the chelsea chronicles

current obsession

You know how it is when you can’t get some one or some thing out of your mind? I don’t mean in the unhealthy Fatal Attraction pet-rabbit-boiling-in-a-pot sort of way. (Yes, that’s a shout out to you, Caroline.) (Note to readers: not because Caroline has boiled a lover’s daughter’s pet rabbit but because the reference was recently lost on a a woman of a younger generation whom she was talking to.) An obsession can sometimes be a goal on steroids. Other times, it’s a flash in the pan. But regardless of the duration or the dedication to pursuing said object of affection, obsessions are all mind (and time) consuming.

It’s safe to say that my current obsession is this pair of Rebecca Minkoff pumps. Every day for the last month I have visited them (at least once) on-line. I have created countless outfits in my head, both with items already in my closet and items I don’t yet own. These shoes have gone on dates I don’t have prospects for, and they have taken me to meetings I haven’t yet scheduled. I’d wear them with my favorite Fidelity Denim skinny jeans, a crisp white shirt and my black Smythe blazer. I’d wear them with my vibrant flame J. Crew pencil skirt. I’d sleep in them if I didn’t think I’d kick them off in the middle of the night, leaving them unprotected from kittens who seems to obsess over getting their little paws on my shoes as much as I do.

If you see my strolling down the street wearing these shoes, you will know I gave in. That or I achieved whatever task I told myself I needed to achieve in order to deserve these shoes.

Or maybe, just maybe, I have a date.

underneath it all

Back when I was doing my original blog (styling my back brace, for those of you who missed my period of Beatrix incarceration) I wrote a post on underpinnings. In excruciating detail, I shared both my perspective on the benefits of wearing nice lingerie and recommended my favorite designers. It was the most-read post I had (except I suspect my dad skipped it). Given the popularity of the original post, I feel compelled to update you on my current lingerie discovery, one that may have changed my undergarment life forever.

About a month ago, I was meeting a friend at the E Street Cinema. Of course I was early, and my movie-partner was late. (In all honesty, he ended up being on time, which is early for him, but I anticipated he would be late.) I had always admired from afar the lingerie boutique Coup de Foudre, located across the street from the theater, but it seemed it was usually closed when I was in the neighborhood.

But there I was, early for a movie, tickets in hand, expecting to wait 30 minutes for showtime, so it only made sense to finally take advantage of the location and the time of day to check out its lacy offerings.

As the French say, oh la la.

I was instantly greeted by a beautiful French accent, and as my eyes scanned the walls the way my kids eye the candy aisle at the grocery store, the very helpful owner of the French accent came to my side to offer her assistance. My eyes were immediately focused on a beautiful cosmic blue Marie Jo plunge bra with this gorgeous daisy detail on the straps, so pretty you almost want your strap to show.

I was ushered to the changing room, the cosmic blue in my size in hand, but just in case I was wrong about my size, the very experienced staff was there to ensure the perfect fit. And when I say ensure, I mean ensure. Leave your modesty at the door, ladies, a small price to pay to walk away with the correct size in a bra that’s a flattering cut and shape for you.

The cosmic blue bra (and matching panties) went home with me that day, and I love so much how this bra fits that I went back the following week to buy it in black. But it was not an in-and-out-of-the-store experience. I was again ushered into the changing room, just to make sure the black fit as well as its beautiful blue sister. Of course while I was there, I tried on many other options, but in the end we agreed that the Marie Jo plunge is the style for me. How happy was I today when I received an email informing me that my new favorite bra is now available in ruby red.

The women of Coup de Foudre have seen “more” of me than anyone else lately, and I so appreciate their good eye and discriminating taste in lingerie. It truly was, as the name of their store indicates, love at first sight. But if you decide to take the plunge, just don’t buy my ruby in a 36B.

the sweat equity challenge

It all started with a hurricane and peeling textured ceiling paint in the guest room.

