Category: the woman

happy birthday colin

You can do fractions and have a photographic memory. You see the beauty and purpose in everything. (“Don’t throw that away! I want to keep it!”) You have always been a good cuddler and still like to sit in my lap. You constantly whistle.

I can never make you a promise I don’t intend to keep because you will remember, even if it’s months (or years) later. You notice when I get my hair cut and as for your own hair, it goes from the perfect length to too long practically overnight. You need a band-aid on every booboo, even if there’s no blood. And you love to lounge in a hot bath with bath salts (when I have them).

You’re always trying to keep up with your big brother, even when you don’t realize you are surpassing him. You chose today’s cupcake flavor based on the preference of one of your best friends because he doesn’t like your favorite (vanilla) and you didn’t want him to be cupcake-less. (I, of course, am making both flavors now.)

You are shy but incredibly loud. You are both clumsy and meticulous. You won’t change your socks if I don’t remind you, but you never ever forget to wash your hands after using the bathroom (and rat on your brother when he doesn’t wash). Two minutes after a bath, you have your own little cloud of dust swirling around you like Pigpen, but you set out your clothes the night before a big day.

You love candy that is colored blue and flavored like no fruit that exists in nature. But you also devour a bowl of strawberries in the blink of an eye, love edamame, and take your popcorn with truffle salt and fresh ground pepper. You like oysters on the half shell because they taste like the ocean.

You are more than I can describe, yet easy to read. You are my baby.

And today, you are eight.

bah humbug

Seriously, who likes Valentine’s Day?

As far as I can tell, if you’re single, it’s a day that is found universally to be repulsive. If you’re in a relationship, it’s a day when you are forced to acknowledge something that should be celebrated every day.

The last few weeks I have systematically unsubscribed from every email offer that has reminded me about this impending day of feeling bad or inadequate. Amazon, I don’t need to know what books you recommend I buy my true love. I could take care of that myself, thanks. Nordstrom, I like sexy lingerie as much as the next woman but I wear pretty underpinnings all year round, not just for one day. Unsubscribe. Delete.

I’m not sure what the statistic is on how much more expensive roses are on Valentine’s Day than any other day out of the year, but I’m sure it is significant. Are they less thornier? Do they smell better? Are they a more vibrant shade of red?

No, but because of Hallmark and consumer pressure, we all feel the need to meet expectations.

So why do we do it?

What if society collectively decided that instead of buckling under the pressure of some long-ago saint, we’d pick a random day to express our love. Wouldn’t that be more special to the receiver of the gesture? And less painful to those who are made to feel inferior by their lack of a relationship status?

Everyone wants to be told and shown that they are loved. Most people love to receive flowers, chocolate (or salted caramels) or perhaps something lacy. Who wouldn’t melt over having a romantic dinner prepared for them. But wouldn’t it be more fabulous to receive these gestures on March 12th, June 8th or October 15th instead of on the day that everyone else is rushing to make a similar statement?

Some of you will call me Valentine Scrooge and some will say “poor her, she doesn’t have a Valentine” but don’t feel sorry for me. When I receive roses on a random day, have a surprise dinner prepared for me or receive a lovely silky item for no other reason than love, I can assure you, I won’t be thinking of you.

(I mean that in the kindest of ways.)

Happy Anniversary

One year ago today, as I sat in my office feeling sorry for myself over my impending doom (i.e. the approaching date of my back procedure followed by two-to-three months of fashion confinement in a back brace) I decided I needed to channel my angst into something positive, creative and reflective of me. Facebook status updates didn’t seem long enough or to have enough reach. I was still scared of Twitter. Even a blog initially did not seem like a good fit. (Let’s be honest, I am not the most computer literate person. I still can’t figure out how to paste the code to Google Analytics onto my “page” so that I can see who cyber-stalks me.) But then I found a platform I could manage, and Styling My Back Brace was born.

I originally envisioned it as a way to visually portray the fashion limits and challenges posed by the brace I dubbed Beatrix. I would post photos of daily outfits and seek advice on how to style my brace better. Well, it didn’t take long for the outfit of the day component to prove a bust. Aside from not having an in-house photographer, for those first six weeks, I rarely got out of yoga pants. The blog evolved into a way to share my trials and tribulations, my observations and progress. The writing came surprisingly easily.

Styling My Back Brace allowed me to connect with people remotely because I couldn’t travel. Hell, I couldn’t even ride in a car for short trips out of fear a traffic jam would push me over my sit allowance. (15 minutes every three hours, so I had to time my drives to the city carefully.) Standing on the metro was permitted but as we all know too well, the train is not guaranteed to be the smoothest ride and can be uncomfortably crowded at the oddest of times. Even once I grew stronger and more confident in my modes of transportation, meetings had to occur some place where I could stand, so most often I met people in a bar.

