Dressing up by Lulu

Not long ago, on some chilly morning, I went to get Lulu out of her room. She was already wearing a light pink confection with seed pearls and chiffon overlay, pairing the dress with silver sparkle shoes. It was 43 degrees outside. She would not be dissuaded.

She wore that dress to breakfast and during play time. She wore it to Costco, but only after I wrestled a sweater onto her. I could only get her to take it off after she spilled chili down the front of the dress at dinner. The girl needs dress-ups, doesn't she? My bad.

I think I forgot about dress-ups.

My MIL sent Lulu a Halloween costume. It's Tinkerbelle. Lulu didn't know what it was, but she wanted it on immediately. She has worn it every day since. Her usual M.O. is to get up before I check in on her, remove her PJs, change herself, and put on the dress (wings optional, bell shoes not,) and wait until I open then door. She will spend all day in that thing. We run errands and pick up the mail as Tinkerbelle.

Sometimes we even sleep in it.

"DANCE WITH ME, PROXIMO," she screams at her brother, grabbing his hands and forcing them to twirl her around until she falls down. "I'M PRETTY and FANCY," she informs you, "LOOK AT ME TWIRL, I SAID LOOK AT ME." It's all at one volume (11) and completely mandatory. In that vein, I present to you...

Lulu's Fashion Rules:

• No jeans. Don't even bring them in front of her face, you jerk
• Dresses need leggings underneath
• No leggings? Your butt better find some before she cuts you
• Those shoes better have sparkles on them or you might as well stuff them down your throat
• Is it pink? It had better be pink or there will be hell to pay
• Ankle socks are better as knee highs, without exception
• She gets to pick her elastic colors, or you can choke on those elastics
• Don't even think about leaving the house without sandals
• Pink adidas will work, in a pinch
• If it has tulle, it goes on immediately
• If it's on backwards, it's supposed to be that way, and it looks a crapload better that way, duh

Her rules might be even more stringent than my no flip-flops rule.

I don't know if I can live under this fashion dictatorship...although I suspect I have it coming.

The Most Disgusting Thing About Me

I have this thing, a narrow throat. It causes me all sorts of grief. I have to be careful when chewing food that I masticate it as much as possible. I have to split most pills before I can swallow them. I couldn't find a single prenatal pill that I didn't have to split into at least four segments. Once, when I was 16, I had a piece of meat stuck in my throat for 18 hours. It was awful.

I'm more likely to get something stuck in my throat if I haven't eaten much. Which is why one of the worst times was when I had been on an all-day river rafting trip with almost nothing to eat. My first bite of food got stuck. It was there for 12 more hours. The most common advice I get when something gets stuck is "Eat something else to push it down! Like a piece of bread!" This does not work. I can't even swallow my saliva, it comes back up and I have to spit it out. Anything else I try to eat or drink comes back up as well; IT'S DISGUSTING.

About ten years ago I swallowed a small (SMALL!) round vitamin and it made a home in my throat for 20 hours. I had to carry around a cup into which I had to deposit my spit. AWFUL. I eventually went to the ER, where it loosened right before they scoped me.

And it happened this week, right before an important business dinner. I was supposed to be in Salt Lake by 6:30 to have dinner with an out of town associate and some of my team. We were going to Frida Bistro, where I have always wanted to dine and have never had the chance. I didn't eat much beyond an apple for breakfast and a Kind bar at lunch, knowing I would have a great dinner. Right before I left I took two small Advil tablets, because, you know, I had surgery. The first tablet turned slightly as I swallowed and it stuck. No moving. No swallowing. Like it was installed in there with an L bracket.

I swallowed hot water, I tried bread, I tried to force my muscles to move it down, and nothing. I couldn't miss the dinner, all I could do was hope it would wedge free on the drive. I stopped at a store and got an apple and a Diet Coke. Do you know what it's like driving on the freeway with the equivalent of a Mentos and Coke shooting from your throat back into the cup on the dash? IT'S GROSS. I was praying, swearing, hoping, texting my friends, but nothing. I arrived at the dinner not knowing what to do. I wouldn't be able to swallow anything, not even spit. What was I going to do? Excuse myself to the bathroom every two minutes to spit into the toilet? EMBARRASSING.

I sat on the end of the table and demurred the corn chip appetizer. I ordered the duck and saffron rice with root vegetables and stone fruits. When the server came over I asked for a water glass and then, in Spanish, I asked for a dry glass. I poured a little water into the second glass and hid it behind the water glass and the large votive holder.

(This is so gross.)

(So embarrassing.)

When people weren't looking at me, I would raise the second glass and tip it, pretending to drink, and then release my saliva into it.

You guys.

I know.

The entree arrived. I made like an anorexic and moved everything on my plate around and cut up my meat. I pretended like I wasn't terribly hungry. I SPIT INTO A GLASS.

And the meal progressed. It went fine. I think. Unless they noticed me SPITTING IN A GLASS.

Oh my Hell.

I asked the server to box up my meal more quickly than usual (relieved that I could ask surreptitiously in Spanish) They ordered dessert. Flan, which is my favorite. I took a tiny bite when it was forced on me, knowing it could only stay in my throat for so long until my body would force it out. But when my co-worker insisted on taking more, I thanked him and shoved a huge spoonful into my take-out box. I was so hungry I could cry. All my food in front of me, and unable to eat even a morsel.


The dinner ended and I took my box of dinner home, the pill just as lodged as it had been hours before. At 2:49am, ten hours later, the pill had finally disintegrated enough to fall the rest of the way. I got out of bed, went downstairs and ate my cold duck and rice, chewing carefully and wincing as I swallowed.

And that is one of the most disgusting things about me.

Live Positively Conference at Coca Cola

Last month Coca Cola invited me to a mini-conference in Atlanta. I had the chance to connect with other mothers over two days of sessions covering everything from branding, product development, Coca-Cola initiatives, and women in leadership. I didn't really know what to expect, but came away impressed with some of the great things these women are doing and with a better understanding of how Coca-Cola conducts business.

Also, there were all the drinks you could ever want at any time and with zero judgment.