The textured ceiling paint was not peeling as a result of Hurricane Irene; no, it was gratis the previous harry homeowner, or maybe two harry homeowners ago. who made a number of sloppy sweat equity decisions back in his ownership days. When my brother Nathan (a professional) was here refinishing my downstairs bathroom, he checked out the peeling ceiling for me, reported that it was the result of the person who applied said textured paint without sanding or priming ahead of time.

“Even you can remove it easily,” he assured me.

Since I mostly keep the guest bedroom door closed though, it was really out of sight, out of mind. But then we were stranded in the house without power, and I needed something to do that didn’t involve electricity. Since I love to peel, be it sunburns, beer bottle labels or old wallpaper, a little light bulb went off in my brain. Surely textured ceiling paint would provide the same satisfaction.

Six hours later, I was barely a third of the way done and it was getting dark. A few more hours the next day did not yield much more progress. I have found oddly that letting the ceiling “rest” helps loosen some of the tougher spots. I’m not done yet, but I am determined to finish it soon. By next weekend. Or next month. At least by the next time I have guests.

All this Tim “the Tool Man” Taylor work got me to thinking, why not take on one project a weekend, no matter how small, between now and Thanksgiving. It isn’t like there’s a shortage of work to be done around my old house. This weekend I was ambitious; the ceiling continues to be peeled during my “breaks” from other activities, namely applying a fresh coat of paint (or three) on the backside of the kitchen door and stairwell that leads to the basement. Other jobs on my personal honey do list: painting the exterior backdoor; replacing some ceiling tiles in the basement; converting the playroom into an office-homework station; power-washing the side of the house; and well, I will stop there or my friends will be scared to come over lest I put them to work.

I could hire someone. But let’s be honest, there is plenty of work on that list too. (I don’t do electrical. Or pipes. Or floors.) So why not test my homeowner skills on this easier set of tasks and realize some immediate progress? After all, I at least can meet my own cost estimates and I guarantee myself I will get the job done in the time I have available.

Break’s over. Back to the ceiling.

style me!

Finally a challenge that doesn’t involve entertaining a kid in the ER, beating the national average on the Constitution Quiz or explaining what a dry scrubber is.

My dear friend Brigid, who has been there with me at so many seminal points in my life ranging from my first purchase at the Bobbi Brown counter to 9-11, is in charge of an important upcoming event at work. As is often the challenge in work-related events, she needs to strike a balanced evening look that is professional, yet elegant, and a daytime (outdoor) look that is casual but demands her to look office-appropriate nonetheless.

For the evening portion of her event, Brigid has to dress for Mass, a reception, and a benefactor dinner at the university where she is director of communications. Given that she will be attending Mass, she needs to be conservative. But I want her to stand out appropriately and highlight her beauty. So I found this gorgeous DVF in a bottle green color that will make Brigid’s beautiful green eyes pop (and distinguish her from all those wearing black, but without the ostentatious message that red can sometimes send). The Maidey is long-sleeved, has a high-neck, isn’t too form fitting, but highly flattering. I’d pair it with simple pearl earrings and nude pumps.

For the day look, considering that Brigid doesn’t have much time, I stuck to options from J. Crew, a store she shops. I know I am spending a lot of Brigid’s money here, but I also have confidence that she can replicate any of these items at a lower price point. I’m just here to provide some direction.

For Brigid I love this viridian green wool skirt (okay, I have it, and the color is so much richer in person than it appears on-line) and an ivory blouse. I gave her two sweater options (after all, Brigid lives in Wisconsin and daytime temps might demand an extra layer). If she’s feeling bold, I’d pair the plum cardigan with the green skirt. If she needs to err on the side of conservative, the camel cardigan provides a neutral alternative. I couldn’t help picking out a leopard print flat (not just because it’s named after Brigid’s daughter) just for a little edge and some extra personality. The orange necklace options were another wildcard for if she chooses the camel sweater but wants an additional punch of color.

