Magic Carpets

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One thing that I love about my son Oliver is his preference of fantasy over reality. It’s something to which I very much relate. For example, while playing a picture matching game based on rhyming, he flat out refused to match “bug” with “rug” because the “bug” doesn’t rhyme with “magic carpet.”

I absolutely agree with him on this. Why walk on a plain old rug when you can sink your toes into a magic carpet?

These carpets I found on 1stdibs today would all fit the bill:













That last one isn’t my usual style – but there is something so appealing about it…

Have you seen 1stdibs? It’s pretty vast. The carpets above are from only the first five pages of almost 30! It’s great fantasy (in my reality) resource for fabulous treasures. I highly recommend a perusal.

Raisin’ ‘Em Right!

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I have been SO busy with life lately. I mean, now that my twins go to preschool three mornings a week I have a whole 7.5 hours of alone time to devote to examining my new wrinkles, making myself snacks and reading Project Runway recaps online.

All of this distracted meandering around my house is exhausting! I have very little inclination to do anything productive like writing blog posts or cleaning or giving myself that much needed pedicure. I’m simply too worn out from the lassitude of loose endedness.

But my children make up for my cuticle picking torpor by achieving new personal bests on a daily basis. The most remarkable of these was a tandem effort by my sons, Oliver and George to start the school year off with a literal “pow” by hitting people. And it gets better! The incidents occurred within a week of each other and both of the targets were GIRLS. I’m just bursting with pride…


I already mentioned Oliver’s outburst in a previous post. He hit his teacher the other week. As a special needs kid, Oliver has some little quirks that could be explained as “self soothing,” and when they don’t disrupt the classroom, they are allowed. One of these is “self talk” or the tendency to keep up a stream of semi-intelligible chit chat with oneself while performing tasks or playing. Sometimes it’s scripting from favorite TV shows and DVDs and sometimes it’s something else, but from what his special ed teachers and therapists have told me, it’s not a problem and they don’t see the need to interfere with it. Unless of course, he really has to be silent. Which is the case for certain “zones” in the school hallways. Apparently he was chatting away in one of these zones and when his teacher tried to end it, she inadvertently opened a can of whup-ass. Or more specifically, he got upset and struck out at her (connecting with her face).

Super.

It’s all okay though. His special ed case manager was called and she talked to him about how his reaction wasn’t “a good choice” and what better choices he could have made (here is where I’m madly taking notes on how I should be handling things with him at home). Then he had a little time out before going back to join his friends. They weren’t too worried about it overall since Oliver is rarely violent and seemed very upset about what he did (and his teacher said he’s still apologizing to her, so maybe the lesson will stick?). Anyway…BYGONES!

Then, there’s George. That’s become almost a catchphrase of mine of late, “then, there’s George…”

My very intense younger son has embraced preschool with his usual unmitigated enthusiasm, and from what I could tell was seamlessly assimilating to this new environment. Then came the check in call (that all of the parents got) on Friday, reporting on the twins’ first couple of weeks. It was all rainbows and unicorns until a final caveat that there was just one incident in which a few days prior, George had a fight with another student. The teacher claimed not to have seen what happened, but that he and the LITTLE GIRL (note to self: must augment his school wardrobe with some new wife beater tank tops) were “really going at it.” I believe she even used the word, “fisticuffs.” Nice. But the good news is that the little girl’s mother was there and could comfort her while the teacher focused on talking to George. So that was great…

The truth is, George’s teacher didn’t seem overly concerned about it and just wanted to let me know in case he brought it up (yeah right!). Knowing my son as well as I do, I pretty much assumed that he was the instigator. Not that he starts a lot of fights, but we’ll chalk it up to mother’s intuition. So I wasn’t in the least bit surprised when I asked him why he and his friend had a fight and his answer was “‘Ecause she wouldn’t make room.” So basically, he wanted her to scoot over so he could sit down, and when she wouldn’t (or couldn’t), he decided to forcibly move her. Then the “fisticuffs” ensued.

I was able to apologize to the other mom, and I think that there are no hard feelings. But seriously – what is wrong with my boys!? We don’t encourage physical violence at home. I’m just going to assume that they’re busting out the inevitable bad behavior as early as possible instead of waiting until later in the school year (my little over achievers!). At least I won’t be lulled into a false sense of confidence.

But now I have a little free time, so I’m going to be Scarlett O’Hara and leave those pesky worries for another day called “tomorrow.” I can’t sit around thinking about parenting strategies right now. I’m fairly certain that I have some old chocolate chips in the back of the freezer and I simply must check the TV listings for this evening. Hope I’m not forgetting anything unimportant…

A lazy woman’s work is never done…literally.

Do You Sproost?

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If not, you should. It’s fun.