By far my favorite session was a panel of female executives (they've thought of everything these days!) who described the kinds of tactical and strategic choices they make everyday while on the job or in their personal lives.

I am extremely interested in the way that companies have changed over the past 20 years to accommodate not just women working, but anyone who wants to have more balance between their work and home lives. It's almost hard to describe the extraordinary tectonic shift that's happened to how we think of work since I first hit the workforce almost 20 years ago. From my experience, technology companies have been at the forefront of flexibility in hours, sharing, and telecommuting, but learning how traditional companies are also adjusting what it means to work, is fascinating. This survey is important to me because I have to work, but I am the mother of young children that are my most pressing, and beloved, priority. I have the luxury of being able to set my own parameters for employment, and I feel passionately that other people should have those same opportunities.

A few examples of how Coca-Cola is changing work:

• Open to job sharing, flexible hours, telecommuting, and both formal and informal accommodations for employees.
• The Head Strategist for Still Products (think water, juices) is a job share--meaning that two people split the job, sharing the workload. 
• 70% of Coca-Cola call center employees telecommute in the Atlanta area, and are only in the office once a week. 
• Championing and mentoring other women to be OK with their preferred balance of work and home life (sometimes we are our own worst critics.)
• A sea change inside the company over the past few decades that includes advancing women and minorities so that it looks more like the market.

When I asked if there were concerns with the quality of work, one VP replied that telecommuting employees are more productive, period. It was a challenge to move to more flexibility at first, because of policies, the education for the associate, as well as the education of managers, to help them understand the different ways employees were working, it all had to change. Transitioning workloads, seamless project hand-off, training, it all required a new learning process. The executive stressed that she had to change as a manager.

The results were fiercely loyal employees who demonstrated greater productivity.

I pressed that several large companies (like Ernst and Young) have made a point to offer women flexibility (in hours, positions, locations, levels of involvement,) because they were tired of totally losing talented (and trained!) women when they voluntarily stepped away for different responsibilities at home. How do you keep your best people? The executive confirmed that statement: we will lose our employees if we don't offer flexibility  In order to retain the best talent in the industry, they had to come up with different ways to deliver the most that they could.

The reality is that Coca-Cola is trying to reach mothers. We are the gatekeepers to the home. We make 2/3rds of all purchasing decisions, and the majority of transactions to enter a home come through women. The best way to understand mothers is to employ mothers. And when you employ a mother, she isn't an island who can cut off her personal life, nor should she be.

Direct from the vice presidents, directors, and executives:

• We bring our whole selves to work. My outside passions enrich me. It's a mistake not to have personal interests
• Nurture your personal interests, bring them to work, make them part of what you do, and give back
• Encourage the shifts in how, why, and where, to help women accomplish the work they want to do
• Lift as you climb

What's the bottom line? If you tailor a job to your employee's schedule and their life, you get a fiercely loyal, more highly productive employee as a result. It's worth it to change the way we look at work so that everyone has a better balance in their lives.

Best Guacamole: The Mexicali 4am Hangover Special

When I signed up for the California Avocado Dinner at Evo Conference two weeks ago, I'll admit that I didn't really read the fine print. My friends were going, I like avocados, there you go. I walked in an found my friends Shannon and Erica at a table. We were chatting when Erica said something that caught my attention about the chefs cooking for us. I don't even remember what it was (you'll see why,) but it prompted me to turn around and there, right behind me, was Susan Feniger.

And I completely, totally, lost. my. cool.

As in I jumped up, started breathing really fast, turned to Shannon and Erica and said, "OHMYGOSHTHAT'SSUSANFENIGERYOUGUYSYOUGUYS." To their credit, they both looked at me as if I was a plaid cow and said, "Who?" "SUSANFENIGER" I hyperventilated, "One of the most famous chefs in the world, she's been on Top Chef Masters, had her own cooking shows, practically introduced haute Mexican to America with her partner Mary Sue Milliken and OHMYGOSH SHE'S RIGHT THERE." I turned around, knocked over a couple chairs, and introduced myself. Susan had the most joyous smile on her face. "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE GOING TO BE HERE," I said.
"Well, who did you expect?" she said. I didn't have an answer.
"Could I get a picture?" I asked.
"Of course!"

It's probably a good thing that I didn't see Mary Sue Milliken on the other side of the room or I would have fainted dead away. I so, so lost my cool.

Before we dined, we split into teams of four to compete to make the best guacamole. We were judged on taste, presentation, and the name. I turned to Erin, sitting next to me, and said, "I will bury you." I'm a little competitive. As luck would have it, Erica was on my team! We brainstormed some ideas and came up with a backstory and recipe. Our team went up against 11 others, and we WON! WE WON! IN YOUR FACE, ERIN. Susan Feniger and Mary Sue Milliken picked ME! I mean, picked my team.

The Mexicali 4a.m. Hangover Special

You spend the night in Mexicali and some bad, bad stuff went down. It's 4a.m. and you have to be back in L.A. to work by 9. You need something to set you right again, something so that your boss will never suspect the night of you are leaving behind.

4 ripe California Haas Avocados
1/3 c diced bacon bits
1 hardboiled egg, chopped
1 TBL diced tomatoes
1 TBL minced red onion
2 tsp minced jalapeno
2 tsp rice wine vinegar
Dash of chili flakes
Salt to taste

Topping:
1/3 c sour cream
1 Tbl chiles in adobo sauce
Dash of salt
Cotija cheese
Lime juice
Tortilla chips

Mix sour cream, adobo sauce, and salt together, set aside.
Toss all ingredients except the avocados together, add three peeled and pitted avocados, gently mash them into the ingredients, being careful to keep some large chunks of avocado. Check seasoning, add more salt or more vinegar as needed. Halve the remaining avocado, remove pit, hollow out a little more, gently remove the avocado from the skin. Salt the avocados. Spoon the guacamole into the hollowed avocados, dollop with sour cream, set on top of tortilla chips, sprinkle with cotija cheese and a squeeze of lime.

(Sorry about the poor picture quality, I was so busy acting cool I'd forgotten to talk the plastic off the back of my phone. Keep it together, keep it together.)

