Of La Perla Underwear and Underoos

My friend Barbara recently hosted our monthly book club.  Barbara is one of those incredible, energetic, fun, caring, hilarious, real women.  The kind of a woman we all need in our lives (and yes, men, that includes you).  She met each and every one of us at the door, gave us a welcoming hug and clapping her hands quickly together, announced,

I have a French family staying with us, I have already asked the wife if this is okay, but later I am taking you all down to see her underwear.

And before any of you go asking to join my book club, no, this isn't usually how it goes.

We had dinner.  We talked.  Laughed.  Tried not to discuss the book. ("The Road" which Barbara picked and then emailed us in an email entitled "HOLY CRAP!" to say "Don't read it, it's horrific!"  I heeded her advice.)  And then it was time.

Off to see the French-woman's underwear.

Yes, it's sounding like some amazing foreign film, I know.  A bunch of girls off to check out another girl's underwear.  Or maybe a bad Cinemax movie.  But remember, she was French!  Nah, still bad Cinemax.

We Minnesotans, we know how to get a crazy.

She took us down to the guest room and there, placed all across the bed were sets of the most beautiful, intricate, delicate, matched (I know, matched!) underwear I had ever seen.  Thirteen matched sets.  All appearing to have been handmade with fine stitching and materials (not a poly-blend in sight).

Some still had tags.

No pilling on the straps.  No holes in the sidebands of the bottoms.  No little elastic stringy things poking out, taunting you, "I might just give out next time and fall right off you!"

Confession time.  When no one was looking, I casually flipped over the tags on a few of the sets.  They were in Euros.  After doing the quick math, I picked my jaw up off the ground and walked back upstairs.  Hope my own alluded-to set didn't have one of those aforementioned elastic malfunctions out of the pure shock.

Each set was anywhere from $280 to $400.  Yes, US dollars. 

Now I get that there is a whole business of expensive underwear.  I spent years walking by La Perla on my way to work.

To me, underwear is one of those things that I forget about.  You know, I think nothing of buying lunch or even a new pair of shoes.  But underwear and socks, I just don't think about them.  Sure they start out cute.  But then you wear them and wash them (in my house, the usually go in with the also "delicate cycle" football jerseys) and they suddenly don't look even remotely cute. 

And so I just deal with the fact that my once white underwear may have gone in with the purple Vikings jerseys.  I just pretend they are pink now. 

I sat there that night watching this mysterious French woman out of the corner of my eye.  (And no, she wasn't really mysterious, she seemed just lovely.  But lovely wearing really expensive underwear.  So mysterious to me.)  I wondered about her.  Was this her "thing?"  Did she pay attention to all details in her life like this?  Was I totally missing the boat?  Had the underwear ship sailed and I was still checking the Victoria's Secret clearance racks?  Was I an underwear failure?

Heck, I have been known to take my worst underwear on trips with me to throw them away.  I tell myself that this will leave more room in the suitcase to bring things back.  Who I am kidding?  But I digress.

Here she was bringing not only insanely fancy, but brand new, underwear here.  To Minnesota of all places.  To stay in my friend's basement.

Then, this morning, Noah ran by my room on his way to brush his teeth before camp.  As he ran, I caught a glimpse of him in his character underwear.  Batman, Star Wars, Transformers, not sure what it was.  In its little boy underwear way, it reminded me of mine.

I had kind of forgotten about it.  I mean I wash it.  Come on, I wash daily.  But it's faded and small and, dude, it's character underwear and he's headed into second grade.

So this weekend, we're headed out to get Noah some new underwear.  Without characters.  Or with, if he still wants.  But the boy deserves some new underwear.  Even if, by design, no one is really supposed to see it.


And maybe, just maybe, I'll skip the clearance racks for myself, too.




Note: And yes, I know you are all happy I spared you photos on this one.

I Baked with Betty (and she didn't kick me out)

By now, we all know that I typically look like this in the kitchen.

Confused.  Crinkled.  Like I just screwed up a step, because, well, I probably did.

So when I realized that I was going to have to make this Jack-o'-Lantern cake, you can imagine how crinkled my forehead got.


For more on my day at "Baking with Betty," and if you want to learn how to make one of these yourself, swing on over here.

