Category: the life

private, public, partnerships

The other day, a new colleague admitted to me that she feels like she’s one step away from us being best friends because she is a regular reader of my blog. I took her proclamation as the greatest of compliments. It fills me with warmth to know that my words speak so intimately to her.

It isn’t the first time I’ve heard this said. Often when I meet up with a friend I haven’t seen in some time, I find that I don’t need to do any talking because this person feels caught up on my life. And in a recent bout of rapid fire dating, the gentleman in question professed to know me better than I could possibly know him based on the fact that he is (was?) one of my avid readers.

All this Chelsea love got me to thinking about the private me versus the public me and how those two versions of who I am calculate into my real life relationships.

Yes, I wear my heart on my sleeve, for sure. I can be generous (maybe overly so) with details. (You may have noted I had second thoughts and took down the picture of my weirdly sunburned back.) But there is more to me than you read in these pages. Sometimes less. I might (gasp) exaggerate once in awhile. And I certainly under-report when there are details involved that I want to keep private. Does having a public presence make it easier to get to know the deeper me or more difficult because new people enter the relationship with a preconceived sense of who I am? Does maintaining a very personal blog enhance my relationship with longtime friends and family or lessen it because there isn’t as much perceived need for them to make a direct touch to me?

I don’t spill the inner workings of my heart and brain in this format to make/keep/update friends. After all, isn’t that what Facebook is for? I write as a creative and emotional outlet. In that respect, my blog is a very public form of private therapy. Incidents or feelings that unknowing to you have left me shattered can be transformed into a funny tale. My deepest fears are often turned on their head with a little self-deprecating humor. Touching interactions with my children are recorded as little tributes to them so that there’s written proof in the universe that they happened. Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never hooked up with George Clooney. And the style posts are as fleeting as fashion itself. But there are moments, many defining and profoundly special, which I save just for me.

To know me truly, you have to spend time with me, laugh with me, cry with me, sweat with me, drink wine with me. “Then, and only then,” as a dear friend of mine recently noted, “will you be lucky enough to maybe know the real Chelsea Henderson.”

all I want for Christmas (nice)

Christmas TreeWhile none of the below would fit neatly under my Christmas tree, here’s what’s on my list this year:

1. More hours in the day (for relaxing not working).

2. Teachers to get paid more.

3. A Super Bowl re-do. (Not a re-match.)

4. Snow on Christmas.

5. A reasonable solution to climate change.

6. A deck off my kitchen.

7. George Clooney to read my story.

Hoping all your dreams and wish lists are fulfilled tomorrow!

Happy Holidays!

the truth about Santa

Last year, I had a very serious conversation with Jack about Santa. If you go back and reread it, you will see what I said versus what I wish I had said.

Let’s just say, the other night I got my wish.

Once again, it didn’t happen as expected. In fact, I precipitated the conversation in a very unfortunate way. After a frustrating moment with a naughty kitty, I muttered something under my breath about her needing to stop her bad behavior or I was going to find her a new home, Jack started crying. (For the record, he was not supposed to hear such crazed mommy mutterings.) I tried to calm him down and explain that I didn’t mean it, I was just frustrated. Out of nowhere he proclaimed, “I know exactly what I’m going to ask Santa for this Christmas. I’m going to ask him to bring back all the pets I know who have died in the last year. Jack Dog, Roxy, Squee. I want them all back.”

Oh shit.

Me: “Baby, you know Santa can’t do that, right?” I whispered softly into the top of his head.

Jack: “But Santa is magic, and he can do anything!” Jack practically wailed.

Me: “Kids, we need to have a talk about Santa.”

I told them about Saint Nicholas. I talked about the spirit of giving. I assured them that believing in the magic of the season keeps the holiday vibrant. I don’t want them to lose that magical feeling just because there isn’t a white-haired man in a flying sleigh who distributes presents to each kid around the world. I used reason. I used passion. Jack initially bawled, but then seemed soothed by the idea that he can personally have a role in perpetuating the spirit of the holidays.

Me: “Do you guys understand?”

Jack: “Yes. It’s better to give than receive. And I can make the holidays bright by giving to those I love.”

Me: “That’s right! Colin?”

Colin: “Yeah, just one question, mom. What about the reindeer? Are they real?”

At least there weren’t any questions about the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. One burst bubble at a time.

duck duck ribs

MinnyIt was on the 43 by 43 list, and we got it in under the gun.

Tonight, on Birthday Eve, Nancy and I cooked duck.

Two, to be exact. (Minny, before she was sauced, is pictured here.)

I know there were many who wanted to be at the duck table, and don’t worry, you will be invited in the future. But it was only appropriate that for the first time I prepare duck, I do it with my most constant and trusty cooking partner.

For some reason, we thought two ducks were necessary. Perhaps it was that our table hosted three adults and seven children. Perhaps it was fear that not enough meat would come off just one carcass. Nancy’s boyfriend even brought ribs for the kids, in case they didn’t want duck. Let’s just say, he’s got a lot of leftover pork and Christmas Eve dinner will feature a duck ragu.