Mrs. Draper and Lulu Take on a Monday

This morning I woke up with way more energy than 5 hours of sleep would have you believe was possible. I stared Monday right in the face and called her bluff. The first thing I did was to dress like Mrs. Don Draper:

That's the ticket. That's how you go to Costco.

The next thing I did was work. I've been working a lot, like crazy for the past six months. It's incredibly boring to tell you about how hard I'm working, what long, sporadic hours I work, and how my DVR is consistently 90% full because I don't have time to watch it anymore, but it's true, so there. Take that boring and shove it into your pie hole. I showed up at Costco ready to prove who was the boss (Monday Costco is nobody's boss, by the way, just don't even bother.)

I dropped Proximo at preschool so hard it was like a sonic boom. I glared so intensely at the dandelions in my yard that they probably all died of mortification. My desk is fighting back, releasing its entropy and I will not have it. Even when the picture over my desk fell, knocking over my lamp and almost smashing my computer as the frame came apart into sticks and ragged glass, I refused to give up. No one was going to leave me at a HoJo today. If someone chased me around an apartment, I'd get away. And then, like most things, the magic faded by 5pm: the makeup slid off, the headband started to hurt, and I ate off my lipstick.

Mrs. Draper tucked herself into a suitcase, to be resuscitated on another Monday.

The other person who stared Monday right in the face, stuck out her tongue, and told it to back down? Lulu. Who walked today, just 24 hours after she turned 10 months old. She was holding on to the chair and saw me next to her. She let go and walked three steps to my arms. Not bad, for a BABY.

She's loud, so loud, by far my loudest baby. So feisty and independent. She yells if she doesn't like what's happening, she screams if her brothers are being too noisy, yells if you don't look at her, screams if she wants more, yells if she thinks you need to shape up, screams until you include her, yells if you do something for her that she wants to do herself, screams when being tickled.

There's a lot of noise, is what I'm trying to say, which is trying unto my nerves.

I call this one: Two Angry Yells with Two Happy Screams.

(She's the business, I tell you what.)

(So is Mrs. Draper, who'll tell you to call your mother, even if you don't have one.)

My Week Off

For the first time in more than a year I decided to take a few days off of work. I did take two weeks off (almost three!) when I had Lulu, but I don't think that was exactly a vacation as much as it was putting the pieces of myself and my life back together after a baby shattered it. Babies! So cute! Such jerks!

Why didn't I plan ahead and secure a Forever Lazy for my days off is beyond me. This is such a personal failure, I am so disappointed by what could have been. Clearly, to maximize my week off, a Forever Lazy would need to be part of the picture. Not an actual picture, mind you, because under no circumstances would I be photographed in one of those things.

The laptop safely stowed on top of the entertainment center, I took my days off. I wore my horrible brown velour pants (they have witnessed everything from my JLo phase to three pregnancies and two labors,) and made a serious commitment to doing nothing.

Only it's hard for me to do nothing. So this is what I did instead:

• Finished a painting. 
• Cleaned the kitchen at least twice.
• Thought about some really awesome and funny blog posts. 
• Forgot those funny ideas.
• Watched a twenty-year-old episode of Law & Order in the middle of the day. 
• Rewound a razor commercial
• Thought about how weird it is that Donald Sutherland is playing President Snow in The Hunger Games movie when I always pictured President Snow as Ron Paul (not a political statement.)
• Watched all the Downton Abbey episodes I'd been saving (this is a political statement.)
• Issued a memo to all household babies: stop growing.*
• Went to lunch with some out-of-town friends at a location that is beyond my radius.
• Got mad at Toddlers and Tiaras because no, your 15-month-old does not "love to shop," nor does she have "great fashion sense." 
• Decided that my 7-month-old "hearts getting 170 on her LSATs" and "has a real affinity for international monetary policy."
• Wrote a letter (in my head) "Dear Children's Clothing Designers, Stop making Peter Pan collars for babies. They never stay down. My baby always looks like a vampire."
• Drank a Diet Coke at 11pm and stayed awake until 4am. For no reason.
• Crawled under the covers during broad day light and napped two days in a row.
• Lived the dream.

It was hard work doing nothing for four days in a row. I almost needed a vacation from my vacation of sitting around my house. I don't know how you ladies of leisure do it.




*The entire memo:

Miss Lulu Says Vacations Should be Monthly

Miss Lulu and I were out of town (again) last week. J was lamenting that within her 5 month lifespan, Lulu will have been on four vacations and he will have been on none. I'm just preparing her for the life to which she should become accustomed.

Life with a Butler

I toted Lulu to a corporate retreat with some dear friends who happen to be co-workers. We spent three days at the St. Regis hotel in Deer Valley getting work done. Never stayed at a 5 star hotel? I recommend it. You should do that immediately. Stop reading this and go check yourself in. The suite we bunked in came with a butler.

A BUTLER.

Here's a surreptitious picture I snapped of him as he settled us into lunch:

He was Bavarian. I got a chance to use my sehr rusty German.  (Because he's MY butler!)

You can't even drive up to the lobby of the hotel, you have to drive to a lower level portico, valet your car, and then take the funicular up. Don't know how to pronounce "funicular"? Doesn't matter; it's fun no matter how you pronounce it. I would like a funicular installed to take me from my garage to the mailbox and back. I would also like one of those giant bathroom mirrors that are actually a TV. I discovered a remote hidden in our Egyptian cotton face cloths, behind the lavender scrub, and when the power was pressed, viola, TV in your marble bathroom. You get used to a certain way of living and it's hard to regress into the real world. The world without TVs in bathroom mirrors, porters, masseuses, and butlers.

Life Without a Butler

It was exceedingly sweet to see Lulu light up when she laid eyes on her long lost brothers. She giggled and chortled at all their entertaining antics. They compete to see who can make her laugh the hardest, performing jumping and karate-type moves to her extreme, hand-flapping delight. For all his serviceable glory, the butler never did that.

"What's that? My little finger? And who's wrapped around it again? That's what I thought, ALL OF YOU."