Yes, I had a lot of lunch meetings standing at the bar. Betsy at Bistro Bis (a manageable walk from my office) still remembers what I like to eat, and more importantly, drink.

I digress.

As my back healed and I shed the brace, I made the decision to keep writing under a different blog name. Even now, I still don’t go so far as to call myself a blogger. I think exactly three people have referred to me as such. Two of those people were kind enough to call me a fashion blogger, and one of my work friends called me a mommy blogger (he’s a daddy, of course). I’m neither one or the other, nor do I believe I write enough to deserve a blogger moniker. I’m just a woman who likes to occasionally chronicle her life (or wardrobe) for the world to read (or see).  Along the way, I hope to entertain and every once in awhile, to inspire.

what’s in a job title?

I have to admit that in certain situations, I hate telling people what I do. (Not to be confused with telling people what to do, which I love.)

When I was a hill staffer, I felt there was something noble conveyed in my public servitude (except at my 20th high school reunion when I got blamed for high gas prices). When I worked for non-profits, there was a sense of do-gooder-ness that mostly drew admiration. By contrast, saying, “I’m a lobbyist” yields a look of suspicious disdain. Thanks, Jack Abramoff, for making the American public generally find corrupt the one profession that’s protected by the first amendment. (I have a lobbyist friend who likes to call himself Chief Redress Officer, a job title that’s definitely in contention for my next printing of business cards.)

Yes, I lobby, but I also do much more. I develop and implement legislative strategies primarily on issues pertaining to energy and the environment for a small consulting firm of which I am a partner and part owner. I know, I know, it doesn’t have the ring of “I’m a thoracic surgeon” or “I’m a Broadway actress.” But I really enjoy the work I do. Together with my partners, we create meaningful progress to make the world a better place.

Regardless of the personal satisfaction I get in this job which is the marriage of all my skill sets, let’s talk about the L word. People think we are corrupt, have three-martini lunches on a regular basis and are to blame for the [fill-in-the-blank] crisis. I’m surprised that as part of the Lobbying and Ethics Reform Act, Congress didn’t also require registered lobbyists don a scarlet L on our lapels to warn elected officials and their staff that someone of potentially ill professional repute is in the vicinity.

Some of the restrictions contained in the ethics law I understand. No more paying for luxurious golf vacations in Scotland? Makes sense. The cooling off period for senior staff before they can lobby a former boss is logical. The gift ban? Thank you. I have a hard enough time identifying gifts for those who are near and dear to me. I don’t need the added pressure of buying gifts for people I only have a professional affiliation with. But the meal ban? Come on. When I was a hill staffer, if I was influenced because someone had bought me a $25 lunch, that wouldn’t have said a whole lot about my character or integrity. On the rare days when I had time to take lunch away from my desk, I ate with a friend I hadn’t seen recently or someone I was working with to advance my boss’s legislative agenda so we could strategize over lunch. (I used to call that kind of lunch killing two birds with one stone until someone reminded me that the Environment and Public Works Committee staff shouldn’t condone the killing of birds, unless those birds are hunting fodder.)

What strikes me as the most absurd aspect of this law is that while I can’t offer a staffer a ticket to a baseball game or buy them a lunch, I can contribute money to a Member of Congress’s political campaign. In fact, as a lobbyist, I’m expected to make such contributions. Let’s think for one moment about which of these actions (providing meals vs providing contributions) really wields more influence.

The most upsetting part of the lobbying profession being dragged down the scale to somewhere between prostitute and drug dealer is that every time Obama says the word “lobbyist” he almost seems to spit the word out. Yes there were (and probably still are) corrupt lobbyists just like there are bad apples in any profession. But to blame lobbyists for the current broken state of our country is ridiculous. After all, in the end, we can make the case to redress grievances but we aren’t the ones who vote on legislative measures or sign them into law.

blue christmas

this year's Christmas photo (my cards will be late)

I love Christmas. I love decorating the tree, wrapping presents, seeing the surprise on my kids’ faces when they open their gifts. I bake a gazillion different types of cookies. I don’t always get presents out the door on time, or cards out at all some years, but that’s more a product of a busy life than any lack of spirit.

One of the aspects of the season I love most is Christmas music. I don’t let myself turn it on until December 1st, then I pretty much play it all the time until December 26th. Christmas music generally puts me in an upbeat mood. Who doesn’t love a good rendition of Baby, It’s Cold Outside?  I like the classics sung by the likes of Dean Martin just as much as so-called “alternative Christmas rock.” Jack Johnson’s surfer version of Rudolph is super clever. Who can feel Grinchy when listening to Carol of the Bells?