So there you go, Brigid. I wish I could come shopping for the day. Next time, give me a little more notice and I will see what I can arrange.

ten lessons I have learned in my first ten years of being a mother

Let me get one thing straight: I have learned more than ten parenting lessons. But on today, the day that marks ten years of my being a mother, a day when my friend Angie is likely to give birth to her first child (I hope I didn’t just jinx the pace of your labor, Angie) I offer these lessons as a good cross-section of those things that the books don’t teach you.

In no particular order:

1. Band-aids are required for booboos that do not necessarily involve bleeding. As a parent, you just have to accept that you’re going to blow through a box of band-aids in a week, whereas when I was single the same box would linger in my medicine cabinet for over a year. A bruise, a bump, it doesn’t matter. Band-aids are accessories.

2. Sleep begets sleep. Early on as a parent, you may think to yourself one night, “we are having fun, drinking good wine, having conversation. Let’s let the kids stay up later, then they will sleep later and we can sleep in.” It doesn’t work that way. Kids who stay up later wake up at the same time in the morning, but are sleep-deprived, or in other words, cranky. But by some miracle, kids who go to bed early (and/or have a good nap) will sleep until their usual wake up time — or sometimes later.

3. On a related note… no amount of fun the night before is worth the pain the next morning. Now that my kids are of an age that they don’t wake me up in the morning, it doesn’t matter quite as much, but back when they were younger, I would have loved to hire someone for the morning after even more than being able to have the evening out.

4. If your child gets him or herself dressed, you look the other way if it doesn’t match. For several months, Jack’s “go to” outfit was a pair of bright red athletic pants and a kelly green tee-shirt. It hurt my eyes to look at him. But as long as that outfit was clean, I didn’t have to pick out his clothes or get him dressed. Then one morning, he was in said outfit at the table having breakfast, looked down at himself, and exclaimed, “I look like Christmas! I have to change.” In other words, he eventually figured it out.

5. Kids tell the same jokes and play the same annoying games we did as kids. You have to pretend you haven’t heard the banana/orange knock-knock joke a gazillion times. You suddenly understand why your parents wanted to leave you at a roadside stop after two hours of you and your sibling playing the copying game where they say what the other just said. Where they say what the other just said. Mom, he’s copying me. Mom, he’s copying me.

6. If there is anything worth crying over, it’s spilled milk. I forgot about this one until the other day when Nancy’s daughter spilled a whole pint of strawberry milk in her car. Neither of my boys really drink milk anymore, but back in the day, a cup of spilled milk seemed like it took longer to clean up than the oil spill in the Gulf. In other words, it’s no laughing matter.

7. Kids always know how much money they have in their wallets. So if you have to borrow some (like when you have to call the emergency locksmith because you grabbed the wrong set of keys while simultaneously closing the locked door behind you and you don’t have the required cash to get him to then leave your house once he has broken you back in) you must replace their money immediately (before you forget) and in the same denominations you took. You should also try to crinkle the bills up like they have been in the grasp of a sweaty hand.

8. Reverse psychology was invented to be used on kids. You want them to do something? Pretend you think it’s too dangerous or complicated or that they aren’t old enough, and before you know it they will be fighting over who gets to do it.

9. Kids cannot keep secrets. Ever. Not even small ones like, “don’t tell your brother I let you ride shotgun (watch TV, lick the bowl, stay up late).” And the bigger deal you make of the secret, the faster they will reveal it.

10. When you are having a bad day, your kids will inevitably make it worse. After a long day, coming home to cook a dinner that they won’t eat (even if it’s their favorite) and argue with them about bathing (“but I’m clean!”), teeth-brushing (“why?”), reading (“one more chapter?”) and bedtime (“I’m not tired!”), just when you are at your wits end, one will say something to make the day better. My favorite is this:

Child: “Mommy?”

Me: “Yes?”

Child: “I love you.”

And suddenly all the drama is worth it.

