Sassafrass

Skin that's still 25? Maybe. Just maybe (+ a super-fab skincare deal)

A few weekends ago, just after my 40th birthday, a mom I talk to regularly looked at me quizzically after we were discussing the year I got married, when I got divorced. 

 “You must have been very young when you had Lil E,” she said, looking at me sideways. “How old are you?”

 I told her and she laughed. 

“I thought you were 25. Seriously. I thought you must have had him so young.” Then I laughed.

 This mom is my new best friend. She is actually younger than I am, but you know how this goes -- we all have our skewed perspectives on how other people, particularly women, and even more particularly, moms, look. She thought I looked  fetal, and I love hearing that, but of course I don’t. 

Happy? Healthy? Hilarious? Slathering on the lipstick? All yes. But, ummmm, so not 25. 

Click here to read the rest of this post!

Essential weekend reading (and listening)

I won't even pretend that this weekend is going to be cushy with time to sit around and ponder Rumi or even make it through one (as my grandmother used to say) gol-dang chapter of the book I loved for the first 243 pages and am really struggling through paragraph by paragraph just trying to make it to the last word. I imagine you relate. So why I don't I just tell you what I loved on our old friend the internets this week, so you won't have to have any of your own reading trials and tribulations? Good. Done.

A note on friendship - Whit Honea is not only a fabulous writer, he's a hilarious texter who will get you in all kinds of trouble during solemn Oprah-revering moments at blog conferences and can kill it in Drawsome with scribbled pictures of sharks devouring bloody stick figures. So why wouldn't he write one of the best blog posts of all time on children's friendship break-ups and apologies? It's wonderful. 

Olympian, working mother, feminist hero -- Pat Summit is one of basketball's most legendary coaches. MamaPundit's Katie Granju writes that you don't have to be a fan of the game to idolize her, and I get that. I'm a non-sports fan who loves a great sports stor. Read every word of this as I did and you'll see, this incredible woman has one.

Not another mommy war -- I am so proud of my friend Joanne Bamberger. Not only is she whip-smart, CNN and a gazillion other people know it. Check out her assessment of this whole crazy business with Ann Romney, Hilary Rosen and every person in the world who loves to fluff up a nonexistant war between womenfolk.

Is it time for a financial tune-up? -- Duh, yes. Meagan Francis gets honest about money money money at The Happiest Mom and I was even inspired to wait on hold with the freaking insurance people for 32 minutes to get my own stuffs in order. Not lying.

A chord of sad -- In only a few days, Joy Unexpected's Yvonne will say goodbye to her military-enlisted son. I can't even imagine. Read this and make sure a flood of loving thoughts fill her living room while he's still playing his guitar in it and after they've said their farewells. 

 

And now some music to fill up your own busy, over-scheduled, too-talkative spaces. I'm totally digging this band. Did you laugh out loud reading this bit in Jezebel about "Somebody That I Used to Know lyrics seeming to be like a really crappy email from a duder you once dated? This cover will make it all better. I promise. It's a lovely guitar-fingering orgy of goodness and light. Plus, I love that the stare-y guy looks so much like Trent Reznor and maybe that's Robin Williams on the end.

 

 

Then "Someone Like You" in a non-American Idol cover version. And that smokin' hot blond lady at the center is really making me give some thought to my hairdresser's plan to make me go totally blonde as her summer project. Too much to process? Just listen then. 

 

Forever Young: best 40th birthday cocktail ever

 

Oh, who cares that it's Monday and I'm posting a drink recipe?! Take a few ibuprofen and keep reading, friends.

When I put the call out to The Facebook for suggestions of pink cocktails with gin that could be dispensed from something classier than a scrubbed out garbage can but didn't have to be shaken in 6-ounce pours every four minutes, I knew there was someone who would take the challenge seriously. Of course, it was Ilina of Diry & Noise. 

Ilina posts drink recips every Friday that make me suck down my afternoon coffee with a fervor that would probably give anyone standing near my desk the idea that I am perhaps maybe probably pretending there is more than cream in that cup. She and I, we should be neighbors. But we're not and I don't ever open the liquor that waits patiently in my freezer with frostbitten caps, hoping some impromptu party will happen. So instead, I read and guzzle coffee and Ilina leads a glamorous life of cocktail recipe experimentation and happy  hour envy. 