But this year’s Christmas spirit feels a little forced. While I outwardly cloak myself in proclamations that I’m loving the quiet stress-free-ness of this year’s holiday, it’s clearer and clearer to me that this year I’ll have a blue blue Christmas.

This year, the boys are with their father.

It doesn’t mean I won’t see my little bundles of joy, but they won’t sleep at my house on Christmas Eve. My tree won’t be the one they rush to first upon waking up at an hour that will undoubtedly be unreasonable. The stockings I hung by the chimney with care won’t be the first they pillage.

We have this little Christmas pajamas ritual where everyone gets new pajamas on Christmas Eve to wear to sleep that night. I bought theirs not really thinking that they won’t get worn until December 26th. As a single mom, I buy myself a pair too. Similarly, to maintain the illusion of Santa, I fill my own stocking, usually with beauty products that I am running low on and would have had to replace anyway. But do I bother this year with my pajamas? Do I fill the stockings the night before or wake up Christmas morning and do it. Do I set out cookies and milk and a note? “Dear Santa, the boys aren’t here tonight but take my word for it, they were mostly good this year. Love, Jack and Colin’s Mommy.”

In 2009, the first year I had a Christmas without the boys, my sister Meghann came to DC. Maybe it’s the 15-year age gulf (she’s young enough to be my daughter) or her own overflowing sense of Christmas exuberance, but having her here gave me reason to be full of Christmas cheer. This year, despite the joy I try to project in civilized company, internally I’m a little Ebeneezer Scrooge, a little George Bailey and a lot dreading Saturday night.

I try to tell myself it won’t always be this way. I have confidence that at some point I will have a significant other who will be here to keep my spirits in check (or at least wipe away my tears) even when the boys are not. Or maybe in 2013 – my next Christmas without the boys – I will travel to an exotic destination. But these thoughts of Christmases future won’t soothe as I get through the next 36 hours.

It’ll be me, a log in the fireplace, a bottle of champagne and as many sappy Christmas movies as I can line up. No church, no gourmet dinner, no caroling.

If I am going to lay around all night, I might want those new pajamas after all.

all I want for Christmas (naughty version)

Christmas List: Naughty EditionHey, while one is dreaming of presents that won’t appear under the tree, why not kick it up a notch and fulfill some real fantasies?

All these items pictured speak to the playfully naughty in me. I was initially inspired by the ultra sexy but elegant chemise and robe from none other than my favorite lingerie shop, Coup de Foudre. I could totally Hugh Hefner through life in that getup. Or enchant for a night.

Shoes. My passion. Does anyone else get warm and tingly inside when holding a beautifully crafted shoe in her hand? I tend to buy shoes in twos (because I can never narrow it down to one) but if given the opportunity to own one of these two shoes, the fun and flirty satin platform pump by Butter or the reptilian Manolo Blahnik, it really would be a Sophie’s Choice moment for me.

Being a woman with short hair, I have been trying to integrate more dangling earrings into my collection. This Kendra Scott pair could be worn with a t-shirt and jeans, an LBD, or, as pictured, with an elegant outfit of seduction.

But no ensemble such as this would be complete without the perfect accessory. In this case, a little fleather whip is just what the doctor – or the dominatrix – ordered.

Have you been naughty or nice?

Yes, Jack, there is a Santa Claus

http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/ch891224.png?w=644&h=800The other night, as I peeled the potatoes I was planning to mash to my usual perfection to serve with the Zinfandel-Braised Beef Short Ribs stewing in the oven, Jack came into the kitchen, a somber cloud hanging over his head.

Jack: Can I help you peel potatoes?

Me: Absolutely!

I handed him the peeler and he went to work. After about two potatoes, he stopped.

Jack: Mom, we need to talk.

After the initial elation that my child was about to have a grown up conversation with me subsided, panic quickly set in. What could possible be wrong that Jack would take such a serious tone?

Jack: I want you to tell me the truth, Mommy. I just need to know. (Pause.) Is Santa Claus real?

While I assumed this day would come (I don’t remember having this conversation with my mom, but I do recall noticing that Santa had the same handwriting as she did) I wasn’t expecting it to come so close to Christmas. I figured Jack wanted to believe and thus would continue to do so, not only for his own sake, but for Colin’s. So, the short of the story is, I didn’t really have a good answer prepared. I bought myself some time though by asking him what he believes. Then I pulled an answer out of thin air, but in retrospect, it wasn’t what I wish I had said.