9-11

It seemed that as the ten-year anniversary of 9-11 grew nearer, my writer’s block worsened. I started and restarted this post a dozen times, but everything I put down felt trite and inadequate. Then tonight I realized that I struggled with exactly what to write because I’m not sure what can I say that hasn’t been said already.

Then I decided that it doesn’t matter if it’s been said. 9-11 is a day that changed America. It’s a day that changed me.

On Friday night I wept uncontrollably as I allowed myself the emotional indulgence of watching a 9-11 retrospective. For the first time, I let my children see for themselves the footage from that horrific day. They know the basic history of 9-11. They’ve heard the story of how their very pregnant mommy was working in the Senate that morning. They know about the 18-wheeler FEMA truck that shared the road with us as their dad and I drove to Sibley the night I went into labor. I can’t really tell the story of Jack’s birth on September 15, 2001 without including the details of the 4 days that preceded it.

I knew if I was going to let them watch 9-11 footage, I would have to keep my emotions in check. More than once, I covered my eyes and Colin’s too. Jack squeezed my leg. I cringed at the footage of the second plane hitting the World Trade Center. I had forgotten how fast the plane was flying, how low to the ground it was, and how very much like a weapon a commercial airline could appear. In that moment of the second hit we knew unconditionally that our country was under attack. The other night, seeing the footage was like feeling it for the first time.

Tears streamed silently down my face. Silently, that is, until Tom Brokaw moved to the story of United Flight 93. Emotion check failure.

Jack: “Mommy, why do you watch this show if it makes you cry?”

Because I have to. I’ll never know what would have happened if United Flight 93 hadn’t crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. I’ll never know whether my life and the life of my beautiful ten-year old son would have been in danger if Flight 93 had crashed into the Capitol – or more likely, been shot down over our city. Amid all I don’t know, I do know that the passengers of Flight 93 were heroes. And when I see their widows and children and loved ones recounting those last minutes on the flight, piecing together the story of their act of bravery, I just hope that I deserve their sacrifice.

I expected the moment of silence at 8:46 this morning to be heart-wrenching. But while somber, the silence allowed me to hear – coming from outside – the jubilant (and loud) voices of the 8 little boys who had slept over last night to celebrate my son’s upcoming tenth birthday. 9-11 robbed us of our innocence, but children still play and tell knock-knock jokes. They still skin knees and fall off their bikes. They even play Capture the Flag. And they laugh. The “post-9-11 world” for me was marked first and foremost by my entry into motherhood. I don’t need to be reminded to never forget.

weathering the storm

welcoming the storm — photo by jim@grahamstudios.com

There are some among us who believe that I control the weather. What else can explain that when I convert my closet from lightweight summer staples to wooly fall splendor, the temperatures climb back up into the 90s? Or how breaking out a pair of flip flops in the early spring can cause it to snow? While I did take credit for the earthquake that hit the mid-Atlantic earlier this week (after all, I was in the middle of an angry recounting of how it was the first week of school and my younger son’s class inexplicably was still without a teacher) please do not blame Hurricane Irene on me. Even though I am wholly unprepared for her to unleash her wrath on D.C.

Maybe it’s because I cannot imagine a situation worse than Snowmaggedon, when I was one of four houses on my block without power, which is not exactly the type of outage that sends Pepco immediately to the rescue. (Except Pepco did come sooner than expected thanks to a phone call to my friend Nathan, an arborist for the utility who came to my house during his “break” between 18-hour shifts to identify the problem and call-in a downed (live) wire.) Maybe it’s because the last two “hurricanes” I prepared for (Hurricane Isabel in 2003 and Hurricane Gloria in 1985) were severely downgraded by the time they hit my region. Maybe it’s my well-stocked wine “cellar.” Whatever the reason, I cannot succumb to the pre-storm hype.