What Happens When You Go to The Colbert Report

I was Jenny’s idea to check the Daily Show website for tickets. She saw that there were four available and I tried to enter our information. Before I could hit submit, someone else had snaked them the tickets. On a whim, I checked The Colbert Report and managed to snag three tickets. I tried to talk some of the other SocialLuxe Loungers into going, but they couldn't get away. I called Amy and she could make it! We took a cab to get to the studio by 5:15pm.

So this is what happens when you go to The Colbert Report:

1. You stand outside on line during an afternoon of blazing heat and humidity for an hour. Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t seem like such a hyperbolic name anymore. The hair that you straightened at home in Utah 24 hours ago will be curled and frizzy.
2. Since you took the red-eye in, you’ve been awake for 30 hours with only a 2 hour nap to sustain you. Standing on line in New York City will be both bizarre and exhausting.
3. A girl who works with the production will try to get the crowd going and hand each of you a numbered card.
4. You’ll be herded into a small room that is mercifully air-conditioned with your 100 closest friends where you’ll stand while they finish rehearsals for the show. You will want to sit down, possibly lie down, on a sealed concrete floor more than you have in years.
5. You’ll get on line for the bathroom just so you can sit down for a couple minutes before the exhaustion overtakes you.
6. The flatscreen will play clips of past Colbert Reports and you will laugh. You’re still standing.
7. More production people will tell you how the show is awful if you don’t laugh and encourage you to laugh even if you don’t think the jokes are funny.
8. They apologize for the wait (standing count: two and a half hours.)
9. It’s been so long that the staff says you can turn back on your phone.
10. You'll tweet something inappropriate featuring a prominent spelling error.
11. You’re called in numerical order into the studio, where you’re threatened with grievous dishonor should you take any pictures. They mean it: the security guys are confiscating phones and cameras.
12. The warm up comedian is a welcome relief.
13. You might nod off a little.
14. Amy'll try to have a conversation with you and you will keep falling asleep.
15. Stephen comes out and does a Q&A with the audience as himself.
16. Stephen is naturally charming and very, very funny. He’s clearly a gifted comedian with excellent improve chops. His makeup is so life-like, too!
17. The show starts and the lady next to you will have the loudest laugh you’ve ever heard. The rest of the audience will turn sometimes to look in your direction. You feel like pointing to her so people don’t think it’s you.
18. Tim Meadows comes out to be a guest character! He’s looking at the teleprompter instead of at Stephen during his response bits. You'll wonder how it will look later on TV, and it turns out that you can’t tell on the TV broadcast.
19. During the commercial breaks they play Zydeco music that for some odd reason, you find invigorating. Everyone else is also tapping their toes. You'll briefly run through the steps to make a roux.
20. Notice a production team member talking with the guest who is seated on the side stage during the commercial break. You will be able to tell she’s explaining that Stephen will run over and try to take credit for the applause, that this is a funny show and that the questions may be facetious. The guest seems nervous.
21. You may nod off during the guest interview and the show will end.
22. You’ll consider taking some surreptitious pictures with your phone, but the security guards are still confiscating small electronics.
23. You could walk back to the Hilton from 10th Avenue to 6th trying to match Amy’s long stride with your bruised feet.
24. You’ll walk another twelve blocks through the silliness of Times Square to the venue where SocialLuxe Lounge will be thrown the next night and grab some greasy buffet chinese for dinner. You’ll work a little longer to prepare for the party. You’ll not be able to recall how you got back to the hotel, but you will collapse into your bed.
25. Stephen really was funny.

Cheesy New York Title Here!

I’m flying to New York tonight on the red eye to attend Blogher, work the Social Luxe Lounge, and I could not be more excited. Fact: Jenny has a flight at the same time that I do, only we’re on different airlines. This is our own personal Amazing Race where we'll race across the continental U.S. for absolutely no prizes! And also no Charla or Mirna (is that a plus or minus?) Bets on who will win? You had better bet on me or we’re not friends anymore. Hear that, Jenny? I’m creating a rift between our friends. FACE.

This is the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, or so I’ve been told by MTV. I have also been promised that there’s nothing I can’t do now that I’m in New York (Jiu-Jitsu?) that these streets will make me feel brand new, that the big lights will inspire me. And if all of that doesn’t happen, I’m asking for a refund (only I don’t want to be ridden like a bus route.)

I have questions for you: how much do you want me to talk about the amazing, fun, crazy things I’m doing, or all the muggings I survive? Score your enthusiasm vs. your apathy; pick your own scale.

Second question: What should I not miss? And if your answer includes the word “Brooklyn” or “Staten Island” I’m not going to take your recommendation because I’m not moving to New York, I’m just visiting. If your answer includes the phrase “Statue of Liberty hat,” I’m listening...

On another scale of your choice, how awesome is the phrase “party in my pants”? Because I was thinking about using it in casual conversation on the subway (best to be on the offensive, right?)

Things I Will be Doing in New York:

1. Blogher

2. Social Luxe Lounge

3. Sparklecorn

4. MoMA/Guggenheim

5. Empire State Building*

6. Eating street food that is not hot dogs

7. Eating a lot of food, period

8. Canal Street (for, uhm, stuff)

9. A rock music show

10. Walking

11. Upright Citizen’s Brigade?

12. A suggestion of your choosing

Things I Will NOT be Doing in New York:

1. Sleeping

2. Visiting the outer boroughs (exception for River Cafe?)

3. Going to Sbarro’s/eating in Times Square at ALL

4. Voting

5. Taking pictures with the naked cowboy (please)

6. Wearing shorts and sneakers

7. Be involved in a bear attack

8. Stand outside The Today Show

9. Going to the Robyn/Kelis show, Arcade Fire, Interpol, or The National because they are all the same night as Social Luxe

10. Going to the Magnolia Bakery

11. Attending The Daily Show/Colbert Report (no tickets)

12. A suggestion of your choosing

*Word on the street is that the Empire State Building is for suckers, that Top of the Rock is better, or Ellis Island, or The Statue of Liberty. Confirm or deny!

EVO Conference Day Two: Wherein I Confess To The Fuzz

There was no revenge. I didn’t have it in me. I’m all talk.

