the chelsea chronicles

a retrospective on packing

It’s easy to find post after post dispensing of (and displaying) advice on how to perfectly pack for your vacation. But do these writers ever follow up with how it all actually worked out?

As I repack my suitcase, I’m struck by what I used and used again and washed and used again. And all those items that I didn’t.

The losers:

Jeans. Why did I bring two pairs? Of course, I needed one for when I was in San Francisco. Two was utterly too many. I haven’t thought twice of wearing denim since leaving the mainland.

Shoes. At the last minute, I threw my super cute Kate Spade espadrille wedges into my suitcase. Where they have stayed for the entire trip with their unworn sister, a pair of camel colored Chie Mihara’s that I brought for SF and planned to use here too. With jeans. (I was wrong.)

The one-piece bathing suit. I thought I might want it for surfing or other water sports. But I committed to the bikinis and didn’t look back.

Two long-sleeved Lululemon half-zips. Granted, they came in handy in San Francisco, but the beach does not cool down at night here, and I should have shipped them home with the work clothes I had my dad send back to DC for me.

Make up. Hair dryer. A navy and white striped cotton pique dress. A stack of bangles. A bunch of condoms? What was I thinking?

What would I bring more of if I had to do it over again? Another bikini. A few more skirts that can go to the beach and transition to dinner.

And definitely, a second pair of flip flops.

skintastic

If there’s one insecurity I grew to overcome quickly here in Hawaii, it’s the exposure of skin. More skin than one is used to exposing in one’s uptight little corner of the world, that is.

Tunics that I normally just use to get from home to the pool and back serve as dresses here and sarongs as skirts. Like, that I have been wearing in public. Not just to the beach either, but to restaurants and bars.

Bikinis are everywhere, so I’m glad I brought four with me. (Though the virgin skin unused to the sun is a little angry with me today when 4 hours on the water prevented my religious reapplication of SPF 50 every hour.)

Espadrille wedges and the one pair of heels I packed remain untouched. I’ve worn nothing but flip flops except the day we went hiking when I wore sneakers. And even worse, because of the sand and the surf, my pedicure is not intact. The horror. I would never dream of exposing a chipped pedicure back home. But here on the island, hang loose.

My runs on the beach I’ve done in a bikini and t-shirt. Not a la Baywatch (I know how you think) but still, for a woman who doesn’t wear shorts even in the height of summer, this is a huge step. It’s too hot for yoga pants, and the one day I wore running crops, they just got all wet anyway so why bother?

I’m relaxed. I’m comfortable. I’ve adapted. I can’t believe that next week I will have to wear heels. And bras. And dress clothes. But vacation wouldn’t be vacation if it happened all the time.

I mean… I don’t know what I mean. That sounds pretty awesome.

on Hawaii

I love Hawaii. I feel at home here. I’m not a beach bum by any stretch of the imagination, but I have enjoyed wearing nothing but a bathing suit since I’ve been here. I haven’t missed heels (did I just write that?) and I don’t mind so-called “island time” which would drive me nuts back in DC.

With the days of my vacation winding down, tonight I let myself be overtaken by emotion. After my friends went to sleep, I walked down to the beach by myself. And while three nights ago the moon lit up the sky, tonight it was nowhere to be seen. I sat in the sand, looked at the cloudy sky, listened to the waves crash, and I cried.

I cried for the remaining days (too few). I cried for the days away from my boys (too many). I cried for the fact that I have the wherewithal to be here (grateful). I cried tears of thanks to my friend Malia for providing the house we’ve called home on this trip (more gratitude). I cried for the uncertainty of when I can return to Hawaii. I cried for the challenges that await me at home. While Month of Chelsea was a resounding success, there is much to be settled still and in Scarlett O’Hara fashion, I’d rather think about it tomorrow.

I haven’t done any of the things I told myself I’d do here. I haven’t finished the sequel to My Night with George Clooney. I didn’t blog until tonight. I took two runs on the beach and a death-defying (maybe breathtaking is a better modifier) hike but other than that I haven’t worked out. I’ve read some books, but not at the speed I intended.

I relaxed. I ate. I drank. I slept like a baby.

I know the right thing is to make the most of my remaining days, so I will be counting each minute and making it count. And then I’ll be planning my return next year with the boys.

My Thanksgiving with George Clooney

Poor George. He flew all the way to California in cargo. I’m sure it isn’t how he’s used to traveling. So he was a little cranky this Thanksgiving in Northern California, where the weather was perfect and my sausage and apple stuffing was divine.

Dad thought he could out-gruff George, but that didn’t seem to go over well.

So then we tried a softer approach. We opened a lovely chardonnay from Nickle and Nickle. I offered him a taste. But he declined.

Even by the end of the wine-fueled night, when it was time to take a photo with my brothers and our significant others, he didn’t crack a smile. He didn’t even hold me particularly close.

If George Clooney continues to act this way, he just might get left behind in Hawaii, whether My Night with George Clooney becomes a roaring success or not.

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.

denim bar

Whereas I hate to shop for bathing suits, I love to buy jeans. I especially love to make the trek to the Denim Bar in Arlington, the place where I have bought most of my jeans over the last eight years.

Why do I love it?

First of all, every time I have shopped there with the exception of the time I went with Nancy, I’ve had no fewer than two people helping me. (Sometimes I wonder how they stay in business, because I hardly see other shoppers there.) And when I say “help” I mean someone who will check out your ass and give an honest opinion on whether or not the garment is flattering. Yes, we can consult the three-way mirror, but it’s so much better to have someone say, “wow, you look great in those” or “hmmm… I think you can do better.”