An Ode to Peanut Butter and Jelly

Oh PBJ.  Beloved peanut butter and jelly.

We have spent every weekday morning together for the last three months.

Each morning I would blearily stumble down the stairs and begin to start the summer ritual.

Setting the pieces of bread on the counter.

Cursing the ones that molded overnight.

Wondering how exactly it was possible that squeezable jelly was so utterly un-squeezable.

Listening to the coffee brew while, each morning, I said a little "thank you" that there were no kids with peanut allergies at camp.

Because, while I had guilt over serving you every single day, I'd have even more guilt if it has just been jelly sandwiches.

But our time together has come to an end.

Today was our last morning.

The boys are headed back to the lunch line.  Back to Italian Dunkers.  And Hmong Beef and Rice.  And Rotini Hotdish (only in Minnesota).

Back to my willingness to pay $1.50 for them to have some variety in their diet.

Thanks for whatever semblance of nutrition you have provided this summer.

I can only hope that there will never be a study that comes out showing that eating PBJ for three months straight makes children go crazy.

Because making it for three months straight sure has made me a little crazy.

See you next June.

You Wore What?

Once up on time I had hideous, horrifying, ugly maternity clothes.  Especially during pregnancies #1 and #2.

But one of the worst outfits was this one.

It was shocking pink and red and purple and it appeared to be made out of giant patchwork squares.


[shudders]


Cause who doesn't want to look like a giant, neon quilt when pregnant?  Not only did I once own it, I actually wore it.  Often.  And I didn't just wear it, I wore it to my baby shower when pregnant with Caleb.

[shudders again]

What can I say?  Pregnancy robbed me of anything resembling good taste.

But if you are pregnant (or know someone who is), you might want to head over here to check out my new maternity giveaway (designed by none other than Project Runway's Christian Siriano...)

It Drives Me Nuts That You Can't Recycle...Garden Hoses

For those of you have been reading for awhile, you know that this is about.  But if you're newer to this blog, every once in awhile I pause to look into items that people have asked if once can recycle.

This is one of those days.

So the bad news on garden hoses?  Having done some research and talked to reps from a few hose companies, best I can tell, you can't recycle them in the classic sense.


But let me tell you, there are plenty of things you can do with them.


First and foremost, if you have an old hose, don't toss it, first consider giving it away on Freecycle or Craigslist as there are lots of people out there who use them to make into soaker hoses, syphons for rain barrels or other irrigation projects.

Create your own soaker hose
If you want to make your own soaker hose, simply drill or nail small holes about an inch apart running the length of the hose.  Then replace the end with a plastic cap of fold it over and bind it tightly with duct tape. 

Protect your hands
Hate it when you try to carry a heavy bucket and the metal handle digs into your hand?  Cut a length of hose and slice it down the middle.  Wrap the hose around the handle and you have a durable handle cover that won't cut into your hands.

Support a baby (tree)
Simply cut a several inch-long piece of an old hose and slice it down the middle.  Then tightly wrap the piece around the base of a young tree to help support it.

Protect sharp blades (or, again, your hands)
Cut lengths of hose to cover saws or other sharp blades.  Or, if you are more like me, to protect yourself from getting accidentally cut with them.

Use them in your children's jungle gym
Do you have chains on swings that catch or pinch little fingers?  Cut open the hose, wrap it around the chains and you have a smooth surface for your kids to hold on to.  In addition, if there are sharp edges or corners, you can cut the hose open and using a nail gun, wrap it around the edges as a protective bumper.

Protect your extention cord
Whether you are running cords around under the snow during the winter or having them out while kids are playing during the summer, you can (again after slicing it open) run your extension cords through an old hose to give them extra protection (or to protect others from them).  This is a great tip if you have, like I have had, squirrels or rabbits that seem to love to nibble on cords.

Attract Earwigs 
If you are having trouble with earwigs in your gardens or your basement, you can cut sections of a hose that are 2 inches long and simply place them on the floor or ground where you are seeing earwigs.  The concept is they get in but for some reason cannot get out.  When you capture them you simply toss the hose piece.

So there you go.  Are there things you are wondering if you can recycle?  Let me know and I'll see what I can find out.