The good part is that when the party did happen, Ilina was still there for me. She threw out ideas and recipes and it was this one that caught my eye. She calls it the Writer's Block. I liked the gin and lime part and was intrigued by the St. Germain. When a few other friends recommended St. Germain, I knew I was on the right path to signature cocktailing of the pink and ginny -- and St. Germainy -- kind.

Here's what we mixed up in big batche -- simple, delicious and so pretty. I raise my glass -- not now but once or thrice at my party -- to Ilina and all the others who made this not-coffee cocktail find its way to my celebration.

Forever Young

1 part gin (ohhh, how Hendricks delights, and we chose Bombay Sapphire this time)

1 part St. Germain (smell the elderflower, so fragrant)

4 parts sparkling pom juice (it adds a lot of richness and is so delicous, we upped the proportion from three parts to four)

A bit of seltzer (it was that or call a long line of cabs to wait outside my apartment)

 

Some chose to top it off with prosecco (lovely), all had lime garnish.

I added frozen raspberries and pomegranate seeds to the dispenser. They were pretty but clogged up the spout and then made sipping a little less than ladylike. Still, they made the blood-red (not so pink after all) drink look summery and delicate.

 

We call him Nicolas Cage Jesus

There are many portraits of the Son of God hanging in my grandmother's house. My grandfather was a Methodist minister who came out of retirement several times to return to the pulpit at churches in need. It's a home where there's always grace before a meal and sunrise service on Easter really happens at sunrise. 

But ever since my brother whispered to me across the expansive dining room table during a family reunion or holiday meal in a way that was intended to sound nonchalant but was so purposeful he almost did a spit=take laughing at himself, "Oh, so you're checking out Nicolas Cage Jesus? Think he's hot?", I can't stop looking at this one painting.

Even before we walk in the door and kiss our hellos, before we pull into the pine cone-strewn driveway, before we turn on to the winding drive named after a prince, before we exit the highway that stretches out over endless flat miles dotted with turbines every few-hundred feet, I am thinking about Nicolas Cage Jesus.

Don't let it offend you. Seeing this vision of "Snake Eyes" may have brought us closer to the Lord. And most images of Christ do depict his flowing locks. They just aren't focused or close up enough to reveal whether that hair is really plugs.

Obviously, this is facelift/weird moustache Nic Cage. Pre-action hero, pre-gnarly "Face/Off" repulsion, pre-SNL "Jeopardy" mockery. I like to think it's somewhere in between "Moonstruck" Cher-passion and slicked-back "Family Man." This Jesus is really "City of Angels" to me. At least in spirit. 

Just take a look at Nicolas Cage's filmography and you will see that his career is expansive. But maybe, just maybe, he's showing up all those Coppolas after all. Maybe Nicolas Cage star does shine a little brighter than the rusty one on Hollywood Boulevard. 

I'm not saying the actor IS a savior of any kind. But I am saying, I could take my Jesus having a bit of a growl and smirk spread across that five-o'clock shadow.

Judge ye at ye will but I think the comparison's pretty (sorry for this) dead on:

No bonnet, but blue. Lots and lots of glorious blue

We didn't even realize we were matching until the lull in between bread and wine and communion. My mother pointed it out. I think of my dress as Pan-Am stewardess blue, but Lil E whispered softly and matter-of-factly, "My favorite color." 

And then I saw that it was everywhere, and it made this pink-seeming day seem brighter, more luscious. 

Dress, hydrangeas, handbag

Shoes

Shirt

Self-portrait on an egg

Essential weekend reading: How to do stuff like make babies and love "The Hunger Games"

I'm usually the bossy one around here. But it's the weekend and I've decided to let these four smartypants ladies get all teacher-y on you. Here are my very favorite how-tos of the week that I'm just going to strongly suggest with stern eyebrows and pouty lips that you follow to the T.