When Jyl first described the keynote topic for Friday morning as social med

ia for causes I was indifferent. How foolish was I? Extremely. The Utah Make-a-Wish foundation addressed us, covering how social media and the Internet has changed the way the entire Make-a-Wish organization functions. In case you were unaware, Make-a-Wish helps sick children fulfill a personal Wish. You might think Wishes are all trips to Disneyland, and you’d be wrong. One kid wanted a corral in his backyard. One girl worked with a veterinarian for a day. Another boy got to “save” Seattle as a superhero--with hundreds of volunteers and a call from Spider-man. Wishes that used to take months to fulfill can now, with the help of social media and the Internet in general, be accomplished in days (Prince doesn’t know what the crap he’s talking about.)

The description of Wish-granting and how it changed the lives of these children left me in ruins. I wasn’t alone; there was not a dry eye in the house. People were sobbing in their seats. I got up and left the ballroom, found a bowl of napkins left from breakfast, and returned with a stack to hand out; it was brutal and incredible at the same time. The last half of the keynote was the Williams family, who brought their little girl Eliza, and talked about the difference the Make-a-Wish foundation made in their lives when her Wish of a Birthday Party was granted. Unreal. You couldn’t have kept it together either. Afterward, we went into a working session with the Utah Make-a-Wish where we came up with ideas of how they could improve their online presence and increase donations. That was really great, actually, hive mind wins.

That afternoon I attended the food blogging class. Allison has been begging me to start a food blog and I’ve been countering that I really do not have the time. The workshop did not help my cause because I had a ridiculously fun time. My roommate Helen did a marvelous job with her presentation. I spent an hour in the kitchen with Chef Clement learning how to cure and smoke a salmon.

Under his instruction we made grilled flatbread with creme fraiche, cured salmon, garnished with eggs, scallion, and caviar. Insanely delicious. I made Stephmodo take a bite and it accidentally spilled on her. I felt bad about that. Or did I like it? You decide (sorry Stephanie.)

picture taken by Jane but of my hand and creation

Later that night a few of us went for a cruise in the MKT that Lincoln lent Jane for the trip. I called shotgun because a new fancy car like that would certainly have an iPod jack, leaving me in control of the music. And did I ever control! I spun that wheel! Hip-hop, gangsta rap, Def Leppard, Justin Bieber, there was no limit to the selection! (Bieber was Kami’s selection.) At the end of Park City, we noticed a cop tailing us. After about a mile his lights went on and pulled us over. There was a rapid scramble to turn off the Tupac.

“Out having fun ladies?” he asked, flashing his light into the cabin. “I noticed you were hugging the white line.”

“Yes,” said a chorus of voices.

“Well, I don’t smell anything,” he said.

“We’re Mormons!” someone said.

“We don’t get out much!” said Allison,

“And this is water!” I contributed, raising the plastic cup with its pathetic condensation.

Immediately Marie asked if she could take his picture for Twitter. The officer shut down, completely refusing, and asked for Jane’s license and registration. We nervously waited for his return.

“Did you know that you have a warrant out for your arrest?” He asked. “Have you done anything you want to tell me about?”

“I got a speeding ticket two days ago,” Jane responded, her eyes widening in panic, “I thought I had more time to pay it!”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said, and waved us off with a wink and a smile.

EVO Conference - Day One - I Manipulate My Friends

I’m going to cut through the obvious suspense: I drove up to EVO conference in Park City without incident. People like to make a big deal out of my awesome driving skills, but I don’t think we should dwell on too many superlatives (makes me look like I have a deficit of humility.)

I wrote down a list of things I needed to bring on my trip. Write is a strong word. Emailed myself is a better way of expressing what actually happened. And, as is the case with most of my organizational efforts, I failed in the execution. This is a convoluted way of saying that I left my business cards at home. I cashed in all my favors with Tiffany, and asked her to to go to my house, find my cards in the vortex of refuse that is my desk, and drive them up to Park City. That she decided to make this drive at midnight is not my fault. I love her. (Stay tuned for more Tiffany on July 15th.)

At the opening dinner, I sat next to Phread and Stacie. (Side note: I can’t take catered events seriously after watching Party Down.) The server set a plate in front of me and one in front of Phread. I picked up her plate and scraped all the green olives off her chicken without saying a word to either of my dining companions. Listen, when you’re out to dinner with me I get to choose what you eat. And because Phread hates olives. I managed to contain my disruptive tendencies during the opening keynote. Honestly, this is Twitter’s number one job: distract me so I don’t make scenes in public. I’m like a toddler, I guess.

After dinner the party really got going with dueling pianos. Yes, they were talented, but I couldn’t help but collapse into giggles thinking up all the inappropriate songs they should play. The duelists had laptops on their pianos. They were looking at the lyrics. Isn't that cheating?

Later that night, I met my roommates in our huge suite: Kami, Allison, Marie, Helen, Jane, and AWOL Alma. This was when I was able to properly express my gushing love for Helen and her fantastic blog Tartelette. Well, I think it’s fantastic, people who are challenged by baked goods in box-form might be a smidge intimidated. (People! Don’t be! Also stop buying baked goods in box-forms because they taste mainly of cardboard and the death of your grandmother's soul!)

In a mind-control scheme that has me ready to take on the world, I manipulated all my roommates into adopting my sleep schedule: 2am-7:30am. When they actually arose at 7:30, I couldn’t believe it! And I was also annoyed! I don’t need to wake up at 7:30am! I am on a vacation/at a conference! Too late.

I would soon get my revenge.....

Hi It's My Birthday Hi (It's Becoming an Institution Around Here)

Dear Loves,

It's my birthday! The last day of April, the beginning of Spring, a final blizzard hug of Winter! No really, I was driven home very early this morning in a blizzard. Can you imagine? Snow flurries for the last two whole days of April. But let's reverse, and set the scene at early yesterday evening.

I was tucked into the front seat rocketing up the canyon while Susie confided in me her absolute distaste for this late-winter linger. "I should be in shorts," she insisted.
"You can wear shorts if you want to," I said, pointing out the obvious.
"I mean comfortably. Comfortably wear shorts," she clarified, her midwestern brow slightly drawn in consternation. We were on our way through the foggy canyons for a no holds barred night out. Tiffany arranged a Rock Star Birthday Party (another institution around here) and insisted on dinner in Park City with karaoke to immediately follow.