Fashion comes full circle - Silly Bandz

I find the whole Silly Bandz trend amusing. 

Because, as a girl who was once known for wearing Madonna-style rubber bracelets up and down both arms...it's good to see that once again fashion has come full circle.

Let's just hope the boys don't adopt the lace headband look.

Wear whatever you are comfortable in...

Today I am headed into the kitchen.  Not just my kitchen, this lady's kitchen.

As in the iconic Betty Crocker's kitchen.

As any of you who have been reading for any amount of time know, I am not exactly a great cook.

And I am here with 29 other blogging women who not only love to cook, but are great cooks.

They know baking.  And I know chicken nuggets.

I had to giggle when reading their bios as all of them mentioned loving cooking, baking and photography.

Mine said I like watching Mad Men and Glee. (And no, I didn't write it...but they are right.)  Yup, I am awesome.

I am pretty sure I am here for comic relief.  You know, the one who has flour all over their face.  That's me.  Better than egg on my face, I suppose.

Remember when I tried to cook biscuits?

Or how about that birthday cake?

And I could continue. 

So therefore I did what any less-than-stellar baker would do when invited into the kitchen of an icon, I worried about what to wear.

I asked for a bit of insight as to what to don, and was graciously told,

Wear whatever you are comfortable in.

Thanks Betty.  You are a delightful bostess. 

But, hmmm.  Guessing she really didn't mean my ratty 18-year-old sorority sweatshirt and mismatched, self-proclaimed "ugly girl" pants (that I wear when I watch the aforementioned "Mad Men" and "Glee.")

Back to the drawing board.


Alright, Betty, go easy on me.  I'd be much more comfortable in my ugly girl pants.

I am a rock star

Okay, not really. 

I still am one of the worst gardeners there is.

After all, I live in the house with the dead flowers in the pots right now, actually.

Nothing screams domestic goddess like a front porch like this.

Is it Mum season, yet?

But I digress.  I have been attempting to grow pumpkins. 

I have never grown pumpkins.  I know nothing about pumpkins.  Well other than that each year they make a good replacement for my dead flowers in the flower pots.

But all the same, the kids asked if we could grow pumpkins.  And so we tried.

We started with seeds planted in egg shells.

Transplanted to the garden (and I use that term loosely) they actually sprouted leaves.  Followed by flowers. 

Lots and lots of flowers.

Then the men in party hats began to show up.

Aren't they cute?

Oh yeah, and pumpkin stalks (are they stalks?) are really prickly.  Like, really, really prickly.  Yet another, "who knew?!"

And now we actually have some of this going on.

That bad boy is bigger than my head.

Too bad I am pretty sure these things grow a foot a day (yup, "who knew?!) and we will soon lose our yard.

The upside is soon I will have something to put in those flower pots.

Love, Love, Love, Blog Love

Earlier this week, my friends Kristin and ChrisAnn hosted their first Minnesota "BlogLove" event.

Their idea is to bring together forty women (okay, 39 women and one man) to talk, connect, share, learn and rediscover your passion.

I joked when I got home that you know it's a great night when you haven't pulled out your phone to hop on Twitter once all night.

Not only did I not hop online, I didn't take a single photo.  Not one.

Not that it wasn't gorgeous or worth tweeting about.  It was.

But sometimes I find I enjoy a moment so much more when I just live it and don't worry about documenting it.  Thankfully, they had an amazingly talented photographer, Suzanne Jean, there.  These are her amazing photos.

It was one of those glorious evenings where everything was just perfect.  The setting, the place, the people.  It was warm and alive.

I loved talking with Anna who is seriously one of the funniest people I know.  She has a wit that can cut through anything.  And she makes me laugh every time I talk to her.

I loved checking out Camille en Rouge where the event was held with Tracy and Kristi.  These women are real and smart and just good people through and through.

I loved getting a hug from Trish.  She gives great hugs that you can just feel genuine affection seeping from her.

I loved laughing hysterically about the perils of changing diapers after your child eats blueberries with Allison and Amanda.  Ok, I should clarify. If your child eats blueberries when they are with either of these women, nothing will happen because of them.