 

How to fall in as much love with "The Hunger Games" the movie as the books - Friends, my mother has been all over me to read these freaking books even though I am not a science-fictiony type of reader-lady because she insists it will help me understand this generation. Since I've read nary a word of Harry Potter (GASP!) or Twilight (what the--?!), it's looking like I am stuck back somewhere in The Greatest Generation at this point. But reading Kristen Howerton's review of the costume-glorious "HG" movie over at Rage Against the Minivan actually made me stop ignoring my mother's literary pleas for ten minutes. If the movie is that good and I need to see the movie then clearly I have to first plow through the books. Plus, Kristen writes, "And the casting...oh my word." Frankly, anyone who says "oh my word" is a credible critic in my book, which is apparently now cracked open to page one of the effing Hunger Games.

 

How Michelle Obama can help us end all this misogynist right-wing bullshit - Let's be honest: The first lady is a giant star in the presidential crown. Super-smart Pundit Mom Joanne Bamberger outlines her ideal strategy for Michelle Obama to really shine in this election, pulling in women voters at a time when reproductive justice, health care, employment and other issues are too big and scary to ignore.

 

How to throw a minimalist birthday party for your kiddo - BostonMama's Christine Koh is inside my head on this one. I am all about letting the kid set a theme (which is sure to be something un-simple like Lego Tae Kwon Do Boogers) and choosing five elements to go along with it (favors, cake, activity, invites, balloons). Food is always the same Costco deliciousness. The time is always a weekend early afternoon. The guest list is never more than 10 kids. The end. And now on to Christine's awesome advice...

 

How to decide whether or not to have another kid - Two of my newest, coolest married folk (see? I'm not so bitter as to hate ALL married folk) are Serge Bielanko and Monica Bielanko. I love their He Said/She Saids. In this one, Monica's concern about another BooBoo Bielanko involves body explosions, southern-facing bewbs, and the obligatory minivan purchase. Serge is just worried about the cops. Click, read, watch.

Friday Shoegasm: Why you should be thinking boots, not sandals, right now

It's really difficult with the sun shining down to 60-degree temps and Daylight Saving Time in a few days and the call of the cruise/camping trip/excursion to your friend's aunt's cottage in eastern Indiana to resist stocking up on sandals that scream to the world you are so ready for summer. Or at least spring. 

But it's not time to throw money at cute cork wedge heels or espadrilles or even fancy flip-flops just yet, no matter what all those sales emails and catalogs and deals of the day say.

It is really time to embrace winter for just a few days more and buy boots. Not only are boots on sale right now, you won't have to worry about gunking them up with slushy snow or street salt. 

Although I adore boots and will wear them until my feet are so sweaty inside them that I can leap right out of them into open-toed heels, getting a new pair wasn't even on my list of things to do while I am waiting to pack my sleeping-back down coat away. Until yesterday when my mom and I made a run to Nordstrom Rack to return a pair of boots she bought me for Christmas (no time like three months later!). 

Of course, the aisles were full of sandals and formal footwear that you will wear once to your college friend's wedding and then ditch forevermore because they are tequila-stained/heinously uncomfortable blister-inducers/make you obnoxiously taller than your date/lost in your car somewhere/all of the above. But there was also a great selection of boots at awesome prices.

Sure, I was tempted by these babies.

Alas, my sheer knee-highs are in the wash and the next, most-awesome Halloween party for adults I will likely be invited to is a long, long time off.

 

But what I ended up trading in the boots (a boho Pocahantes pair of feet-squeezers) for these beauties.

 

They are Enzo Angiolini (love that brand, not even handed buckets of cash to say it) Karissa boot in a pebbled coffee-and-cream-colored leather (the tan is also delicious).

 

The 3-1/2" gives me the boost I want without being too hooker-like for daily drop-off at the old elementary school and still styley enough that I will definitely wear them out on a girls' excursion.

 

Also? Comfy. Not kidding.

 

And? Unobtrusive treads are barely visible and mean I don't clonk-clonk-CLONK around as much as usual (you're welcome, neighbors). 

 

Today, I am taking a style tip from Meagan Francis and throwing them over leggings and a flippy little dress (to super-skinny gals)/tunic top (to me).

But I will also wear them barelegged with dresses as the weather warms, before my sandals demand all my tootsies' attention.