I turned it into a discussion of faith. I told Jack that whether it’s God, Santa or climate change, there will always be people who try to shake your faith in what you believe. And in those times, you have to dig deep and figure out your own beliefs. Then stand by them. Kind of hokey, I know, but he accepted it.

Jack: Oh I’m so relieved! Mostly I wanted to make sure that when I am a dad, I don’t have to do all the work on Christmas Eve! Thank you, Mommy.

Upon greater reflection, here is what I wish I had said. Santa Claus as a living and breathing person who lives in the North Pole making presents all year round, Santa Claus as a man on a sleigh who delivers toys to privileged Christian children the world over does not exist. But what is real is the spirit of Christmas that Santa represents, a spirit of giving to others and creating joy. You can believe in Santa by creating and perpetuating the spirit of Christmas. Even on your Grinchy days.

The next time I have to have this conversation, hopefully it will be spring, well after the tree is down, needles are swept up, and stockings are put away. Regardless of when it comes, I will be better prepared.

Or maybe I will fall back on the age-old cop-out: go ask your dad.

a very newsy update

the scraped, primed and painted ceiling and walls of the guest room, the source of all my sweat equity efforts

I can’t fault writer’s block for my recent absence from the blogosphere. I’ve had several ideas that fell the wayside or were condensed into 140-character tweets. But fear not, I’m still here, thinking the same snarky thoughts.

I do feel like I should wrap up some loose ends, given how many questions and comments I get on previous posts. So for those who haven’t been sleeping at night wondering how my turkey came out or if I found a new purse, here are some updates to whet your appetite for more posts to come. Trust me, I have a lot on my mind that I want to share.

In no particular order, fall foliage. It’s gone. I’m no longer lounging under the brilliant canopy of autumn-hued trees. It was a spectacular fall, the best in my memory, and I hope fall 2011 is the new norm for the years to come.

My turkey. If you read my post, then you know I was poised to host Thanksgiving for the first time ever, and I was seeking turkey recipes. Thanks to all who submitted their favorites. I used the version submitted by my friend Stephanie, who has used it ten years running, although every year, her mother-in-law still declares, “why Stephanie, I didn’t know you could cook!” Now, my bird did not come out as juicy as Stephanie promised, but that’s my fault for screwing up the weight-time conversion and leaving it in the oven a little too long. Regardless, Colin ate both drumsticks and there weren’t as many leftovers as one would think given we were five adults, five kids and two turkeys (yes, someone didn’t trust me and brought their own).

A new fall/winter purse: There’s still no new handbag dangling off my arm, though I have test-run many models. The favorite thus far is my friend Emily’s purse, but even though she lives in Chicago and we have owned the same bag before, I am hesitant to click purchase. A big Kate Spade sale after Christmas and continued ennui with my current bag might cure me of that though.

The Sweat Equity Challenge: No, I did not end up tackling a household project every week between September 18th and Thanksgiving, but I did do eight weeks worth of projects in about a 5-day period, which explains why I still have repetitive stress disorder in both arms (I’m an ambidextrous scraper/painter). The lesson learned: next time hire someone to do the work or find a boyfriend who is handy around the house.

My fall wardrobe refresh: In October, I took advantage of a 25% off J. Crew sale to purchase some new staples for my fall wardrobe. What a bust. First of all, I kid you not when I say each of the five items I ordered was shipped separately. Secondly, I ended up returning everything except the pencil skirt in harvest tweed. The camel sweater was not the right shade (nor was the blouse) and the plum capri pants looked like pajamas. The red pants, which I had high high hopes for, weren’t lined and it took 15 seconds of standing in front of my mirror before the itching began.

So that is pretty much my life to date. Stay tuned for my musings on Santa Claus, Christmas lists, and of course, my upcoming birthday.

December 17th for those who don’t have their calendars marked.

homage to fall

Taking the Lillybees out on a fall day

I don’t mean to be so self-serving as to direct your attention to a photo of myself (even if it is a great picture, if I do say so myself). What I really want to highlight is how beautiful DC’s Fall 2011 has been. Every one of my favorite colors is captured in this photo, and I do not recall a fall that has been as brilliant or splendid. Or quite as long. I know, I know, I just jinxed us, right? But I have already asked the weather gods what sort of sacrifice they need in order to (1) feel the strength of my appreciation; (2) extend (is that too greedy?) this season; and (3) ward off a crappy winter.

During these insanely busy last two weeks, I have tried to walk a little slower to my meetings, spend more time looking out my office window, and generally just appreciate this weather that is not hot and humid, wet and wild, or bone-chillingly cold. I’m not really a stop-to-smell-the-roses kind of person, but I have definitely paused to appreciate the season.

Sorry if it rains later.