I loved seeing Heather's smile.  What an amazing woman she is.  Wise and thoughtful and just there.  Present.  In the moment.  There.

I loved meeting people like Gussy and Mela who are living the idea of following your passion.  Both have fully embraced doing what they love and are doing it.  If only I could sew, or design, or sing, or well, really, do any of those things.

I loved seeing old friends.  Well, old in this funny social media world.  But friends like Kellyn, Jen, Jennifer and Crystal.  And while in the calendar of my life they are still new friends, they are people who I always feel I can just pick up with and carry right on.

And the list goes on and on and on and on.

I loved, loved, loved.

And I was so busy loving and feeling love that I didn't take a single photo.  Thankfully, they did.  And they are as gorgeous as the event was.  Go see!

Craigslist Etiquette (aka: How not to be a jerk)

Dear Craigslist Shopping and Selling Aficionados,

I am writing today to put something on the table.  I'm getting annoyed.  Okay, I have been annoyed for awhile.  But it's time to say something about it.

I have a couple of scenarios for you.  Play along with me, will you?

Imagine you are shopping in an old-school, bricks and mortar store.

Scenario #1

Shopper:  Excuse me, ma'am, do you still have this sweater that is on display?

Clerk:  Let me check.

She then leaves to search the store room and comes back.

Clerk:  Why yes, we do.

And the shopper doesn't say a word and walks away.

Scenario #2

Shopper: Excuse me, sir.  I heard you telling someone that you had a great watch you were selling?  Can I come look at it?

Clerk says nothing, simply ignores them and walks away.

Scenario #3

Shopper:  I would love to buy this bed!  And I can even pick it up in my truck

Clerk:  Wonderful.  We will lug it from the store room to the main floor and have it sitting in the front entryway this afternoon.  What time works for you?

Shopper: Well I was really hoping I could come on your day off.  You don't mind coming here on your day off do you?  And I will pay you when I show up.

Clerk: Okay, sure I can make that work.

The clerk drives in on the day off, lugs the mattress to the main floor and sits there waiting for an hour.  The people never show.  The clerk now has a mattress in the front entry.

Scenario #4 

Shopper:  I would like to buy this.

Clerk:  Great, it's worth $900 but through an amazing stroke of luck for you, we are selling it today for $90.

Shopper:  Okay, let me go get cash.

Shopper comes back...

Shopper:  (holding four $20 bills)  Gee, all the machine would give me was $20 bills, so can I just pay you $80 instead?

Now imagine all of those scenarios on Craiglist.  Pretty easy to do because they happen ALL THE TIME.

As much as I love Craigslist, more often than not, I find people to be incredible flakes when it comes to buying or selling there.  They fire off an email, you respond, and they never write back.  They promise to come and buy something and never come.  They make excuses to try to get something for less than the agreed upon price.  Or you go to buy something and the person isn't there.

Cheap. Rude.  Insulting.  And just down-right clueless on how to act like a decent person.

The worst?  I once had a woman I worked with contact me to buy a lamp.  Of course, she didn't know she was contacting me because of the whole anonymous email thing on Craigslist.  But when I responded I let her know that, indeed, it was me, her coworker.  We arranged a time for her to come by and she never showed up.

So here is my appeal.  Cut it out.  Be decent on Craigslist.  Do what you say are going to do.  If you are selling stuff, be honest, answer questions, and follow through.  If you are buying stuff, bring the money, bring correct change, and show up.

Of course, in the scheme of issues and problems with Craigslist (safety, prostitution, you know, little stuff like that) this isn't a big deal.  But it's annoying.

Thank you.  Now back to figuring out what I can list on Craigslist for people to say they will buy and then never show up to get.

Annie Leibovitz he is not

"I got a great one!' -- Caleb

Turns out that VHS tapes do still have a use. When you stack them up, they make a far better poor man's tripod than your kid can be.

Traveling with kids

When you travel with your kids, I have learned that it's a good idea to stay at a nice hotel.

Like a really nice one.  Where you really like to believe that they clean the bathrooms more often than not.

Because that way, when it's late at night and the kids won't go to bed, you are able to convince yourself that it's totally acceptable, in a moment of fatigued desperation, to head into the bathroom, close the door, and sit in the only two spots that are available...