 

Delightful for right now and even better for next fall and winter. Oh, and only $75 on sale. FOR ENZOS (I know). 

 

 

Here are a couple of other deals I would have taken if there was more room in my boot box to stock up:

 I am in love with Frye boots, and am crushing pretty hard on this Mimi Scrunch style, in part because they are $120 off. That savings can fund another pair of boots, kittens! Think of it. While you're walking tall in these girls. On Piperlime, $229 (and worth every single cent).

I am a big fan of Franco Sarto shoes and would even be willing to wear flats made by that delicious Italian. Marked down nearly a hundred dollars (ringing in at a sale price of $99), you will be extra happy to find these gorgeous riding boots when the season turns cold again next week/next autumn. 

You all know well that I am late and hesitant in coming to the UGG love. But there I was yesterday at Nordstrom Rack and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over how much wearing these boots felt like walking upon a cloud spun of sugar and air. The photo does not do them justice, but, man do they look sweet on. Also, the ones you order shouldn't have a giant ballpoint pen mark across the top like the ones at the Rack (which is why I opted out). These are suede and will call to your sweaters to join them in winter cute-casual fun. $187 on sale, down from $350.

 

I've been wearing a lot of dresses this winter-ish with black tights and booties. Sometimes I get really crazy and add patterned tights (what?!). I think a great pair of booties in black or chocolate or whatever color is your go-to is a great investment, even if you are a lady who only wears jeans or fancy pants. If I can only take one pair of shoes for a weekend trip (ohmahgaw, the horror), then I'd choose these because I can use them to dress up or down and outfit. These by Guess are $84, down from $139. These are on my list but for now, I am totally, unashamedly wearing a pair I picked up on sale at Target (yes, you've got it...) last spring for $20.

BlissDom? Yes, please

I'd never been to the Blissdom conference before, but this year, I just knew I had to get there. 

I did the Responsible Grrrl thing, talking to my dad and the Not Boyfriend about whether I should attend a conference on my own -- in this case meaning that I'd be going without a woobie-friend to cling to and paying for it out of my own wallet. 

"Why is this important?" they both asked when I told them I was weighing whether to make the trip to Nashville at the tail-end of an extraordinarily stressful month, on a limited budget, with no real idea what BlissDom was all about. I was relying on them to help me count the costs and so I didn't really expect this question from either of them.

"I need to be with my people," I said definitively. 

Some of my people:

Tracey of Sweetney, Kyran, Katherine Stone, Meagan and me. Didn't Christine Koh do a great job capturing the happiness?

"Then, go," they both said. But me being me, I debated more. Even after the conference sold out and my budget got tighter and my concerns about switching visitation weekends amped up. 

So I put out the feelers. Could I scrounge up a ticket? Could I hunt down an affordable airfare? Is there anyone who'd want to room with me?

And that's when the good advice from my dad and the Not Boyfriend and the universe colluded to get me to BlissDom. I asked one person if she knew of any extra conference passes for sale and within five minutes, she'd found me one. I proposed a weekend switch with The Ex and in a strangely civil two-minute conversation, had it all arranged. I logged on to two travel sites before I found an airfare for $135. I reached out to a few blogging ladies I am getting to know better and within moments, had an offer to share a room. Weeks of weighing it all, and the whole trip was set in twenty minutes. Tops.

Before I boarded the plane, my dad called me with one more bit of advice: "Don't force this to be something you think you need," he said. "Be open to it being whatever it is. You will hear something this weekend you need to hear, I know it."

A pause to note that my dad is a sage man who has a social-worker practicality and calm. But spiritual hoodoo-guruness is not normally his way. These words said by this man, though, were just one of many signs pointing me toward BlissDom.

He was right. 

The opening keynote was by Jon Acuff, a man I may not have otherwise ever heard, who is so funny and on-point and very clearly loves speaking to groups of attentive blogging ladies. I am not even sure I could relay what exactly he said that made me tear up and clap and want to meet him in person (so worth the half-hour wait in line), but I knew that his keynote contained the words I needed to hear. 

But there were more.

