efforts for the rematch.

Cheverly Valley PTA

In my weakened state of mind this week (see previous post) my friend Kate made an appeal to me: would I run for secretary of the PTA.

Now, Jack finished 3rd grade this week and has been at Hoyer Montessori for five years and do you know how many PTA meetings I have attended? A sum total of one. And that one meeting had an agenda item that I had fought with some other parents to have included. In fact, This said group of parents came over to my house afterwards for drinks. I have consistently been a member of our PTA, just not a particularly active one. Not that I haven’t wanted to be. If I recall correctly, the last school year, I was traveling a lot for work, and it seemed my trips always coincided on the days the monthly PTA meetings were held. This year, the PTA just wasn’t on my radar.

But next year, I am all in. And not just because I know it’s going to irritate our condescending principal who doesn’t know how to deal little boys, in particular when little boys do little boy things like talk loudly or sing potty songs. Come to think of it, she doesn’t know how to deal with parents either, in particular ones who do parental things like question what sort of disciplinary action she is going to take against the school bully. She isn’t great at relating to the teachers either. Or students. But I am not doing this just to be a thorn in her side.

And I am not just doing it because my friend Rachel is running for VP and being on the board with her will give us a chance to spend some quality time discussing (read: mocking) the things that amuse us. Nor did I agree to put my name on the ballot because I have nursed any long-time desire to seek (or tweet from) elected office.

I agreed to get engaged because I am fortunate enough that my kids are thriving in a public Montessori school, located one block from our house. In an otherwise over-subscribed school district, they were each in classes this year with 18 other students. In our small school community, the parents know the teachers. We know each other. I laugh when I get the pre-recorded phone call from PGCPS to alert me to the fact that one of my sons missed school on a day he was home sick with me. If Jack or Colin ever took it upon themselves to skip school, I’m sure I would hear it from a live voice long before I heard it from a recording.

As secretary of the PTA, I will keep diligent and accurate minutes of each meeting. I will help steer the agenda in a direction that I think will benefit the school. I will certainly still invite parents to my house over for drinks after a tough meeting. Or a successful meeting. I don’t otherwise have a platform or a motive unless you count the two super-smart little boys who call me mommy.

unwind me

Chris Meck Photography — wine makes everything better

I know, I know… I have been MIA. But really, the truth of the matter is that the last six weeks or so finally caught up with me. What have I been doing with all my so-called “free” (from the blog) time? Well, to name a few activities, I have been busy being a little league mom, a stage mom, and a new kitten mom, all on top of my usual post as working mom. In the house, we have had strep throat (a recurring case), broken glasses, a cavity to fill, and my own weekly physical therapy appointments. In addition to the memos to write, the meetings to run, the conference calls to prepare for, and the never-ending strategizing that goes on in my working world, I had to spend an hour at my son’s school in the principal’s office because he sang a potty song. Yes, my seven-year old son got written up for singing a potty song. Does our principal not know the minds of little boys? (If you live in my town, you know the answer to my question.)

In short, I ended each day since my last post in a heap on my bed, unable to put a single witty (or fashionable) thought together. My back hurts. And none of my clothes fit.

But then, slowly but surely the fog has cleared, even if in an uneven, the-universe-is-messing-with-me sort of way. Memories of wine tasting in Healdsburg, California over the weekend quickly faded into the recesses of my mind during a two-hour hellish cab ride home (with an hour-long conference call in the middle) from Dulles on Tuesday. Hill meetings galore and a no-damage fender-bender sealed the deal for me this week that some greater force was out to get me. But then I realized that maybe I am out to get myself. After all, when was the last time I took a real vacation? And by real, I mean one that lasts for more than a long weekend, is not merely extra days tacked onto a work trip and doesn’t involve family. (Sorry family.)

Having this epiphany (and a homemade bacon and peanut-butter pop tart this morning) has turned my frame of mind around. While no plans have been made (I haven’t even had real time to think about what it is I want to do) just knowing that I am going to make the time for myself to do something has improved my outlook.