I never knew that my design style was “French Eclectic.” This is described as: “French Country, like its name, somehow manages to both be formal and casual, classy and unassuming at the same time. You like your spaces to feel inviting from the moment you (or your guest) opens the front door and this feeling should continue even after you’ve entered your most formal room. Even though there are French antiques here and gold details there, the rustic elements provide a balance and warmth that seems to say, ‘come in, relax and stay a while.’ Your love of antiques leads you to flea markets, garage sales and hours of eBay hunting.”

Here are some example images from Sproost:







I do love many of these… What is your style? Visit Sproost and find out!

Old is the New Fat

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Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent most of my life obsessing over my size. Which is kind of ridiculous since I’ve always been rather medium about everything. Medium height, weight, hair color, popularity level, dance floor talent, parking mojo… I’m actually very average. So really – why all the worries about “looking fat?”

Well – I think it was because EVERYONE worries about looking fat. It’s just something women do. Except for the skinny ones I mean – who I guess worry about being skinny when they’re not busy eating double hot fudge sundaes in front of the rest of us. Bitches.

Seriously though, if I calculated the amount of time and money I put into working on my weight – gym memberships, exercise videos, personal trainers, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, diet foods – and the constant discussions about losing weight, exercise plans and laments over things that I literally cannot change (I’m looking at you hereditary knee pudge!), it would have to be… Well, I’m not much good at math, so let’s just say it would be A LOT of time and money.

What would I have done with all of it? I’m guessing I could have single handedly adopted a Third World village. All of that fat talk may have stood between me and a Pulitzer prize! Or at the very least a wildly popular QVC line of conversation piece jewelry. Who knows? I certainly never will since I was too busy feeling fat to do anything else.

But I’m over that now. No more fat talk. If my pants feel tight, I’ll just make a few lifestyle changes or buy new pants. As long as I’m still my healthy medium size, it just doesn’t warrant the mind space. I’m finished with feeling fat.

Now I’m all about feeling OLD.

Because that is a far more worthy focus for my mania. Have you seen my crows’ feet? I sprout two or three new laugh lines every day! And I can even blame some of that on the fat obsession since you know, being tan makes you look thinner. Why didn’t I take SPF more seriously? Mom told me that too much sun would give me wrinkles…

But I never used to worry about wrinkles because by the time I got them I’d be OLD!

Well, now that I’m “old” I do care. And since I wasted my youth on feeling fat, I missed the boat on the whole Pulitzer Prize/QVC opportunity. So now I’m fully committed to wasting as much time as possible obsessing over looking old.

I’ve written before about my skincare routine. It seems to be going well…but I have of yet to find anything that I’d call the fountain of youth. I just do what the experts (multi-zillionaire celebrities endorsing the products) say and hope for the best. I mean, I have a lot of time to make up here. I’m already 38 and I didn’t even know about eye cream until a few years ago.

A new source of concern for me is the décolleté area. Did you know that Cindy Crawford says damage to décolleté skin can never be repaired by surgery? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve purposely sunburned that area in an attempt to get an early summer “base?”

I’m so screwed…

And to make matters worse, I have even more unexpected age-related issues to contend with. Apparently having three babies in 18 months in my early thirties wasn’t so great for my vascular system. As a result, I’m now showing early signs of varicose veins. Like those things that the grandmas at the pool have all over their thighs and calves? Someone grab the smelling salts – I’m about to pass out from the horror of it all. Now, those CAN be repaired with surgery. If you have thousands of extra dollars lying around that is. Kids – say goodbye to the college fund. Mama needs a new pair of legs.

I’ve never actually felt old before. I can easily find common interests with younger people. And even if they do throw retro parties featuring styles made popular the year I could legally get into bars, they don’t seem to find me boring. Though that may have something to do with my conversation choices…like that time I told a 17 year old lifeguard all about my c-section (21 years later and I STILL don’t know how to talk to teenage boys…)

Bottom line – up until now, I’ve been in serious denial about my age.

But if anything put the final nail in the proverbial coffin, it would be a recent conversation I had with my friend Lacey (a pseudonym for protection against any bodily harm she may inflict on me for putting this on my blog). She was complaining about upper arm flab which automatically made me feel privileged and smug since that is ONE part of my body that has never given me a moment’s worry. I may have inherited Italian peasant legs, but my long slim arms have been rocking sleeveless styles since I first layered neon tank tops in the ’80s.