Some of those words came from Meagan Francis. I have known Meagan since the early days when we both contributed to Chicago Moms Blog. And when her book, The Happiest Mom, came out, I pored over her wise and funny words and was thrilled to interview her. But it wasn't until last summer when we shared margaritas poolside at BlogHer and I heard this mom of sixteen (OK, five) spit out gangsta rap lyrics that I knew we needed to be friends. So when she offered for me to room with her, I snapped up the chance. We immediately established a Circle of Trust so we could share secrets and ideas and brainstorms and brilliance and gossip and stupid texts like we've been roommates forever. This is one dynamic woman who very well may be my next woobie. Also, there are apparently photos of us club dancing, so I will have to keep her close in order to prevent those from being leaked.

Some of those words were spoken by Christine Koh. See this stunning lady in the J. Crew-fabulous outfit? She gave an inspiring on doing LESS as a life strategy. She also has a killer potty mouth. How could you not adore her? We shared a drink (she asked the bartender to make something up for her and within moments, he created a cocktail just for Christine called The Leg Spreader...just saying), some very deep and spiritual talk about death and taking professional chances and what makes great content online, and a burning desire to do karaoke (that never materialized, unfortch). I was so honored she included me in her own BlissDom round-up post and just hated to say goodbye to that mama. Christine feels like a kindred spirit and one day I am going to borrow that yellow pencil skirt and it won't be awkward at all. 

Some of those words have yet to be written. But I have all the faith in the world that the book Christine is writing with the savvy Asha Dornfest will bring a message I will need to hear. Christine and Asha announced at BlissDom that they're putting their Minimalist Parenting centeredness on to paper in a book due out next year. Don't you love it when smart ladies do smart things together? (Follow their good Minimalist Parenting works here.)

Taken at the American Cancer Society's More Birthdays booth.

They are doing amazing work and I loved adding my words to their campaign.

Some words were a long time coming -- in this case from the supahhh-smart Joanne Bamberger, also known as Pundit Mom. Our work has overlapped, but Joanne and I have never had a chance to just sit down and talk. Before this weekend, that is. Joanne is changing how women's votes and analysis and concerns and issues are being covered in this presidential election and I am in awe of how informed and real and empowering she is. 

There was sweetness and saltiness and much laughter when I spent time with fellow single mama Tracey from Sweetney -- and you must view her fabulous Blissdom snapshots here.

There was more good/naughty stuff after I declared to Mr. Lady that we WOULD be friends, and with the one person who did get plenty of time on the karaoke mic, Jim of BusyDadyBlog. I've known Steph from Adventures in Babywearing for a million years, but in a few days of seeing her light up a conversation with her sparkling eyes and devious smile, I felt like we became better friends.

And when Kyran Pittman took an inside joke and turned it into a Pinterest board...yeah, well...she sealed it. I am totally going to stalk her now. She may not even know that I am stealing words before she even says them, but I am. And scrapbooking them. With fancy stickers and glitter glue.

In a conversation about being brave and taking bold leaps, I felt a swell of tears and sisterhood with Laurie. And when Christine asked who I'd met who I would like to get to know better, I didn't hesitate in answering "Zakary." So, watch out, darling, I'm-a-coming over to be your next Facebook-besty.

Joe Jonas, wooing the lady-bloggers one final rose after another

AND OH.EM.GEE! How could I leave out Joe Jonas and Rascal Flatts? They were there. And we were SO CLOSE to them. OK, so we couldn't stop giggling when Joe Jonas thrust pelvically toward all the cougars in the audience and handed out final roses to screaming moms, he did earn some points for reportedly saying during photos that he would probably become "someone's stepfather" that night. Those big names were definitely outdone by a lunch-time performance by the snarky, so funny, still-humble Chris Mann from "The Voice". Watch and vote, friends, he's worth it.

Rascal...


and Flatts


...or however that works.

BlissDom is a lot of glitter and loving on people and coupon bloggers and workshopping and tears. All of that is wonderful to each attendee for different reasons. And not all of it is exactly what I need. But because there aren't big line-ups of A-listers there and many of my regular bloggy laydeeez were not in attendance, the pressure was off to see people and be seen and network hard and be at every exciting, exclusive party. Instead, I could just cover myself in as much glitter as I wanted and let the days and parties and little moments unfold.