I do have a seven-year old who is deathly afraid of this impending storm. So afraid that he had nightmares last night and has asked me approximately every seven minutes whether Hurricane Irene is here yet. He’s envisioning a flooded basement, a river running down our street, and felled trees. He collected every flashlight in the house and set about replacing the batteries of the ones that needed fresh juice. He asked me to bake chocolate chip cookies to make him feel better on this rainy day. And he is milking me for as much TV as possible before the power goes out.

I didn’t buy any bottled water, though I did get the kids their favorite snacks and bought some candles. I didn’t pick up any sand bags at RFK, but did buy fresh eggs at the farmer’s market this morning, even though I already had a dozen in my refrigerator (omelets tomorrow?). I don’t have an evacuation plan or a full tank of gas, but I’m not sure if it comes to that I would get far in my Prius with two kids and three cats.

Now that I have spelled it all out, I have a twinge of regret I am not better prepared, but there’s really nothing to do at this point but sit back, stay calm, hope for the best for our friends in the path of the brunt of the storm, and uncork some wine. Chardonnay and/or sparkling first and reds after the power has gone out.

And hopefully by Monday all the hurricane songs will be purged from my head.

summer vacation

4th fire truck — a scene from summer vacation

What did you do (or not do) on your summer vacation? I (in case you hadn’t noticed) barely blogged. I had assumed summer nights would be blissfully free to commit my thoughts to electronic paper, but at the end of most days, I could barely muster the energy to send a text let alone write a post.

At the end of the school year in June, I was ready to collapse under the weight of the kids’ collective schedules, and I couldn’t wait until the pressures of the school year were gone and vacation would begin. But summer vacations of today are not the summer vacations of my youth. First of all, I still have to work. As Jack puts it, “it isn’t fair, Mommy, that you don’t get to take the summer off too.” Second of all, as I remembered by the third day of summer camp, preparing kids for camp is harder than preparing kids for school.

It seems like a small thing, but you have to remember to pack a bathing suit and towel. Every day. Even though the kids are given designated swim days, camp advises sending their gear each day just in case they get an extra window to swim. And swimming means applying vats of sunscreen to your kids each morning before they head out the door. While I make a lunch for my kids most days when they go to school, it’s nice to know you have a back up option (even if they mostly detest school lunch) on a morning when you overslept and/or forgot to buy peanut butter and/or the bread miraculously went green overnight. At camp, there is no such luxury. You need to pack a lunch everyday or your kid doesn’t eat. And lunches need to be bigger, complete with snacks and extra drinks for hot code orange and red days. Exhausting.

Even the kids asked, “when do we get a summer where we can take a break from school and camp?”

That’s a good question. When I was Jack’s age, I was already watching my brother Nathan in the summers. We’d walk to the neighborhood pool in the morning, have our swim lessons, come home for lunch, then walk back to the pool to swim the remainder of the day. Implementing a similar routine with Jack and Colin would probably result in someone turning me in to social services.

That isn’t to say the boys and I didn’t get any breaks this summer. A ten-day tour of New England to visit with close friends and family got us out of town and gave us a breather from our usual grind. Five days last week in Chicago and Michigan gave me a needed respite from work, camp, mommy duties and stifling DC humidity. But school starts next week, which means fall is around the corner and with it (aside from tall boots, cashmere sweaters, scarves and all the other goodies I am dreaming of) comes soccer season.

Is it winter break yet?

begging for bipartisanship

When I moved to Washington, D.C. in 1997, it was admittedly with bright eyes. I had just completed a master’s degree in a totally unrelated field, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that I wanted to work in Washington.

Quick talking and good timing got my foot in the door in a Senate office, launching the Capitol Hill career I wanted. Was it everything I expected? Absolutely not. It was more. Thanks to the sage guidance of the statesmen I had the honor to work for and the mentoring of the high-quality bipartisan core of staffers I spent my days with, I had a most fulfilling and eye-opening experience.