What I didn’t initially understand was that Lacey wasn’t talking about fat – she was talking about the “loose skin” that develops on your arms as you get older. She said that when she holds out her arms and shakes them, the loose skin flaps back and forth. This description conjured up scenes of a Silver Sneaker exercise class I’ve observed at the YMCA. Then suddenly, those imaginary Golden Girls turned on me. The sassy old ladies in jazzercize outfits waving their arms to Party in the USA morphed into Hell’s minions mockingly shaking their loose skin at me in cackling glee…You thought you were better – firmer – but it all turns to arm flab in the end! You can run, but you can’t hide…

I was appalled. Aside from the fact that the term “loose skin” makes me feel like fainting again, it really never occurred to me that I should be monitoring this. And sure enough, when I gave my my extended arms a tentative shake, there were definite signs of flapping. I guess it’s all downhill from here.

The good news is that while I wasted approximately 30 years on fighting fat, I’ll probably only spend 20 on battling old age. I do learn from my mistakes you know. And I’m about five years in – so only 15 more to go. Then what? Ten years of obsessing over something else…then five… Then maybe I’ll finally give in to the inevitable and just embrace all of it and myself in the process?

I have no way of predicting this. Only time will tell. But there is one thing that I can say with complete certainty. Mother nature is a cruel bitch.

Ten Years Ago Today…

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…I was getting my hair done and obsessing over clouds.

I was trying not to let a smudged nail ruin my day and wondering whether it was really necessary to eat one of the sandwiches that people kept pushing at me.

I was assuming that Chris’ father would make sure that he did not show up with the outrageous amount of hair product that he unwittingly applied to his head the night prior.

I was talking to friends, family, photographers, florists, banquet staff, people, people, peoplepeoplepeople who kept dropping by my suite to check in, say hello, hug, kiss, request, inform, instruct – all about details that left my memory minutes after they occurred.

I was putting on a white dress and feeling like a bit of a princess – in that make believe-is-this-really-happening? kind of way.

I was trying to summon vast quantities of bubbly enthusiasm that I had never managed to hold onto for more than two minutes in my entire life.

I was walking down a terrace aisle (under an only slightly cloudy sky) smiling at people who had known and loved me anywhere from a few years to my whole life.

And I was marrying the man with whom I would spend the next ten years.

Before getting married, we made many plans. Some happened and some didn’t. We talked about having children – just not so late and so many and all at once. We knew what kind of life we wanted and what kind of parents we wanted to be. And all in all, I think we’ve done pretty well.

People tell you marriage is hard work. But you never know exactly what that means until you’ve done it. And it’s only when you’ve made a dent (like ten years?) that you can look back and realize that life is hard and having someone to help you though it is what marriage is really about. Not beautiful wedding albums and vacuum sealed white gowns. Not vague memories of an event – but solid experience in learning how to share your life.

Lately, I’ve often found myself saying “I just want to be happy – I want a peaceful life.” How boring this would have sounded to me ten years ago. But at some point, you realize that you never have to worry about life being interesting. Sometimes it can be just a little too interesting… Having someone to help suffer through the bad and appreciate the good gives you a constant – a safe port. It can save you over and over again.

I consider myself to be very lucky to have that. To have someone like Chris to share my life. And we’ve now been together ten years.

Ten years, and I still love him. And I still ask myself questions like…

Why so many razors??


That’s the other thing that marriage is about – maintaining a good sense of humor and seizing every opportunity to use it at your partner’s expense. (For more of that kind of thing, click HERE.)

First Day of Preschool (Alternatively Titled: How Many Mediocre Pictures Can I Cram into One Post?)

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Oliver wasn’t the only one who had a first day of school. Today, the twins had their very first day of preschool!

I wanted to take a picture of all three kids on our front steps, but Eleanor had just had a wardrobe crisis and was still reeling from the stress of it all. She refused to sit with her brothers.




Yeah – so they weren’t all that cooperative either.

Then I decided to try again after parking next to Oliver’s school. First, just of Eleanor since she was striking a pose. But George kept jumping in front of her.



Then I found some good lighting and lined them up, all the while, spewing empty promises of candy and special treats for good behavior…









That was the best I could get out of them. And at this point of reviewing my shots, I realized that there must be a smudge on the lens. Luckily it’s just in the lower corner. Note to self: don’t let George play with the camera anymore. Especially since it results in hundreds of images that look like this:


We were a bit early for preschool arrival, so thought I’d try for a nice first day of school shot of the twins…


I want to kill whoever taught George that Home Alone pose…










Again – this was about as good as it got. Striking “Crew Cuts models” off the list of ways the kids can make money for their college funds.

At any rate – they had a very successful first day and barely looked at me when I left them. We went out for pizza and ice cream to celebrate.




And just when I was starting to feel all smug about what great scholars my children are turning out to be, I spent an hour yelling at the twins to get back into bed and GO TO SLEEP! AND had a super fun phone call from Oliver’s school about how he hit his teacher. Sigh…oh well – one day at a time I guess.