I came home completely exhausted and with nothing much left to say. I'd been there, to the joyous pants-peeing gangsta-rapping non-karaokeing circle-of-trust listening and laughing place I needed to be. If only for three days. If only so I could return to this space in a better place. And I have.

Slipping into a dress I wore in 8th grade

I have vowed to turn 40 fabulously this year. I will be wearing heels that make my chiropracter cringe and insisting upon skinny jeans and slathering on entirely too much glitter eyeliner. Sure, underneath all that will be heaps of heel pads, Spanx and moisturizer, but the outside will look fucking phenomenal.

Over the weekend, one of those miracle age-defying images came to life in my mother's living room.

"There's a beautiful pink dress for you!" Lil E squealed when I walked in the door. My mom had placed it, still wrapped in dry-cleaner plastic, lovingly on a floral-upholstered chair for me.

"Is it from a wedding you were in? Prom? WHAT?!" My mother was shouting that from the kitchen. She was at the stove, stirring something, surely.

I couldn't imagine where it was from. A pink dress?

But when I unwrapped it and saw that it was tucked in with my eighth-grade graduation robe, also a strange mauve color, I knew exactly where that mystery poof of satin came from.

I wore it in a quinceanera when I was fourteen. It was royal blue back then and the measurements appeard to be in the single digits. The gowns had been stored in the attic next to a crocheted dress of my mother's from the late 60s. Sun and dust and shame of the 80s had faded them. Once upon a time in the years of Sears training bras and size-zero stirrup pants, I wore these gowns. My arms slid into the Barbie-bicep holes and the pleats flared out from my boyish waist. My hair was the biggest thing in the picture of me doing some choreographed dance with thirteen other girls in my class in honor of one of my friends.

"I bet you will look beautiful in that dress!" Lil E said. Damn, he's good.

I didn't tell him it was half the size I am now. Maybe less.

"Try it on," he added sweetly.

And so I carefully tugged on the zipper, still royal blue and perfectly in tact, and held my breath as I stepped into it. I would have done it properly - over the head - but I was afraid Wham and a whole bucket of rubber bracelets might fall out, maybe my red Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. That, and I might never loose myself and have to live out this decade swathed in a dress that now looks like a Golden Girls' comforter.

Inhaaaaaale and slide up annnnnnd....then something miraculous!

I might be almost 40, but dammit, I can still fit in that dress. A smidge squeezy, but come on! It covers all the right places (and then some).

"It IS beautiful! It DOES fit!" Lil E let out and naturally, I nodded and smiled.

I smoothed that satin across my chest and waist and stood taller: That's right! I grew boobs! And a fetus! And something on my thighs clearly derived from Doritos and French Vanilla Creamer in the early 2000s! But that dress fits me like a glove.

A child's hand-me-down communion glove, but a glove just the same.

If you're going to judge by the way I work that grammar-school formal attire, then 40 is going to be just fine.

 

I might just have to buy myself a Cuarentanera dress, which I am thinking would be slightly more Rainbow than the lovely Traveling Red Dress Project. Not that the one from the quinceanera isn't divine and figure-flattering. It's just that these might better reflect where I am at this stage of my life now.But it's just so hard to choose!

 

Hot wheels and epiphanies: How to celebrate your divorce-iversary

The wonderful way the universe works is this: The day that my divorce was finalized falls over Epiphany.

The word itself defines that time in my life three years ago: A sudden realization of great truth.

The Christian feast day goes deeper: The arrival of the Magi to the infant Jesus, bearing gifts and beholding the revelation of this child as the son of God.

In some countries, it is recognized in concrete terms: The Holy Day of Obligation.

Others mark the time with what they hold was seen: The physical manifestation of belief.

I ponder this all in my heart with each passing year and take it as my own: Divorce-iversary.

Pardon me if that speaks sacrilege to you. Honestly, the shift from being married to being not took me to great spiritual depths. I love that the day my divorce was manifested on a stamped booklet of papers before a judge, 18 long and emotional months after a sudden realization of great truth, releasing all obligation, an unfolding of the hope I held tight, happened over Epiphany. What a gift.

So I celebrate.