Oh, shoot, karaoke? Don't mind if I do.

My friends know how to party. We party so hard people think we're drunk. Nope, stone cold sober. Never had one lesson. Or one drink. Anne and Katrice, Laura and Susie, Tiffany and me. We ate like carnivores and washed it down with carbs. Too many sodas (I'm a social drinker) and the abandonment of restraint makes for a smashing evening.

We claimed the leather sectional in the basement bar and commandeered the song books: Journey, Heart, Justin Timberlake, The Killers, Rihanna, I may have sung them all. Plus Laura and I rocked them like a hurricane. And there was the Fall Out Boy incident of 10:34pm. We might need to discuss when Laura Got Back. And when Susie Shot Through Your Heart. Myleka and Anne were Dancing Queens. And Tiffany sang Tiffany.

And I? I was properly feted by all the crew. Our bartender gave us all plastic leis so that he could make that most overdone of puns. I'm pretty sure Tiffany showed us that you can take the girl out of Texas when she crooned some honky-tonky down-home country, and maybe even a boot-scootin' boogie. What can be said of our two new friends who were consuming alcoholic units yet they couldn't be tempted to hit the stage? I say it proves caffeine's mind-altering superiority over whiskey, at least in this focus group.

Laura, who must be invited to every karaoke party ever, even yours, even if you don't know her, owned the night. You can't stop her, she's a force of nature. I took requests and another sip of soda. Time to make my own request. "Oh please," I begged Susie, "Next year, you must put on a proper Derby party."
She, raised across the river from Churchhill Downs, nodded thoughtfully. I hoped it was a yes. The Derby is tomorrow, darlings, tune in to see those ponies fly. Next year? Juleps and hats. (Maybe even Dover.)

(But definitely more parties.)

For my birthday I want to hear the song you'd sing if you went to karaoke, don't be shy, and don't lie and tell me you wouldn't sing. Pretend you've already had your whiskey, your Diet Coke, your courage-enabling sugar high, and drop that track in a comment.

In case you missed it, cjane commissioned a post from me. Only three people took it seriously! (some sort of record in cjaneland, I'm sure.) And I'm serious about this tom-foolery, I assure you! Serious like a hangnail!

Things I Want to Do This Week Before I Start Working Again

1. Build a dining room table (not a "dinning" room table, because that isn't a thing, Internet.)

2. Spend the weekend in Seattle but not have to drive there.

3. Take my kids to see a movie in the middle of the day just because.

4. No, but seriously, plant the seeds in the starter pots or that trip to the greenhouse was just a lost afternoon.

5. Volunteer in EG's classroom.

6. Reorganize my downstairs desk.

7. Organize my upstairs desk.

8. Clean the bathrooms, like, really clean them.

9. Not do anything.

10. Do everything!

11. Nap.

12. Celebrate my birthday!

13. Scrub poop off the play set slide (cross fingers!)

14. Start a painting.

15. Find bags full of money so I can just buy one of his paintings.

16. Would I really buy art with bags of money should I happen to stumble across them? Uh, yes. So again, find bags of money.

17. Be nice and smile at the neighborhood kids even when I know they've been mean to my kid.

18. Sew drapes!

19. Put away the sewing machine.

20. Finish re-fashioning those shirts I bought at Savers into a dress and then put away the sewing machine.

21. Re-do entire front yard. I'll need to wait on this one (foreshadowing bullet point!)

22. Keep doing Pilates even though I feel like I've been kicked by hobos.

23. Use the word "hobos" more!

24. Turn off the buzzer setting on the dryer because it freaks me out late at night.

25. Make fetch happen.


Oh, I didn't tell you I got a new job? Well I did. I gotta job.

(Say that like Positive K's I Got A Man. )

Hobos!

Dah-ling, I Love You, But Give Me Park Avenue

source

My mother was telling me about a friend of ours. This friend, a lady of a certain age and comfortable position, decided that backyard chickens were just not enough. She bought a cow. A real cow. And she put that cow into the backyard of her suburban McMansion in our lovely neck of the woods. Pretty soon the cops came knocking at her door. Are you keeping a cow in your yard? You have to get rid of it.

I was in stitches, "So she no longer had a cow on her hands, she had two sides of beef?"

I live where I do because I don't want to live on a farm. Not even a little bit. I don't harbor romantic notions of tending livestock. I don't find peace in shooing a swarm of flies constantly at my door. I don't want to wear an apron stained with slop. I've almost no wish to till the earth, nor invest in a combine. I don't want a back 40.

And I do not want to keep chickens.

Gross.

When my mom told me the cow story we laughed, and then we got down to brass hens. "I don't understand," mom said, "Are people actually keeping chickens?"
"Oh, yes," I replied, "It's a thing. Lots of people have backyard chickens."
"But chickens are disgusting!"
"I know."
"Do you remember the chickens in Spain? I never want to see another chicken."
"I remember! They were mean, and dirty, and used to peck me when I went to feed them; it hurt!"
"And people are keeping them here? And they like it?"
I nodded, leaning my elbows on the cow-leather ottoman and spilling out the names of some of our neighborhood poultry shelters. We shared a look of incomprehension. Honestly. Chickens!

Now, a farm-fresh egg? That's a horse of a different color.




Welcome to Things I Don't Get Week!


Today: Chickens.


I don't get them.




See the first TIDGW here.

Books on Vacation

The trouble with me and vacations is that I rarely have enough space in my luggage to bring enough books to read. I only brought four books: Game Change, Bergdorf Blondes, Crossroads of Twilight, and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. And that, right there, synthesizes my entire reading preferences, right? A political book, a chick-lit, a fantasy novel, and a hot-shot author. I also bought the Vogue with Tina Fey on the cover, because I had to, you understand.

I planned on reading all four and a half tomes. Instead, I read only 100 pages of Crossroads and that's it. An endless round of clubs (dance and graphite,) sleeping, shopping, and eating ensued. And by endless, I mean completely voluntary attendance. Exits and entrances based on our timetables, not nap times. A two and a half hour lunch at a french restaurant, seated on the patio, sunglasses perched on noses, the finches eating our baguette crumbs. We didn't really have to get up and move, but at some point, we felt like it. And when we felt like it, we forsook karaoke for the hot tub and streaming video to the flat screen.