Dig into a greasy sandwich.

And have a drink.

Of course, you could always stay in a suite.  But that costs more and the pictures aren't nearly as funny.




And yes, I could have used a better camera than my iphone.  But the whole dinner and drinks in the bathroom seemed ridiculous enough.  Bringing in the camera might just have pushed it all over the edge.

Who wants to win a camera?

Okay, that's probably a silly question.


But if you're in the mood to win a brand new Sony CyberShot camera like this...

Isn't it shiny?

Come on over here.

The lessons you don't want to have to teach your kids

We were Chicago this past weekend. 


For about ten years, this was our stomping ground.  We went to college there, Brian and I met there, we had our first apartment, bought our first condo, walked the streets, knew the restaurants, recognized the faces, navigated the CTA.

The was our place. 

This time, we went back with the kids.  And while we haven't lived there in more than eight years, it was alternately shocking how much was the exact same and how much was different.

Buildings had come and gone.  Restaurants had opened and closed.  A 50+ story building now stands in the once empty lot across from our old building on Lake Shore Drive.

But one thing hadn't changed.  The faces of many of the homeless.  Yes, there were new faces.  But even eight years later, it was unbelievable how many of the same people were out on the same corners.  Selling the same Streetwise.  Asking for money.  Inquiring if we had the same change to have enough for bus fare.

The weekend also opened my eyes to the fact that, living where we do, our kids don't see this reality very often.  They don't walk down the street and find themselves walking next to people laying on the ground. 

That is not to say they don't know about homelessness and hunger.  We have actually talked quite a bit about those issues and tried to help them understand what is such a non-understandable problem.

But this weekend, Caleb, in particular, was overwhelmed by it all.  And it is overwhelming.  You really can't walk more than a block down one of the major streets without encountering someone asking for money.

I don't think it was really the volume of need that was impressed upon him.  What seemed to hit him hard was watching how we responded.

Engage.  Disengage.  Show compassion.  Pull away.  Engage.  Disengage.

Early in the day, Brian and the boys walked by one man who was playing buckets and drums. 

Both boys were wearing music-themed shirts and the drummer invited them to play his drums and buckets.

Afterwards, Brian gave him a few dollars and they all wished each other well.

After that, Caleb was confused.  Why did they talk to him and not to the others?

Why didn't we stop and give every single person a dollar?

Why did we sometimes just look straight ahead and keep walking when we were approached?

Why did we grab their hands a little tighter when someone shouted after the kids?

At one point, Caleb, who had found four pennies on the ground walked up to one of the men to give them to him.  The man angrily brushed him off.

I understood that.  It seemed rude, perhaps, to have this well dressed kid come up and try to give him four cents.

But from Caleb it was genuine.  He was giving all he had.  Literally every penny he had on himself he wanted to give away.  And he wasn't just trying to give money.  He was trying to give some kindness.


We later explained to the boys that what is so hard is that homelessness is such a huge problem.  It's one that we can't help by giving every person a dollar, even if we had it to give.  It's one that four pennies can't help.  And it's one that is complicated.  Money alone can't fix it.

Because for every person who has had a horrible lot in life and finds themselves in that situation, there is one who, perhaps, ended up there for other reasons.  That while there are people who would value that dollar and use it for food or a train ride home, there are others who will say they are $1 short for the train and will use to to buy cigarettes.

These are hideous lessons to have to teach your kids.  On so many levels.  To have to teach them about homelessness.  About honesty.  About deceit.  About addiction.  About abuse.  About poverty.  About bias.  About safety.

Perhaps the best lesson from all of this, though, was the one I learned from Caleb.  A dollar can't fix it.  Pennies can't fix it.  But perhaps genuine compassion and kindness can help.

The Minds of Two Year Olds

We've spent the weekend in Chicago staying at theWit hotel.  Which means that Eli has shacked up with Brian and I.


This morning I woke up to this wild-eyed two-year-old sitting on my stomach looking at me like this.

He crawled up, nose to nose with me and whispered,

Do you have a belly button?

I do.


Do you have two belly buttons?


No, just one.


Do you want two?

And then he blew raspberries all over the one belly button I do have.