That, and I bought some really delicious Pinot Noirs over the weekend.

bathing beauty

Is there anything clothing related that gives a woman who has birthed two children more anxiety than having to get into a bathing suit? Even when I was at my marathon running height of fitness, I detested the trying on and purchasing of bathing suits enough that I wore one that was two sizes too big for three seasons longer than I should have just because the alternative, standing in front of a three-way mirror with that horrible department store lighting, seemed much worse. And I loved the color of the suit.

But this year, I had to face the inevitable. Last year’s hasty on-line bathing suit purchase did not pan out. I had bought a strapless one because I knew I was going to be wearing a strapless dress to a July wedding, and I can’t stand the look of tan lines. Aside from the realization mid-wedding that I never want to wear a strapless dress again, I came to the conclusion that strapless bathing suits just don’t work for moms who still sometimes get in the pool to play with little swimmers who tend to grab fabric instead of flesh when in water over their heads.

Let’s just say, I don’t need a repeat of the time I was at a “mommy and me” baby swim class with Colin at the YMCA when he grabbed a hold of me and pulled down the bodice of my bathing suit, exposing me for more than a brief second to a very shocked dad who didn’t make eye contact with me for the rest of that class or any others. Needless to say, we didn’t take lessons there again.

This year summer came faster than expected, and I’m not just referring to the insanely crazy temperatures and humidity. How can it be that tomorrow is June 1st? The last day of school is in striking distance. Summer camp time is near. Whereas usually the water in the Cheverly Pool is too cold opening weekend or the weather too rainy, this year, we made it for Memorial Day (as did every other pool member) which meant I had to put on a bathing suit just a little sooner than expected. (I honestly thought given our schedule it might be three more weeks before we got there.)

Since I donated the aforementioned strapless suit in a fit of closet and drawer purging, that left one option: the one-piece, racer-back Speedo I bought for myself back when I thought I would trade my running shoes in for laps in a pool. The tags were still on it. And if there is any style suit that was meant for function not form, it is a Speedo. I definitely did not take off my sarong.

But I can’t hide forever, so before they are completely sold out (my first choice style and color is already back ordered until mid-July) I got on the J. Crew website and ordered a couple different options to try on in the privacy of my own room, without the discomfort of unflattering lights and three-way mirrors to taunt me. Which means I will only have my doctor and his ban on activities I consider “real cardio” to blame for what I see reflected back at me. Well, that and my love of food. And wine.

I think regardless of how the suits fit, the sarong is going to figure prominently into my summer plans.

sex education

Fluffy takes a break on his first trip down the stairs.

Fang may be pretty but so far he is all boy.

How do you talk to your kids about sex? I guess I didn’t really think of this as a big deal. After all, I had learned myself at a young age. I remember asking my mom what a test tube baby was, and the responsible mom she was, she explained it to me. (I had envisioned a baby growing in a test tube, but was stuck on how the doctors moved it to progressively bigger vessels as the baby itself got bigger.)

When I had my own kids, one of the first decisions that I made was to call all the body parts by their real names. A penis is a penis, it isn’t a pee pee or a wiener or thingy. Then, when I was pregnant with Colin, we explained in very rudimentary terms to Jack how it was that this baby came to reside inside of me. But of course, at age two-and-a-half, he didn’t get it. Shortly after Colin was born, Jack asked his dad, “did Colin used to live in mommy’s belly?” When dad responded in the affirmative, Jack followed up with, “did Mommy EAT Colin?” Thus a more detailed description of how he got there was offered.

When the boys’ dad and I decided to separate, we went to a kids’ shrink to ask her advice on how best to convey to the boys what was happening. A key part of her advice was to make sure that they understand what sex is so that we could distinguish “romantic love” from the love that parents have for their kids. That is to say, describing this intimate action between adults would prevent them from thinking that someday we could fall out of love with them and want to divorce them. (I didn’t buy it either, but we followed her advice anyway.)

With a book on a procreating alligator family in hand, we explained what happens in a more detailed way when grown ups take off their clothes and bump into each other in the dark. Even though he had heard it before, Jack’s response was an indignant “no way.”

