Category: the woman

43 by 43, tiny update

This week, the boys tried (and liked) dragon fruit.

It felt like I had achieved more, but I just counted and can officially cross off ten items from my 43 by 43 list. Now, I keep reminding myself that there are items on the list that are meant to become new practices, such as introduce the boys to something new each week (food, idea, place, etc.) so while I have been maintaining, I can never really cross these goals off.

I can thank Weekend Warriors for knocking off four items: paint the living room, install surround sound, convert the playroom into a functional room, and hang curtains in the new functional room. In addition, I have started composting, went to the dermatologist to have my moles checked, did a juice cleanse, attended a DC fashion event (FNO) and a few goals that are a little too personal to share on the interwebs.

Where do I need to improve? Posting to the blog at least three times a week, going to the dentist, and contributing to the boys’ college fund. This morning I spoke to Colin in a mean voice before calming down and trying to reason with him in a compassionate voice. With some of my goals, I have taken steps toward fulfillment. For example, I’m signed up to take Knife Skills: Poultry at Hill’s Kitchen so that when I roast my duck, I can also carve the damn bird myself. (By the way, it turns out a lot of you want to be at the dinner table for duck, so I will either have to host three duck-themed dinner parties or cook more than one duck for the evening. I’m humbled that so many of you have confidence in my duck preparation abilities.)

I will continue to tick items off the list and periodically update you, but the bottom line, as evidenced by my mean voice use this morning, is that the challenge continues.

fashion night out

Yes, I went to Fashion Night Out.

I can hear you saying to yourselves, “of course you did, Chelsea. Isn’t that your scene?” But the truth of the matter is, it’s totally not my scene and here’s why.

First and foremost, I hate crowds. I have a rule about not standing in line to get into bars and a similar rule applies to shopping. Is J. Crew really going to have anything this one night that I couldn’t get on a regular day with much less pushing, oh-my-god-ing, and waiting to check out? I mean, Madewell did offer free hair braiding to customers, but I’m not the boho braid type, so that feature didn’t make the experience more pleasant (though I did buy a great shirt). The champagne and other cocktails most stores offered were nice until someone bumped into me and my ivory Magaschoni sleeveless top with a Hawaiian punch-colored concoction.

Secondly, I hate Georgetown. The cobblestone sidewalks are killer on your feet even when wearing my version of a practical shoe. There is no easy way to get there either. It isn’t exactly metro accessible, which means I had to drive. And park. And drive home. Maybe if all the stores I like were conveniently situated all on the same block, I’d shop there more. But on second thought, no, even that wouldn’t make Georgetown more palatable to me.

So why did I venture out on this night? I was purely motivated by the desire to spend time with the amazing Rosana Vollmerhausen of DC Style Factory. She was a first-timer to FNO as well and had asked last week if I wanted to check it out together. The verdict? We had a great time. It helped that we (1) have great energy together (2) only hit four shops (Madewell, Tari, Urban Chic and Alchemie Forever) and (3) share the same sense of snark.

For example, I wish I had snapped a photo of the skirt that was so short and tight that I swear I saw cheek. (Rosana is convinced it was meant to be a shirt.) If only I had captured the ball gown skirt that looked like it belonged more at an Inaugural event in cooler temps than at a glorified shopping festival on a 91 degree day. My favorite outrageous outfit can best described as modeled after I Dream of Jeannie if she had worn all black. (Yes, there was exposed midriff.) While I don’t have these images saved for posterity, they provided bonding moments for me and Rosana, who instead focused her lens on other highlights of the night, which you can see here.

Other FNO bright spots: meeting the Closet Coach, seeing my sole sisters from SimplySoles, and the free pedi-cab ride we took for three blocks because we are not as young and sprightly as the other revelers.

All and all, I had a good time, which had little to do with fashion, but much to do with the women I shared the evening with.

on george clooney

If it were socially acceptable for me to have a poster of George Clooney in my bedroom, I totally would.

It’s fair to say I think about him often. Maybe even everyday. I mean, not in a scary stalker sort of way. I don’t want to marry him. After all, I know he isn’t the marrying type. But if he met me, wouldn’t he be so charmed by my wit that he would want to whisk me off to Lake Como for a weekend? That’s all I’m looking for from him. No pressure.