Not sure what he had in mind.  But I am sure that this particular two-year-old is a riot.

Isaac Mizrahi. Known for Target shoes and Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream.

I don't really know why Isaac Mizrahi has a mint chocolate chip ice cream recipe.


I just know that he does.


And I know that I love me some mint chocolate chip ice cream.

And that no one should drink enough Mojitos to use up all this mint.

So I dug out the ice cream maker.

The recipe isn't any big secret.  Not like he gave it to me personally or anything.  But for those of you who have a garden overrun with weeds mint, here is a great way to use it up (that doesn't involve drinking quite as many Mojitos.)

Isaac Mizrahi's Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

• 6 large egg yolks
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 2 cups whole milk
• 2 cups fresh mint leaves, loosely packed
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 3 drops green food coloring
• 4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
• 4 ounces semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

In large bowl, whisk together egg yolks and 1/2 cup sugar. 

In heavy medium saucepan over moderately low heat, stir together milk, remaining 1/4 cup sugar, and mint. (Note from me: I like my ice cream to have a good minty taste, so our two cups of mint were somewhere in between loosely packed and more solidly packed.)

Heat until steaming but not boiling, then remove from heat. 

Ladle about 1/2 cup hot milk mixture into egg yolk mixture, whisking constantly to prevent eggs from cooking, then slowly stir the egg mixture back into the hot milk, whisking constantly. Place over low heat, and cook, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens enough to coat back of spoon (finger drawn across spoon will leave clear path), 5 to 6 minutes total (do not let boil or custard will curdle). Strain through fine-mesh sieve into large bowl, pressing on and then discarding solids. Whisk in heavy cream and food coloring. Cover and chill until cold, at least 6 hours or overnight. 

Process custard in ice cream maker, adding chopped chocolate during last minute of churning. Transfer to airtight container and freeze until hard, about 3 hours.

Delish.

Viola.  Enjoy.

Marketing Female Politicians

Tuesday was primary day in Minnesota.

(No worries, I am not going to go all political on you out of the blue, bear with me...)


Driving around town the past few weeks, I have been struck by something.


There seems to be an innate difference in how many of the male and female candidates position and market themselves that boils down to an incredibly simple detail. 

How they use their names.


The male candidates, from either party, tend to have billboards and yard signs and brands that are either their full name... John Choi.  Mark Dayton.  Or, or their last name.  Emmer.  Entenza.


The women?


Here are two examples.

 

They brand themselves using their first names.

And this wasn't the first time we saw this.

Now this isn't an all the time thing.  Of course we all know it wasn't like it was McCain/Sarah (well it kind of was, but not on signage), or here in town, Entenza/Robyne.  So at least it's consistent.

But I have been going back and forth on what I think about this.  On the one hand, it seems that they are grabbing onto a key differentiating factor.  Sure, we as women have come a long way.  But are still underrepresented in politics.  Currently, at quick glance, there are 6 female governors, 17 female Senators and 92 women in the House of Representatives.

And we do make up just over 50% of the population.  So in some ways saying, "Hey, I am a woman!" even in such a simple way seems like a good thing. 

Perhaps it also suggests and conjures up those things that can be great about women.  It's more personable.  It's human.  It's, perhaps, a bit softer.  It's like a friend.

On the other hand, it bothers me.  Maybe it's because it conjures up just those things.

Not sure I have the answer.  In fact, I am sure I don't.  But I do know this, November sure seems a long ways a way.

Stuck in your job?

In case you are feeling stuck in your job, I thought I'd share what the exit from my work parking garage looks like right now.

And no, going straight is not an option.

And yes, there is only one exit.

And yup, I was the girl who got a ticket for accidentally turning against a no-turn sign a week ago.

I should probably set up a cot in my office.

It's those moments that you don't expect that are the best

First of all, I cannot thank you all enough for your true, sincere, unique, words over the past 24 hours. Humbled, I am humbled.  Thank you.

Yesterday I received the biggest internet hug ever and I don't really know how I can adequately say thank you.  So I will just say, again, thank you from the most true, real, sincerest part of me.  Please know I mean it.

...

And now back to our regularly unscheduled business. 

But along the same line ... unexpected moments.