But today’s Congress is not the Congress I lived and breathed. By the way, I’m not bitter just because I am supposed to be in New York this weekend with a friend who works in House leadership. I’m not just bitter because it feels like my finances would be safer stored in my mattress than in my current investments. I’m bitter and sorely disappointed in the utter lack of cooperation and bipartisanship being displayed by today’s crop of politicians.

Let me add a side note to illustrate my point: the bill I worked tirelessly to see enacted in my early hill days, a landmark bill that provided for the restoration of the Everglades, was signed into law by President Clinton in an Oval Office ceremony which included Governor Jeb Bush, who was governor of Florida at the time, on the very day that the SCOTUS ruled on Gore v. Bush. But the bipartisan delegation present for the ceremony put aside their political differences for 45 minutes to honor this momentous step in the preservation of a national treasure.

I’m convinced that when it comes to today’s fiscal conundrum, if none of the leaders involved could tweet, post an update to Facebook, hold a press conference, issue a press statement or otherwise opine about the status of the negotiations, there would be a deal right now. But let’s not kid ourselves. Neither party has any interest in solving this issue when instead of looking at the ramifications of national default on interest rates, retirement accounts, and oh, say, the reputation of the United States, these so-called leaders are instead looking at polling numbers, the 2012 election, and the calculus of whom this battle hurts more.

August 2nd is still days away, so there is time to liquidate your assets and hide them in your preferred safe place. There is still time for a bipartisan outcome. Wouldn’t it be better if instead of posturing and politicking, we could release our leaders to strike a deal that keeps America’s credit standing and saves our face internationally? Then, afterwards, we can roll up our sleeves and decide how best to pay down America’s huge credit card debt. We might despise the federal deficit, but let’s admit it, whether your weakness is war, tax cuts or social programs, we all benefited from the running up of said debt, and we are all going to have to sacrifice something to whittle it back down.

desperately seeking…

Today I wore the J. Crew Minnie Pant. I like the Minnie and was told by Rosanna at DC Style Factory that I look good in Minnie when she audited my closet last spring and advised that I should buy a pair in every color. (By the way, I highly recommend a closet audit.) But really, while the Minnie is good for what it is, it is not my perfect pant. And I want the perfect pant.

In June when I was vacationing in New England (I love the way that sounds) and spent a day at Crane Beach with my friend Nicole, I noticed that she was wearing the Minnie. My mention of the Minnie led to a discussion about our own personal experiences in pursuit of the perfect pant.

We dubbed the perfect pant the Audrey pant, envisioning something that Audrey Hepburn would wear. But when I googled “Audrey Hepburn pants” I didn’t actually encounter any photos of her wearing what I think Nicole and I both seek.

What is the perfect pant? Well first of all, it’s black. And it has a flat front. And it has a straight leg. But it isn’t capri, which for us shorter women does not hit at the right point of the leg since all pants seem to be designed for the woman who is 5’11”. It isn’t that I am afraid of the tailor. I like the tailor. I use the tailor. I need to visit the tailor and soon. But the tailor, while good, is not capable of hemming my pants to that perfect fashion forward length that Nicole and I both desire. I don’t want the hem to drag. I don’t want the hem to be too high-watery. No floating hems (ugh!) or worse, a mullet scraping the ground behind your shoe when you walk. (Actually, maybe the floating hem is worse.) Essentially, we want an inseam that is longer than 27 inches and shorter than 31. No flare. No skinny. No bootcut. Just straight and classic. Oh, and please. I have birthed two babies so I prefer that the waistline fall somewhere between a high-waist reminiscent of the 80s and hang-off-your-hips-navel-revealing.

Nicole’s method for finding this perfect pant is to write to J. Crew and hope Jenna Lyons listens. My method is to appeal to my female readers to see if anyone is enlightened (and lucky) enough to own this pant. I’d be willing to buy the perfect pant in multiples just to ensure I always have it. If you direct me to the perfect pant, there is most certainly a reward. Or at least, a shout-out.