And here’s how a modern (and female) Walter Mitty contemplates potentially meeting him. When I fly, I dream this is the time he’ll be stuck in coach, sitting next to me, of course. We strike up conversation while stuck on the tarmac for 5 hours, thus later when we are in the air and hit massive turbulence, he already knows I have a mild fear of flying and holds my hand to comfort me. Or when I’m eating out, I imagine he’s there rubbing shoulders with some of DC’s political elite. After dinner, he comes to the bar where I’m drinking a glass of sparkling and engages me in a conversation about climate change. Sparks fly. In some fantasies he’s testifying on the Hill and manages to escape a throng of admirers and reporters by jumping into an elevator that I happen to be in. We get stuck, of course. By the time the maintenance crew frees us, he’s asked for my phone number.

Sadly, the one time I literally crossed his path, I didn’t know until after the fact. In March when he was arrested outside the Sudanese Embassy, I happened to drive by the scene. I saw the protesters, who held up traffic such that I feared being late for my appointment. But I never for one minute imagined George Clooney would be among the crowd. If I had given it any thought, I would have parked my car, scribbled a sign out of some of the kids’ art materials that litter the back of my car and joined the cause. (Except for the going to jail part.)

Anyway, it’s these Clooney-dominated thoughts that inspired me to write my short story.

Yes, the short story. The one I’ve alluded to a number of times now. The one that diverts my creative energy away from the blog. If you haven’t guessed by now, my story features the dreamy Mr. Clooney. I’m about to take a leap and place my story in the hands of an editor. On the top of my to do list is to read the fine print in the Terms of Service for Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing program. Oh, and I have more than half of the sequel already in the works.

If my story is a wild success, I just might follow in my dad’s footsteps and score an invite to be on the Daily Show. Of course, Jon Stewart will secretly arrange for George Clooney to make a guest appearance while I’m there. After taping, George (“may I call you George?”) asks me to take a walk through Central Park, and enjoys my company so much, we make plans for dinner. In Paris.

Maybe it would be healthier to indulge in that poster after all.

on growing up

Kids will be kids. Until they aren’t. And when does that process begin? Each milestone from their first giggles and steps to riding a bike and everything in between prepares our children for the path to independence, and eventually (or rather, inevitably) adulthood.

On Saturday, Jack flew to San Francisco to spend a week with his grandfather. This trip was born out of a teary declaration he made several months ago that went something like this:

Jack: Mommy (sob, hiccup) I’m an adventurous spirit (sob, hiccup) and (sob, hiccup) I just realized (sob, hiccup) I’m never going to get to slay a dragon.

(Yes, the poor child inherited my flare for the dramatic.)

Dragons might not be real, but cross country flights are, so I quickly arranged with my dad for Jack to fly out to San Francisco the last week of summer vacation. (Yes, we start school on August 20th.) At the time, the trip seemed so far off. But before I knew it, I was driving him to the airport and watching him as he pulled his own suitcase through the terminal. As if that weren’t grown up behavior enough, as we waited out the delay, he asked if he could have a decaf coffee. It felt like a landmark moment, sitting there at the Starbucks drinking our lattes. For the record, I now have a decaf vanilla latte with whip fanatic on my hands.

If he was scared or nervous, he didn’t show it, but I was roiled inside. All my own flying angst was multiplied by infinity, but I knew I couldn’t show it. I was light. I was airy. We joked. We bought extra books just in case he finishes Lord of the Rings. An hour and a half after our schedule departure time came the call to board unaccompanied minors. He gave me one last hug and walked away with the gate attendant without looking back once.

Me? I collapsed in a heap of tears for the next 45 minutes while waiting (as I was required to do) for his plane to be in the air.

Was I scared his plane would crash? Oddly, no. Was I afraid he wasn’t going to have a good time or that my dad wouldn’t take care of him? Absolutely not. But more than how I expect I will feel with his first shave, first love, or the deepening of his voice, watching my little boy march bravely toward an adventure without me struck a chord deep inside my mommy core.

He’s always going to be my baby, but he’s growing into such a little man.

43 by 43

Celebrating the big 4-0 in Copenhagen in December 2009.