You still wonder what your kids get and what they don’t. It’s like some big intricate game of post office. What comes out of their mouths after you have explained it to them is very different than what went in to their ears in the first place. And since you know that Jack is going to tell Miles who is going to tell Ritzer and so on, you have to be particularly judicious about what you say. They are both sharp and clueless at the same time. When several years ago Jack asked how one of his friends could be born from two moms (sharp), I called the moms to ask what they had told their daughter so that we’d all have our stories straight. But then this week, after bringing boy kittens home, when he asked if we could please let our kittens have kittens (clueless) I had to not only remind them the kittens are male, but explain the process of neutering.

Jack’s response? A very indignant “no way.”

the prom

I’m going to the prom tonight. Not as a chaperon. (I have at least 6 or 7 years before I get to torture my children in that manner.) No, tonight is the annual “Cheverly Prom,” a long honored tradition of the adults in Cheverly getting dolled up and drinking a lot of booze so that they can be hungover the next day, otherwise known as “Cheverly Day.” Cheverly Day is also an annual tradition with an early morning parade; a fair-like atmosphere; and most importantly to the kids, a moon bounce.

Usually Cheverly Day is 90 degrees and humid, thus I try to pretend that I “forgot” about it so that I don’t have to go watch the boys risk their dental work and pristine noses while I stand by sweating profusely and cursing the noise. (I know, I lack community spirit.) And thus far, I have never been to the so-called prom. But as you should know by now, I like all things bacchanalian. And I have been told that everyone drinks a lot of wine at the prom. So when my friend Kate asked me to be her date (her husband Rob is gallantly doing the NYC to DC Climate Ride this weekend) of course I had to accept.

Kate is super cute and we have a good rapport, but I’m pretty sure that at the end of tonight, my status of not hooking up with my prom date will be intact. Junior year of high school, I broke up with my boyfriend/date in between dinner and the prom. My mom was horrified, thought that he would presume I had just been going out with him in order to go to the prom. Really, I was just petrified at his suggestion that I apply to colleges in the state where he (a year ahead of me in school) was headed in the fall. So I broke up with him, spent the evening dancing with my friends, and at the end of the night, when he brought me home at 11:15 instead of the 1:00am curfew my mom had for once in my high school life set, everyone in the family was astonished.

Senior year, I got perilously close to the prom without having been asked to go. Then one of my dearest friends, a junior, not wanting me to miss this seminal event in a relatively popular high school girl’s life, mercifully asked me to be his date. We went. We had fun. But we agreed later that the funds would have been better spent on a weekend in Boston. But hey, if I hadn’t gone to my senior prom, I’d have always regretted it. Well, for at least a few years anyway. (But if you are reading, thanks for the gesture Ryan because it is only in retrospect that I have such a mature attitude about it. I owe you a trip to Boston.)

Of course, what to wear has been on my mind off and on since I accepted Kate’s invitation. Not feeling at the height of my hotness, I have been loathe to try on anything prom-worthy from my own closet. But I also am not going to accept the post-back procedure state of my body by buying a new dress. So my first appearance to the CHV prom might be in skinny jeans and a sequin top. After all, I was not rebellious enough in high school to make such a statement, so why not now?

And I promise Kate that no matter what happens, I won’t break up with her tonight.

do as I say (and as I do)

This morning I got an email from my friend Rayanne. The subject line was “Dear Chelsea Chronicles” and the message included a fashion question. At first I thought that I had accidentally published my last post sans the great photo I was still in the process of tracking down of Seersucker Thursday and my super long hair. But it turns out she just wanted my advice. Minutes before I was about to take Dear Chelsea Chronicles live, here I was getting a question from another friend who values my advice.

Her timing was almost impeccable. An email yesterday would have yielded inclusion in today’s post, but regardless, the continued requests are making me look forward to including Dear Chelsea Chronicles as a weekly entry. And for the record, while I answered Raye’s question right away, she did indeed provide fodder for next week’s edition.

Then at lunch I talked to my friend Tom (although he isn’t necessarily in my demographic) about adding a weekly feature called Buy This! where I highlight one recommended item to buy. The item might be something that is on super sale. It might be an investment piece. Maybe something I already have and love. Or covet. Whatever the case, so many women tell me they want to go shopping with me that I consider this my own way of virtual shopping with all of you, but without the hit my budget would inevitably take if we hit the stores in person.