While I was in New York, the boys decided to do their first real lemonade stand.  Brian encouraged them to think about what might appeal to people on a hot, humid Minnesota day (yes, for those of you in other parts of the country, it actually does get hot here).


He asked them to think about what they would like to do on a hot summer day.


And so, they made lemonade.  They packed up popsicles.

And then Caleb decided that what he would really want to do on a summer day would be read.


So he made book marks.

Eight of them.


Simple enough.  Until you really read them.


This was the boy who, just a few months ago, would protest and find excuses and whine and complain and often cry every time he was asked to read at home.  Reading was hard.  He was in that small group of second grade kids who were just not reading yet.  Here he was, this incredibly smart kid, a kid with more curiosity than most adults, and yet his reading skill level was years behind limiting him to reading simple, boring books.

He knew that.  His friends were having an easier time than he was.  And, like so many of us, when faced with something frustrating, it was easier to just walk away (says the girl who wrote about doing just that yesterday).


But with patience, perseverance and a great teacher, things began to change.


He's still working at it.  But for the first time he claimed reading as his.  As something he thought was enjoyable.


So he made the book marks and put them out to sell.  I am kind of glad I didn't know it was all happening, because that Mama Bear, must-protect-my-kids-from-unnecessary-hurt, mode may have come out and I may have discouraged him from trying it.  Who would buy a kid's handmade book mark while walking down the street?


In a couple of hours, on our very quiet street, they sold about three glasses of lemonade, one popsicle and one book mark.

They were thrilled.  They made money, had fun and Caleb was particularly proud to have sold a book mark.

I am sure the man who bought it was just a kind soul.  He couldn't have really known what that book mark represented.

But I do.

So to the man who bought the bookmark, whoever you are, thank you.  I am sure you had no idea, but your small action validated that this cool, smart kid was, indeed, as cool and smart as I always knew he was.

And to those of you who do things like that, things that make a kid smile?  Know that you might just be making their parents smile, too.

Next time I see a lemonade stand, I am pulling over and buying whatever they are selling.

Well, as long at it's legal.

BlogHer was ... complicated. Or maybe I am just complicated.

Where to start?

How can I explain the last four days?  How do I put into words that at that same time I am thinking I got nothing out of BlogHer, I also feel I got just what I needed.

Let me preface this by saying the following:

1. This is going to be a long one, sorry.
2. But more importantly, while it may read like a pity party, it isn’t meant to be. I'm okay.  No pity needed.
3. Truly.  Just let me process.  Ok?

Last week, Brian and I had a long discussion.  What is the point behind the blog?  Where am I going?

And I have to admit, I didn’t have an answer to his question.

He was right to ask it.  Over the last year, I have taken time off work for blogging events.  I have spent money.  And, most importantly, I have taken days away from my family.

All of that might be one thing if it were my career.  But this clearly is not.  This is an outlet.  A hobby.

Writing here, to me, has always been about thinking and reflecting and documenting.  Doing that all in hopes that someday the boys will read it back and be able to hear about moments I have long forgotten.  Or remember moments that you only can when you are reminded of them.  Or be able to hear my voice.

Along the way, other incredible moments and opportunities have come along because of it.  I have traveled, I have been able to help raise funds and awareness for children’s hunger, I have seen and done things I might not have otherwise done.

BlogHer is an odd beast.  It is huge and overwhelming and unwieldy.  Even if you aren’t a jealous person, it’s hard not to feel like you are on the outside looking in at it as you see and hear people talking about where they are heading and knowing it’s nowhere you were invited to go.  You are surrounded by squeals.  And hugs.  And the haves and the have-nots.  And it’s hard not to get wrapped up in it.

Many of the issues and emotions I experienced over this weekend were not BlogHer’s issues, they were mine.  They were just magnified ten-fold by the size and scope and complexity of the events surrounding me.

I guess it’s less jealousy than insecurity that started to seep in the moment I got there, I briefly alluded to it on Friday.

The first smack-me-in-the-face moment was when my roommate, Suzi and I were talking to two other women at a party.  Something caught Suzi’s eye and she wandered away.  And as that happened, I continued to talk.  The woman I was speaking to interrupted me and said, “Um, your friend is walking away, you better go after her.”