Sometimes, one of us would let out a string of "Mom, mom, mom, mommy, mom, mom, mommy, mommy..." and then collapse in laughter. There were entire bathroom episodes without a single knock and no fingers under doors. There may have been moments of gold and there were flashes of light. But mostly, it was calm. The kind of calm that is broken only by laughter and dance music. "Are you OK?" Phread asked me as we walked along the shop windows. I hadn't said anything in a while, probably not even cracked a smile, I'd just been.

"Yes," I answered.

When I get to be by myself I can be quiet, calm, and not talk. I do that at home after everyone has gone to bed and the night wraps me up in happy silence. And I got to do that with people near me, during sunlight, and everyone was perfectly awake. No decisions or places to be, no plans. So when I had the time to read, I'd cradle the book in my hand, and I'd sit, in silence, and stare towards a horizon. Reading is my usual escape, and what do you do when you're already escaped?

The Finisher II and A Note to Ford

You may recall this post I did about finishing things. My first project was the thrifted table. I cleaned the sewing machine table, removed the machine, and spent 40 minutes trying to saw a board using a tiny handsaw to fit inside it as a shelf. I gave up sawing the board after Other Half made me see the futility of 40 minutes of work vs. four inches of sawed wood when my father has a perfectly nice table saw. "But I REALLY WANT to finish," I said desperately, calculating that I could be finished by 3 or 4 in the morning (tops.) He talked me out of it, and then moved the table upstairs so it can be my vanity (where I can open the window and survey the vast tracts of land behind my stately villa while applying MAC makeup and assessing the progression of what could be wrinkles, but most certainly are not, and all with natural light.)

The next day, I left work in search of soup for lunch after a morning spent at the dentist. As I was about to pull into the parking lot, I heard a giant CLUNK CLUINK CLUNK along with the usual grinding sound, and the car felt like it didn't want to move, as if the power steering had broken. I managed to park the car. Not knowing what else to do, I went into the soup place and ordered a cup of soup to go. I got back into my car. I sat there for about 10 minutes. Then, why not, I started it up to make it back to my office.

The CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK stopped once the car hit 25 mph. The horrible grinding, like someone had taken the belts in my car and replaced them with terrified robot cats, kept going. I tested the brakes and wouldn't you know, only the left side was working. It also sounded like some large hammer had broken free from the passenger's side and was hitting against the wheel, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I called up Other Half and we decided that if I could get the car home, that would be it, the end of the line.

Yes, for my second finishing project I FINISHED MY CAR.

I had wanted to surprise you all with some great picture of a NEW FANCY CAR ( you know, the kind without a hole) before I told you that my car died, but that's not what happened. What happened is that I drove home through rush-hour traffic on the side roads with my hazards on hoping and praying that the huge hammer (probably now with added sickle) wouldn't cause my car to catapult, kill me and some innocent, unlucky person whose only crime was thinking they could get a frozen yogurt at 5:00 on a Tuesday.

So we're down to one car...

Dear Ford,

I'd love to be yours....(read more.)

The Finisher

Years ago I was cutting squares for a quilt. I exclaimed happily how it would look so great when I finished and then I caught my sister laughing. "What's so funny?"
"You're not going to finish it."
"Yes, I am!"
"No, you're not. You never finish anything."
"I am this time!"
"I'll believe it when it happens," she snorted.

I got so angry about it that I didn't ever pick up those cut squares again. Really, I showed her!

I'm still afflicted by the same un-finishing I ever have been. Just when I think I have a project in hand I OH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY OVER THERE.

It drives my loved ones crazy. It would drive me crazy too if I remembered I was supposed to finish something or other.

I made a promise to Other Half: every day this week I am going to tackle one project, one abandoned area, one neglected space and fix it. I think it will help if I share with you exactly what I'm fixing and organizing (public humiliation at a task unfinished helps, right?) I'm going to try really hard to LOOK IT'S SHINY finish something I started. I can do this.

Day One:

The vintage sewing table!

Featuring:

1. The vintage sewing table that I was going to turn into a bathroom sit-down vanity way back when I got it thrifting in the first week of December.
2. The orange table has been in my family room for so long, poised to make it up the stairs after what would surely be a quick makeover, that I think I've started decorating around it. Maybe I don't want to move it! Maybe it should stay! Maybe I should stick with the original plan.
3. Gift bag that we used to carry presents home from La Professora's house on Christmas Day. Still contains presents.
4. Wrapping paper, yes, from Christmas Eve.
5. The camera box from my new camera that I can't use because I don't have a memory card for it yet.
6. The instructions for the camera that Other Half unfolded when I called in a panic from Costco to make sure I was buying the right memory card. Still have no idea if we have the right kind.
7. Someone's PJs are on the floor.
8. Someone's sweater and jeans on the floor.
9. Baby wipes.
10. Outgrown baby church shoes.
11. Oh, and there's still a sewing machine inside the table that needs to be removed and the surroundings cleaned off.

This is going to be fun.

Christmas FAIL

Guess what?

No, guess what?

My Christmas tree? It’s still up.

I know.

I know.

It gets worse.

This year I didn’t really do Christmas decorating, which is a shame since I don’t decorate for other holidays (and if you bring up the working disco ball that is currently hanging in my foyer, sure, we put it up for Halloween, but I like it so much I’m turning it into a permanent feature.) I usually go all out for Christmas, well, all out for me: some lights in windows, a wreath, a tree, uh, I think that’s it.

All of that rigamarole at least once a year!

I pulled down the plastic containers with the ornaments and lights from the garage shelving and slide them along the carpet to the living room the day after Thanksgiving. Those containers stayed in that living room undisturbed for almost two weeks. It was only El Guille’s persistent nagging to put up the ornaments that finally got the tree up.

The wreath? First the weather was too cold to hang the wreath hook, and then I had to repair the wreath with hot glue. The hot glue gun stayed in the living room with the wreath for two weeks. The wreath is still sitting on the side table where I set it to cool a month and a half ago; it never made it onto the door.