We had to remain true to Julia Child and therefore make her Canard a l’Orange. That recipe calls for a duck in the oven, so for the second duck, we sought a recipe that could be rendered on the stove top. From Jacques Pepin, we found skillet roasted duck with parsnips and shallots.

Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. But it was the best Birthday Eve dinner ever.

No good meal is complete without phenomenal wine pairings. We started with the Iron Horse Golden Gate Cuvee. And because kitchen prep was taking longer than we anticipated, we then went to the Iron Horse Wedding Cuvee. But for dinner, Nancy brought two bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape, the perfect duck companion. The wine did not disappoint.

I’m so full I can barely move. But I’m already running through ways to improve upon what we did tonight. For starters, focusing on just one duck. And preparing that duck medium rare. (Tonight, both ducks, though flavorful, were unfortunately more on the medium to medium well side.) I’d love to try duck confit. Duck cracklings are my new favorite crispy snack.

Let’s just say, this was not the last time duck will appear at my table. I just might not make so much of it next time.

 

Mahalo, Hawaii

Images of HawaiiThank you, Hawaii. And goodbye. (For real, this time.)

Some of you hid me from your Facebook feed these last 2 weeks (admit it) and one of you (Tim) even jokingly asked how many more months I planned to be here. So you’ll be glad to hear that after the unexpected one-day delay, I’m heading home. Home to unseasonably warm DC weather, Christmas planning, my job, and of course, two cute little boys.

I’m going to miss the Maui Onion flavored chips we ate daily, the Kailua Passions we drank on multiple occasions, sunrise walks/runs on the beach, and the laid back attitude of island life. I’m going to miss wearing flip flops and beachwear all day (and night) long. I’m going to miss fresh Ahi, apple bananas, Shave Ice, the most amazing pineapple ever and the Spam aisle at the Foodland.

I’m going to miss having a new experience everyday. Paddle surfing. (Have I mentioned that I’m a goddess at paddle surfing?) Watching the Vans Triple Crown of Surfing competition on Sunset Beach. Hiking to incredible vistas.

There’s a lot waiting for me back home though. The kids, of course. The Harry Potter Yule Ball my friends are hosting on Saturday. Biker Barre. (Oh, do I need some ass kicking by my friends at Biker Barre.) And George Clooney has already been shipped back to the East Coast where he patiently awaits my return.

The best vacations are those you are bittersweet about ending. You want it to continue – because it’s awesome – but you are eager to go back to your life. Because your kids are amazing and you have seen this entire trip through their eyes.

Except the parts that involved copious fruity cocktails, of course.

a slight change of plans…

Sometimes life throws a curveball. And sometimes that curveball means staying in paradise one more day.

It isn’t always this way. Three years ago I was stranded in Copenhagen for four days longer than my return ticket specified. I loved Copenhagen – don’t get me wrong – but after more than a week, so close to Christmas, after your friends have mostly left town, you kind of just want to get home. It was stressful. There were tears. And thankfully, there was aquavit.

There were tears this time too. And I can hear you all… “this is the world’s smallest violin playing my heart bleeds for you.” But while it doesn’t suck to get stranded in Hawaii for one more day, it was difficult to tell Jack (who has missed me desperately) that I’m an extra day away from seeing him. It was hard to return to our amazing house in Kailua after coming to terms with saying goodbye. And mostly, it was hard to cough up the $500 to change my ticket for tomorrow’s flight because, oh, today’s journey was just to get to the mainland. Tomorrow I had a flight from SFO to DCA. To change that leg to Friday cost more than the original ticket had.

And I’m still just on standby tomorrow, though the Hawaiian Airlines people who would not check me in with 43 minutes til takeoff because I should have been there three hours in advance have told me there are 29 available seats on tomorrow’s flight. So I should make it.

And I will be at the airport three hours early so that I am number one on the standby list. Because while I’ve had an awesome vacation, I’m ready to sleep in my own bed, hug my kids tight and wear something other than a bathing suit to dinner.

on being thankful

My friend Nancy has this nice little tradition on Thanksgiving. As we sit around the dinner table, in lieu of saying grace, and before we stuff ourselves silly with enough food to feed a small nation, we each share those things, tangible and not, for which we are most thankful.

Yes, it gets sappy. But there’s no better time to tell those around you that you are grateful to have them in your life than when you are poised to shove a gazillion calories into your system.

I won’t be with Nancy for Thanksgiving this year, but it wouldn’t be the season if I hadn’t been thinking about my list.

I’m thankful for beautiful, challenging, intelligent, funny children who bring me great joy, even when they are exasperating.

I’m thankful for good health, even if I complain about aches and pains once in awhile.

I’m thankful for a career that allows me to work on issues I care about and be surrounded by smart, innovative thinkers.

I’m thankful for a community of dear friends whose strength I draw from, whose love I rely on, and who make me laugh during even the most stressful of circumstances. They’re also good at giving a good kick in the pants when one is needed and offer a shoulder, shelter or a glass of wine when that is what the situation necessitates.