And so I did.

The next day, I attended sessions, and walked through the sponsor exhibits and tried to talk to people.  People kept talking about finding their tribe.  How was I supposed to find my tribe in the sea of bodies?  How do you make real connections in parties with loud music and hundreds of faces?  How do I find my tribe when, looking around, it seems that everyone had already found theirs?

That night, I was going through and trying to update my Twitter account to follow new people I had met with or those who were newly following me.  For whatever reason, I realized that a woman who I had lunch with the previous day, a woman who I thought I had a great conversation with had unfollowed me.  Sure, it could be a mistake.  I get that.  And it's Twitter.  No big deal.  But here we had been following each other for weeks or months and on the day she actually met me in person, she unfollowed me.  Guess that was a tribe I was not meant to join.

There were other seemingly small moments like that that kept piling up.  Moments where I felt like I was behind a clear door looking in and couldn’t find the doorknob.  (There it is, that darn door again.)

Don’t get me wrong.  There were bright spots.  There were good sessions that made me think.  There were some good laughs and some great moments.

And there were some great people.  People like Suzi, Anna, Anna, Allison, Niri, Heather, Kelly and many more.

But then there was the worst moment.  The final straw if you will.

Saturday I woke up to an email reminding me of an event that night.  But it didn’t mention a time, location or venue name.  I scanned my notes and couldn’t figure out what the event was.  I sheepishly wrote back and said that I’d love to attend, but would she mind resending me the details as I seemed to have misplaced them.

A few hours later, I got the invite. 

I walked the six blocks to the event by myself that afternoon.  As I got there, I walked up to the check in.

“Hmmmm, nope, we don’t have you down.  Did you just RSVP today?”

Yes, I responded, I might have.  I explained the story.

Evidently the reminder email was not really that.

“Oh, you were not in the original group of invitees.  All of the hair and makeup appointments are full.  And only the first round of invitees get gift bags, but we’d be happy to put you on a waiting list.”

Yes folks, that was the first time I have officially been told that I was on the B-list.  Standing there in a line of people being officially welcomed to the A-list, I was told to step aside and see if I could get in.

I was invited to be waitlisted.

I wandered through the small space looking for other souls who looked like they were wanting another soul to talk to.  Nothing.  Everyone was already talking.

I finally approached two women and introduced myself.  We stood for a few moments before one gestured to the wall where there were three chairs in a line, suggesting we sit down.

The first woman took the first chair, I sat in the middle and the other woman took the third one.  We talked no more than 15 seconds when the first woman said,

“Would you mind if you and I switched chairs?”


“Of course not.”

I traded spots with her and turned to talk to them.  She immediately turned her back and that was the end.

And then I did what any emotionally exhausted, thoroughly over-rejected woman who had all of her insecurities pounded for three days would do.  I called upon my high school theater skills.  I faked that I received a phone call, an urgent one, and I walked out back onto the streets of New York talking into a phone that had no one on the other end of the line.

My promise to myself not to cry lasted all of a block.  And before I knew it, I was sitting in a bar called Character's Grill drinking a Coke, tears rolling down my face, makeup all over the backs of my hands, by myself, frantically typing notes on my phone.

As I did, I thought back to walking the exhibit hall.  While there, one of the booths had the author Todd Parr there.  He wrote one of my absolute favorite children’s books called, “It’s Okay to be Different.”  I have read it to all three of the boys many, many times.

But my favorite is the last page.  It says something like:

It's okay to be different.  We are all special and unique and I like you just the way you are.

I think I had my answer then.  It’s okay to just be who you are.  And who I am.  In some ways, I kind of needed a weekend of feeling like I was constantly hearing the opposite to really remember that.

I don't need to be anything other than what I already am.

This was, oddly, one of the most emotionally exhausting weekends of my life.

I know, a blogging conference, how silly, right?

But I think I got my answer.  I am okay being just who I am.  I am going to keep on doing what I do.  I am not going to let the “supposed to” moments dictate my life.

And yes, part of all of that means I am a sensitive person.  A person who takes things too personally.  A person who is easily hurt.

That is a part of me.  I will own it.

It’s okay to be different.