Thursday at Biker Barre, one of my new spin sisters mentioned that she had created a list of 40 things to do by her 40th birthday. I like a good challenge (as we all know) and I like birthdays even more (as we also all know) so while my birthday is a mere 140 days away, I have spent a great deal of time coming up with items to put on my own 43 by 43 list.

Here are the first five goals:

1. Spend my birthday not in DC. This one should be easy since I have tentative plans to be in Hawaii, but you never know what shenanigans by a lame duck Congress might tether me to my desk. I haven’t managed to be out of town on my birthday since the epic 4-0 celebration in Copenhagen, so I think it’s about time to make a December beltway escape.

2. Roast a duck. For years I have been saying that I’m going to cook a duck. This fall, I’m doing it. And I’m going to serve it with a nice Chateauneuf du Pape. Inquire within if you would like to come over for dinner that night (or shoot me the honored duck).

3. E-publish at least one short story. The one have been working on is essentially finished and its sequel is half done. I just have to have the courage to turn it over to my editor, Caitlin. (You know I have been dying to say that.)

4. Launch in an official capacity Cloakroom Style, my new side business that I am finally positioned to get off the ground. It won’t replace my day job, but if I can beautify Capitol Hill, and in the process, earn extra shoe money, I will consider myself a huge success.

5. Take the boys to a city they have never visited. The obvious choice is New York City, so Colin and Jack (but Colin, especially) can finally see all 1250 feet of the Empire State Building.

Those are five rather significant goals, so the remaining 38 will have to include such pledges as don’t overreact as frequently, pick up items from the dry cleaners on time, and think before speaking (or emailing). Not that those challenges aren’t as meaningful, but they are easily (i.e. subjectively) measurable (by me) and do not require as much planning, cash or creative energy.

Except the think before speaking/emailing part. That’s going to require some serious concentration.

lashing out

I need another beauty service like I need a hole in my head. I already have a hair appointment every 4-5 weeks when the grays start to betray me, multiple waxing services every 3-4 weeks, manicures and pedicures regularly, personal training sessions at Fitness Together and spin + barre classes at Biker Barre almost daily. (Do fitness expenditures fall in the beauty services category? I think so as they do result in a more beautiful body and improved frame of mind.)

I also have a plethora of beauty products, although I’m more conservative than you probably think I am. For example, when I find an eyeshadow palette I like, I use it everyday until it runs out. I do have my regular products that get purchased routinely, such as primer, tinted moisturizer, my awesome sunscreen I use on my face everyday, loose powder, pressed powder, blush, bronzer, highlighter, mascara, eyeliner… oh and an army of lipsticks and glosses.

But then there’s so much I don’t do. For example, I don’t ever fake and bake. I don’t get blow outs (though I admit I would if my hair were longer). I don’t get facials with any regularity. My hair appointments are confined to cut and color; I don’t get extensions, perms or keratin treatments. My nails are my own. I don’t have a single tattoo.

So it’s with all this in mind that I’m contemplating adding a new beauty treatment to my regime.

I had been admiring a new friend’s eyelashes and finally got the opportunity to inquire about what kind of mascara she uses. I have been loyal to the Trish McEvoy Lash Curling Mascara for at least six years, but lately I have been in the mood for a bolder look. The problem is, I find every mascara except this one leaves that horrible ring around your eyes, even the ones that profess they don’t. Anyway, I was prepared for her to say Dior Show or Great Lash or one of the others I knew would disappoint me.

But instead I was shocked by her response.

New Friend: I don’t ever wear mascara or eyeliner (big heavy internal sigh from me) because… my eyelashes are totally fake! I have eyelash extensions.

I never even knew such a thing existed.

The technique involves gluing 75-125 eyelashes to your existing ones in a manner that leaves you with thicker, longer and more glamorous lashes. The results are stunning. (I’ve spent some time reviewing before and after photos.) I have never wanted hair extensions but I admit I’m very tempted to try out this procedure. It’s a financial commitment, but to have perfect Elizabeth Taylor-esque eyelashes that wouldn’t smear in the pool, run during a crying jag or melt off due to sweat would be worth it. And who wouldn’t love to wake up in the morning looking “totally done while being completely undone” to quote my lash mentor.