And since I’m not limited by having someone sitting next to me at the dinner table waiting to go next, allow me to continue. I’m thankful for my family. An imminent vacation in Hawaii. Good wine. Nice shoes. Clean water. The right to vote. George Clooney. Freedom of the press. A perfectly crisp fall day. Public education. Paved roads. The laughter of children. Dark roast coffee. Baseball. Truffle salt. The calm before the storm. Cashmere. Nice people. Healthcare. Snow. Purring cats. Songs you know the words to after years of not hearing them. Good kissers. Gin. Shooting stars. A riveting book. End of the day meetings that get canceled. Salted caramels. Ibuprofen. Good hair days. Sunsets.

And that’s just off the top of my head.

Next?

leg one

I made it to San Francisco, the first stop of my  nearly three-week journey.

But about this time yesterday, it seemed improbable I would ever make it.

My Sunday morning started off nicely. Lattes with friends. Children playing quietly. But then I got a call from my bank, concerned about “unusual behavior” on my account. As in, “iTunes, $9.98. iTunes, $9.98. iTunes, $9.98.” I stopped her from reading the complete list after I heard about ten such charges. (It turned out there were 17 in all, totaling $170.) I had to make a game time call. Confirm for the bank that these were unauthorized charges and have my card canceled or eat the cost. At the time, I didn’t know if someone had stolen my iPad or Colin’s iPod touch. But it was clear that something was amiss. So I canceled my card. The day I was leaving town for 18 days.

As it turned out, some game Colin was playing was rigged so that players “buy” gold – literally. He never had to put in an iTunes password or otherwise verify a purchase. Needless to say, I immediately deleted my account information from all our Apple devices and he will never play this game again.

With all this on my mind, I still had to shower, finish the laundry, pack, clean out the refrigerator, get the cat feeding schedule straight and take out the garbage. It was in performing the last task that I realized an animal had taken up residence in my outdoor garbage can. I saw it, let out the perfunctory squeal, jumped up and down a lot, and ran inside to tell the boys. I thought it was a dead raccoon. They went to take a peek and verified it was a live possum, playing dead, of course. With the militant precision of little boys on a mission, a plan was hatched to knock the can down (nerf swords in hand in case it got fierce) and eventually, the little furry guy stopped faking his demise and scurried off.

At this point, I poured myself a drink.

I double checked the burners on the stove. Refilled the cat bowls one last time. Kissed the boys a gazillion times. And finally, got in Nancy’s car for a surprise ride to the airport. At the airport, I had more wine and took deep breaths.

The only other hitch came as my flight was landing, parallel to another plane. That was a little creepy for someone with my flying phobia, but at this point, I felt I had hit my daily quota of crazy and told myself it would be fine. Which it was. And now I’m here. Working, of course, and hoping that I remembered to lock the front door.

go vote

 In case you’ve been living under a rock, it’s Election Day.

Maybe you took advantage of early voting, as I did. Perhaps you are taking your chances on the day itself. But whatever the situation, please do vote.

Some excuses I can’t stand:

My vote doesn’t make a difference. It does. Maybe you don’t live in a battleground state. Your popular vote still matters. And there should be some pride in voting your heart even if it isn’t mainstream in your district.

I don’t have time. This year, there was a plethora of early voting opportunities. Make voting a priority. Imagine living in a country where you didn’t have the right to vote. Wouldn’t you give anything for the chance to exercise your civic duty? Don’t take it for granted.

I don’t know how to vote. Spend the time in line familiarizing yourself with ballot initiatives and/or candidates you don’t have an opinion on. It’s important. It’s your country, state, county, city. Take pride in being part of the process that determines its governing.

The bottom line is that voting is sexy. So go out and do it, whoever your candidates may be.

tips from an early voter

Photo by chelseachronicl

I just spent three hours and ten minutes in line to early vote. That does NOT include the two hours I spent in line this morning before I had to abort the mission to head to my noon appointment.

The lines are long. The line waiters are patient and determined.

It’s beautiful to be part of this display of patriotism. But if you are going to squeeze in early voting before Election Day, I have some advice.

1. Bring a book. (I was so happy to discover I had my kindle in my purse.)

2. Charge your phone. (I was on low battery an hour before I hit the last stretch of hallway.)

3. Go with a friend.

4. Wear comfortable shoes.

5. Dress warm if you live in a cooler climate. I had a sweater, coat, gloves, two scarves and was still cold.

6. Bring a snack and water. Seriously.

7. Take this time to review any ballot initiatives you aren’t well-versed on.

8. Talk to those people waiting around you. It really does pass the time faster and I even saw some folks holding places in line for those who wanted to run to the restroom.

9. If you can, leave the kids at home.

10. Revel in the fact that so many Americans are exercising their civic duty.

I don’t know if 2012 will see record voter turnout, but I do know I have never waited in line for more than 45 minutes to vote on Election Day proper. And at the end of the process, the more people who come to the polls, the better we are as a nation. I just hope the rest of those who intend to vote don’t show up at the polls at the same time you do.