The conversation with Tom was still a bubble in the air when another mind-reader made herself apparent. I got an email this afternoon from my friend Kasey recommending a regular Style This! feature where YOU, my readers, send me an item, and I style it for you. (It looks like I am going to be getting well acquainted with polyvore after all.) I love it. A challenge. Bring it on.

But please, don’t ask me to style a meat dress. Or sweatpants.

Dear Chelsea Chronicles

There is nothing that quite makes you feel like your own little universe’s fashion icon than to get questions from friends on what to wear. Lately, a number of you have suggested ideas for new blog posts, and most of these ideas come in the form of questions, such as “do you think it’s okay to…” or “how would you recommend styling…” Not to mention, “I have a wedding to go to…” As a result, beginning today, I am going to include a weekly post dedicated to your burning questions. So bring them on.

Dear Chelsea Chronicles:

When is it okay to wear linen? On that note, when is it okay to wear white?

Sincerely: Your Office Mates

Dear Office Mates:

You wouldn’t be asking me this question if you weren’t looking for a response that allowed both items to be worn outside the traditional Memorial-to-Labor Day window. And you are in luck, as the rules of fashion have been not only bent, but completely broken over the last few years. For example, while we were always told that white was only to be worn during the aforementioned time frame, I read a blog recently that advised women to wear white jeans in the early spring. The key is to make the outfit more seasonably appropriate by pairing the white jeans with a darker hued top and adding a cardigan or blazer. That is to say, white jeans and a sleeveless pink silk shell look out of place in March, but white jeans with an orange tee and a nautical striped shirt (and camel colored shoes) would pass my pre-Memorial Day test.

Part of the answer is in the styling, and part is in the weather. Last week, I saw a woman wearing a seersucker suit on a 62 degree day. Texture fail. It was just too breezy and cool of a day to pull out the seersucker. Even former Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott, who founded the tradition of Seersucker Thursday, would have looked out of place. If you’re going to don linen, seersucker or poplin fabrics, make sure the weather is appropriate for it. That doesn’t mean you have to be a slave to wool until May 31st, dearest office mates. Opt for lighter fabrics and play with color. When in doubt, you know where my office is if you need a personal consultation.

Dear Chelsea Chronicles:

Is there a red lipstick that doesn’t make teeth look yellow? I hate to have to bleach my smile every time I want to opt for a sexy red pout.

Yours Truly: Stuck in the Capitol

Dear Stuck in the Capitol:

Finding the right red lipstick can be harder than securing a date with an unmarried man over 5’8″ with a good head of hair who is gainfully employed and isn’t living with his mom. I have heard it said before that the “blue reds” will minimize the yellow tint caused by love of red wine and coffee. A quick Google search of “red lipsticks with blue base” revealed several hits for M.A.C. Ruby Woo. (I never knew there were so many blogs dedicated to red lipstick.) I myself am devoted to Chanel’s Rouge Allure in Lover, although recently I was seduced by Tom Ford’s Private Blend Lip Color in Smoke Red. Any make up artist should be able to steer you toward the so-called blue reds. The best advice I read though is that if you are testing lipsticks at the cosmetics counter of a department store, take a moment to step outside and see how you look in the natural light instead of relying on what the overhead lights (or self-absorbed bloggers) may tell you. Though given that you may be wearing your perfect non-teeth yellowing red lipstick while confined in the U.S. Capitol complex, perhaps natural light in this case is overrated.

Dear Chelsea Chronicles:

Is it okay to wear black to a wedding?

Warm Regards: What (Not?) to Wear.

Dear What (Not?) to Wear:

In my opinion, the only color it is not okay to wear to a wedding is white (or shades thereof) unless it happens to be your wedding. Or you are maid of honor to the future Queen of England. So if it is an evening wedding, wear your black dress, but make sure the fabric, cut and accessories (in particular, your shoes) don’t scream day at the office or funeral chic. And while you’re at it, try a lush red lipstick.

So, my dear readers, bring on the questions, the more challenging the better. I may even attempt a polyvore set for you.