As a society, we go to great lengths to enhance our natural beauty, and while beauty is more than skin deep, feeling good about yourself radiates through and in the level of confidence you project. I’m all for feeling empowered by the choices we make, even those choices that involve a glue gun near ones eyeballs.

must have monday: poise

Occasionally we all melt under pressure. I might be doing so literally and figuratively right now with the discovery of a busted central air conditioning system (and corresponding water leak in my basement) smack in the middle of our first mini-heat wave. (I say mini heat wave because come August, days in the high 80s-low 90s will be cherished.) But sitting here sweating it out at my computer, the epitome of a hot mess, trying to calm myself as I drink an iced vanilla latte, I got to thinking that beyond purses, scarves, shoes and sexy lingerie, the best accessory a person can carry around with them is their poise.

It isn’t always easy to remain calm, cool and collected, especially if you are a Sagittarius like I am. We react passionately first, ask for forgiveness minutes later. I’ve had an increased number of outbursts lately, much to my disappointment. More than I want an iconic handbag or the perfect summer sandal, I’d like to have a constant source of poise to get me through the tougher times. By poised, I do not mean detached; I wear my heart on my sleeve and hopefully you love me for it. Nor do I mean cold. Stoicism can help when we need to bite our tongues or not overreact to a situation, but it isn’t my natural inclination. Sometimes deep breaths work; sometimes they result in hyperventilating. Sometimes a glass of wine works; sometimes it takes a few glasses.

As with most things in life, finding balance seems to be the key. I am committed to channeling more poise into my manner of conducting myself and am seeking a role model to emulate. And incentive. Every self-improvement project deserves a good reward at the end.

I’m thinking a perfectly poise-worthy vintage (i.e. used) Chanel bag.

 

mother’s day

Boys will be boys

I have been told by two little boys (who may be slightly biased) that I am the best mommy ever. I know full well I am not. There are millions of best mothers out there.

We all have our struggles. Whether (like me) you are juggling being the solo head of household with a demanding career and two children or you are the mother of four who’s holding down three jobs just to put food in her kids mouths, most mothers make the sacrifices necessary for their family. The mom who stays home full time with her children deserves a special order of sainthood in my eyes. Regardless of the external factors in our lives, we put aside our own hobbies, interests and needs in order to give our all to our kids.

Mothers suffer from fatigue. (Yes, you can watch TV while I take a nap.) We wrestle with the guilt we feel when our kids frustrate us. Sometimes when a raised voice is not enough to get their attention, I do what is described as the “crazy mommy dance” where I go all five-year-old with shrill cries and rapid foot-stamping. Then I fear these moments are what my boys will remember most about me. After a 12-day run of having the kids every night while their dad was on vacation, I admit it felt good to go out to dinner on Thursday instead of rushing home to pick up them up and get them to baseball practice or help with homework. But while it was nice to have a break, when I went to bed that night, out of habit I peeked into their rooms to check on them.

And this morning when I woke up to an empty house, I might have cried.

Growing up, there was never any question in my mind that I wanted to be a mother. Regardless, I still marvel that I have two such beautiful (albeit dirty, stinky, wise-cracking, stubborn, exhausting) little boys in my life. A brief pregnancy scare recently gave me days (five to be exact) to think about what it would be like to mother through all the stages of infancy and early childhood again. I was ready to embrace it, sleepless nights, career challenges and all. Colin has such middle child syndrome already that I always assumed I’d have a third.

In my heart, every day is Mother’s Day. When I arrived at the kids’ little league game yesterday and Colin left the bench to come give me a hug, that was better than any card. When Jack says, “I love you, Mommy” for no apparent reason, it’s better than getting roses, sleeping in or having breakfast in bed. The challenge is to remember these moments and store them someplace special so you can draw on them in the times of fatigue, frustration and loneliness.

Or, perhaps, to ward off the crazy mommy dance.

to cut my hair or not to cut my hair

Coinciding with the angst over what to wear to Kaitlan’s wedding is a healthy internal debate over whether to grow out or cut my hair. It is not an unfamiliar conversation. I’ve been on this cut my hair short, grow it long roller coaster since Snowmaggedon 2010.