I have these really cool bulb lights on a string that I was going to hang in my windows, they look so cool and mod from the outside. I couldn’t find the cool lights from whatever diaper box they ended up in during the move, and since they were the crucial first step in the lighting design, no lighting went up. Don’t you fret, I BOUGHT MORE lighting for the outside, which is currently in its original packaging, including the plastic bag from Target, in the garage. See, I went outside to test the external plug and it didn’t work. And it was that week in December when the high every stinking day was 5 degrees (and pansy California was crying because they were in the 40s.) I couldn’t bear to be outside to figure out why the external plug didn’t work, so that was it. The test string of lights was literally kicked around the foyer for four weeks. That was my guest prep: a vicious kick of the white string under the leggy 1920s settee, which is hardly a stealthy move and totally not obvious.

I...

I just couldn’t this year. And I’m having just as hard of a time taking down what I did do.

(Container of lights? STILL IN LIVING ROOM.)

Is this the kind of thing people call Oprah about for help?

I'm Sick, Whine, Whine, Whine

The children ran into the bed, "Hey mom!" said the big one, bouncing off the bed.
"Hey mom," echoed the little one.
I lifted my head. They looked like urchins: still in pajamas, dirt crusted their mouths, snot smeared their faces, and did I detect a red ring left from fruit punch?
"Hi, guys," I coughed.
"If you need anything, anything at all mom, you can call me," said E.G.
"You can call me!" echoed the little one.
"Thank you, babies."
"I mean it, I can bring you anything, mom," said E.G.
"Mean it. Anything, mom!" echoed the little one, wiping a smear further along his round cheek.

I've been sick, and blogging about being sick is incredibly boring. You almost always illicit a ton of "Aww, feel better!" comments, and while those are nice, they almost seem like fishing. And I don't fish. Anymore. As of now. Second, it's just a cold, and no one can make a cold amusing, right? There's only so many ways you can describe post-nasal drip and a wicked cough; we've all been there, we all know it sucks, and we all just get over it.

So I called Allison, "Are you still sick?"
"Yes," she sniffed.
"Come be sick with me. We can lie on opposite ends of the couch in the same PJs we've had on for three days and watch Firefly. The kids can run around."
"OK," she sniffed.
That's exactly what we did, all day Monday, because nothing makes being sick cooler than having someone be sick with you.

"You know that if I could, I'd take this sickness for you," Other Half said.
"No," I said, "I don't want that. You're a pain when you're sick. You're just awful." Sure, it's great to have someone be sick with you, but it can't be your partner, that's just not right.

We all know what would happen if you were both sick: one of you would be convinced that he is dying and a single heart's beat away from his head exploding in a torrent of mucous, roaring like a wounded dinosaur, and you, while theoretically being at the same level of suckage, would still be expected to feed the children, clean the bathroom, and make sure no one dropped the brand new toy wooden barn on anyone else. That's why yes, I will be the sick one, I'll just do it, because the happiness of everyone is worth it.

Even if your children are given "fruit" punch behind your back.

Blueberry Pancakes Were the Sled

This morning I made whole wheat blueberry pancakes from scratch and the world imploded into a vortex of fire and noise.

I wasn't aware that I'd committed an unforgivable offense against my son by making something so delicious and nutritious. Why don't I just let him eat Cheetos again? I may have reminded him about children that have no homes, no beds, and no food. He took in all my suggestions and still refused to eat.

When we picked El Guille up from school, he pressed me on where we were going. I refused to answer until he was in the car. "The doctor."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
"They're just going to weigh, measure, and make sure you're healthy."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"
"I can, and I will, and there will be no shots."
"I'M SCARED."

He gave the nurse a hard time about taking his blood pressure, his pulse-ox, and refused to have his temperature taken with the ear monitor.

The doctor was greeted with a scowl. I brought up the pancakes. I've been bringing up the pancakes to everyone. Who freaks over homemade blueberry pancakes? I think people should know. Strangers should know how awesome I am and how ungrateful my child is for all his mothering. I should have a shirt made.

Then the doctor suggested a round of flu shots for all. I agreed. Two birds.
"YOU SAID NO SHOTS."
"Right, I know. I'm sorry, but, there is a bug going around that makes you very sick, like, you have to stay in bed for two weeks with no friends, school, TV, or games."
"There is?"
The nurse piped in, "I was in bed for a month."
"See? A month! Now, do you want it in the leg or the arm?"
"NO SHOT!" he screamed as he crawled under the counter and into the corner underneath the computer cords.
"Don't make me come under there and get you."
"NO SHOT!!"
I caught him when he tried to go lateral and put him onto the table. "Arm or leg?"
"NO ARM! NO LEG!"
"You can choose. Leg hurts less, arm hurts more."
"NO ARM! NO LEG!"
He got them in the leg and shrieked as if he'd gotten them caught in a combine. His little brother cried for two minutes and needed a hug, that was it. We walked out of the office, El Guille visibly dragging his leg, you know, with the sudden onset of polio and all. "We're meeting Cousin M and you're going to say some stuff in a microphone for her."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
"It's just like in Rock Band when you sing into the microphone. It's for her movie. You just have to say a few things into a microphone."
"I'm SCARED!"
"No, you're not, " I declared as we parked on the BYU campus.
He dragged his leg and whimpered down the HFAC hallways until we got to the sound booth. I explained that he would sit inside and say things into a microphone. This was how his favorite movies were made! Wall-E, Cars, all of them, people sat in a booth, said some words, and then they would draw the pictures. He visibly brightened. He almost didn't need the four Starburst M slipped him.
Almost.
He perched on his chair, put the headphones on his head, and repeated the dialogue that M fed him through the microphone. He started smiling for the first time all day.

And then we had to walk back to the car with the wounded leg dragging behind us. It's a good thing we were in the HFAC, because this kid was putting on a performance like you wouldn't believe. I felt like all the acting students could see the pathos he exuded, and envied his commitment. I, personally, was done. His craft is exhausting me. I'm calling James Lipton in the morning. I can't wait to see the career retrospective.