Sadly, my very favorite pair of skinny jeans just hit the point of retirement and my second favorite pair needs the same treatment. Skinny jeans and riding boots are a staple for me in the winter, so this was not an acceptable condition for me, and I especially wanted to make sure I had a pair to bring on my California-Hawaii three-week tour.

I’d had a lunch meeting in Alexandria on Tuesday with my former LD (and devoted male reader of the blog) and suddenly found myself driving by Pentagon Row. There was a parking spot right in front of the store. It was meant to be.

I walked in and gave an overstatement of the obvious.

Me: Hi, I need new jeans.

Denim-ista: Uh-huh.

Really, she was very helpful and patient as I tried on every pair of skinny jeans in my size in the store. And really, the jean trying on process, more than any other item of clothing, really does require one to actually try them on. You can’t just walk in and say, “I’ll take a pair of bootcut jeans in a 27.” There were some pairs that I couldn’t get past my knees. Some that I could stick my fist in the waistband. And of course, true to form, there were two pairs that were just right.

Just right except for the fact that they required hemming, but in addition to ass assessing, they do that there too.

I managed to pick them up today, in spite of a very busy day. And here they are.

Ass shot to come. Or maybe not.

I bought a white coat…

What was I thinking?

I have coveted a winter white wool coat (say that five times really fast after a cocktail) since my friend Jackie had one in high school. But back in the day, living in New England with its slushy sidewalks and black tinted snowbanks, it never seemed like a practical purchase. Who am I kidding? It isn’t practical now, given that I’m responsible for two messy little boys and three furry (shedding) cats. But the other night, after finally hitting the “publish” button on My Night with George Clooney, I was seduced by a J. Crew 25% off sale. I deserved a reward. So, I indulged.

And it’s gorgeous.

I already have all sorts of new rules. (Like I need more rules in my life.) No more drinking coffee in the car. No sitting down on the metro. No getting within reach of a glass of red wine. I’m sure more restrictions will come to me. I just hope I don’t realize them too late. But then again, making more frequent trips to the dry cleaner is a goal on my 43 by 43 list, so perhaps being the proud owner of this coat will provide extra incentive to fulfill that task.

on bikinis and such

I’m just going to admit it.

I don’t hate myself in a bikini right now. (Thank you, Biker Barre!)

In fact, I so don’t hate myself in a bikini that I ordered five for my upcoming trip to Hawaii.

This’s not to say that I wasn’t more than slightly stressed about making these purchases. My friend Katie told me that the best bathing suit she has ever owned came from Target. I took her advice and ordered several mix and match pieces for a grand total of less than $35. I kept three interchangeable components: two bottoms and a top. Because the available sizes and colors were limited (at $6/piece, most of the stock had been snatched up) I also ended up ordering additional suits from J. Crew and Zappos. The one from Zappos was returned, as were some of the components from J. Crew, but now that I know what styles I find flattering and styles not, this whole bathing suit thing feels a whole lot easier.

But that’s not all I need for 12 days in Hawaii. While I admire how some of my friends look in shorts, I can’t carry them off with even an ounce of confidence. Rosanna totally rocks a tomboy look. DC Celine can pull off the dressy short. And Wardrobe Oxygen is so rock and roll in her cutoffs. But shorts are not in my comfort zone, whereas skirts and dresses are. Luckily, even though it’s early for resort wear, I managed to find a non-budget-breaking convertible skirt-dress combination (the tag demonstrates seven ways to wear it) at Nordstrom. I bought it in three colors. I also found a cute basic black pareo at Lands End and already own many large scarves that will perform similarly and pair nicely with the bikini colors I chose.

Now the next step is figuring out whether all my items fit in my suitcase once I add shoes (shoes, glorious shoes) and five days worth of clothes for San Francisco. Clearly it is not going to be bathing suit weather there.

I asked out the doctor…

For those early readers who followed my every back brace constrained move in the styling my back brace days, you’ll remember with great fondness my miracle doctor. Several of you actually suggested at the time that I date said doctor, with whom I always had a good (borderline flirty) rapport. I scoffed at such suggestions because it seemed too much like mixing business with pleasure. I mean, I needed him to fix my back. Plus, on the awkward side, this guy has seen me in a hospital gown, several times. He saw me in tears more than once too. He inserted really sharp needles into my back. And I’m pretty sure that in doing so, he’s already seen me at least partially naked. Not to mention this is the very doctor who made me wear a back brace for more than two months.

Almost a year has gone by since I’ve had an appointment with him. Randomly, we recently connected on LinkedIn. We had a little email exchange about whether or not I should purchase a Living Social coupon for flying trapeze lessons. (He advised not.) I sensed the same energy that we had in the examination room coming through over our emails. I started thinking about how it’s Month of Chelsea and one of my goals is to take more risks. I just published a short story. How hard could it be to ask out the back doctor?

So I did.

I received an email back from him a few days later. Of course a divorced doctor under 40 who doesn’t live with his mother just started seeing someone. I totally get it. You snooze, you lose in this town. That isn’t to say that I’m not still a tinge disappointed. But rather than be sad or feel rejected, I’m proud of myself for going after what I want instead of waiting around for someone else to give it to me.

That, my friends, is what Month of Chelsea is all about.