In February 2010, after toying with the idea for a year and getting progressively shorter in the process, I finally took the plunge. The very day Mickey, owner/stylist of Michael Anthony Salon and my long-time hair stylist (not to mention longest DC relationship) finally indulged my pixie-request, the second of too-many-to-count snowstorms ravaged DC. While I left his salon loving my cut and felt totally chic out at a bar later that night, I woke up the next morning to two feet of snow on the ground, horrible bedhead, and no power. No power meant, aside from no heat, no ability to style my new hair. By day three of no electricity, I couldn’t walk by a mirror without crying. Once power was restored, it was too late; the storm had robbed me of those critical first few days of playing with the hairdryer and bonding with my new short do.

Once enough snow was cleared for me to make way back to his salon (sadly on the eve of yet another storm) Mickey came to the rescue. He reshaped the cut, which had the effect of providing me a redo of those first few days of practice. I was happy. But then, on my next regularly scheduled visit, he wouldn’t even trim it. I had scarred him with my reaction to the first cut more than I had scarred myself. In fact, it took an entire year for me to convince Mickey that I really did want short hair. I came to his salon armed with pictures of Selma Blair and Michelle Williams. He looked me in the eyes and made sure I was serious. Then we did it. And it was awesome.

With short hair I feel more stylish, even though most models have waist-length locks. With short hair, I feel more sassy, even though my bed head is a fright. With short hair, I feel more sexy, even though I’m constantly told (by women) that guys prefer long hair. But I think I disagree. I love my hair on the shorter side in spite of the drawbacks. And there are downsides. For example, there’s no pulling it back into a ponytail for the gym, the soccer field or post-pool lounging. You have to wash and blow dry it everyday, no exceptions. No loose and messy buns for those of us with short locks. I started to think a few months ago that perhaps, for summer, I should grow it a few inches.

Thus longer hair became my goal, but then I saw a recent picture of myself and I think I want it short again. I’m tempted by this gorgeous hair style (and the sunglasses they highlight). But then again, if I cut my hair short, I can’t dream of carrying off this perfect poolside hat by Helen Kaminski.  Of course, ever since contemplating a dramatic change, I’ve had a number of good hair days in a row. I’m conflicted. I’m also plagued by the age old question: which length is more 40s soccer-mom-ish?

As Mickey knows all too well, I fear soccer mom hair almost as much as I fear mom jeans.

stop pinning and start writing

I never thought it would happen, but in the last 48 hours I have turned into a Pinterest monster. Finally.

Admittedly, I have come late to every social media craze. I resisted Facebook initially, but then I realized I could write really amusing updates. A blog? I barely ever read any before I started my own last year. I figured out Polyvore so that my blog readers would have something visual to connect to some of my posts, but I was going to draw the line at Twitter. Then one bored day, I bit the bullet. The Twittersphere is still somewhat of a mystery to me, but the friends I have made from this universe compel me to stick with it (plus it has great cyber-stalking capabilities).

I don’t remember when I was first invited to join Pinterest, but I do remember it was my friend Janna who said “you will love this.” However, like all interweb-related crazes, I took one look and was scared. Too complicated. Too time consuming. And what’s the point?

Then on Thursday night, as I was making my internet window shopping rounds searching for a dress for Kaitlan’s wedding, I started thinking, wouldn’t it be great to have a clearinghouse where I could keep track of all the looks and clothes and shoes I desire. Three hours later, I had finally given the scores of Pinterest followers I already had amassed something to actually look at. Friends were re-pinning my pins, liking my pins, commenting on my pins… all fuel for my Pinter-ego.

Friday morning, instead of making pancakes for my kids or heading straight out the door for the strep culture that would register positive when I finally went to the minute clinic later in the day, I pinned more. I organized my pins. I put thought into what categories I would like to pin. Pinterest is going to be the home of a humongous Chelsea wish list with economy-improving capabilities. After all, it’s fantasy. I don’t know how often I will pin recipes, inspirational quotes or arts and crafts, but if you want to know what dresses I covet or what lipstick I like to wear, look no further.

After 24 hours of being a Pinterest-aholic, I lamented to a real blogger, DC Celine (one of the dear friends I thank Twitter for) that Pinterest was going to be the death of my neglected blog. She had the brilliant idea of writing about Pinterest to break the writer’s block that has plagued me. She encouraged me to read her post on pinning and crib her idea.

I am proud to say that my writing took a different direction, but I’m happy for her inspiration. If I could pin her as a friend, I would.

But then that would be Facebook.