There was a party and pedicures and cocktails. There was a quiet moment with the people I love most. This year, there is a car. A brand new, beautiful car.

This is me telling the car how beautiful she is.

This is me totally wigging out when she told me how pretty I am back. Alright, this is really me having a caniption that I wouldn't have to tow Big Red into the dealership by a rope and that I'd have free XM radio for a whole month AND locks that work without violating child labor laws.

Deciding I needed to bring glad tidings of new transportation was not a sudden realization. I've known it was time for over a year. But I decided to drive that mother into the ground to save some money and push back any chance of a spontaneous purchase that once nearly led me to buy a PT Cruiser. Vanilla white. Used.

Har, har. People, this is one of the funniest you can find if you search on "funny divorce bumper stickers." The second place one is up at the top of the post. Please, someone, make this change.

The car I was driving -- we took to calling her Big Red -- was not meant to be mine. My parents loaned it to me for "a while", which became a year, before I finally handed over the cash just to own it. I never loved it like it was my ride to freedom. I never even liked it. I just drove it, grateful to have a relatively easy solution to school pick-ups and drop-offs and little escapes out of town.

Big Red had been in fender benders, gotten scraped up, and survived a couple of real bruiser accidents. For some reason, snow snuck inside the car and the windows froze up on the inside every time the temperature dropped. Then the locks shorted out and Lil E became responsible for locking and unlocking my car door from the inside to spare me the embarrassment of leaning over the seats in front of the school kids and PTA and God every morning. It still had a cassette player. The steering wheel was strangely covered in a make-up -like film that could not be scrubbed away. Then came the clanking. It was something about a u-joint, maybe? I just know it only settled down between the speeds of 37 and 40, making it too easy for me to speed in my unlocked, mix-taped, icebox of a car.

I scrambled at the end of the year to make the car purchase happen, but schedules and holidays stepped in the way. The next free day to visit the dealership just happened to be that one day. It seemed right, it seemed good, it seemed like the time to move on.

And so after a lengthy journey through the hills and strip-mall-lined frontage roads of the suburbs, after negotiations and numbers dealt by fast-talking and cigarette-waving salesman,after conferring with my dad, I found just what I was looking for, tucked in the corner of a paved lot as the sun set over rows and rows of shiny compact sports utility vehicles.

There it was, black as the night sky with inviting leather seats bearing the sassiest red-threaded stitching. I'd been seeking Graphite Blue swathed in gray leather, even had a vision of a charcoal-colored car. But there was the one I was meant to find, on the night it seemed right to make an offering for it.

I said goodbye to Big Red, one of the very last representations of that time, of these years I have made my way toward a new life. It had taken me far -- many more than miles. I climbed into my new car -- sleek and shiny and fully-loaded -- ready to hit the road again.

Where will I go in this baby? I don't know yet. Maybe the thought will come to me suddenly one day. Or maybe I will just cruise along this year, taking my time and enjoying every bit of this gift.Especially the heated seats.

Yes, this side of divorce definitely deserves heated seats.

 

 

Look back:

• Finally, it's final
• The divorce-ibration
• One day I'll forget this day. Until then, I'll celebrate
• A funny thing happened on the way to the wedding website

Friday Shoegasm: Dear Internets, I am so sorry about this

I've spent a lot of time and space on my screen and conversations using language even a shameless shoe whore like me cringes at to describe my hatred of the Ugg over the years. And honestly, it sickens me that it has been years. That's a lot of cussing I could have spent more wisely on the wireless printer I spent $400 and six hours of phone calls with HP but could never get to work, or about Gwyneth Paltrow, or at Bravo for choosing to air "The Notebook" all weekend instead of "Real Housewives" reruns.

But, no, I've put so much hatred into those horrid non-waterproof boots that I stopped seeing their real brand-name and convinced myself they are really labeled Ugghs. And that was fine with me, even when they came from Kohl's and Target and in lavender with crystal-studded skulls embellishing the faux suede sides just below the faux sheerling cuff.

I would rather, I reasoned aloud on many occasion with girlfriends who may have tried to justify the Uggh Boot to me in my five-inch hidden-platform cowboy boots, have on four layers of wool socks and some kind of electric blanket rigged up inside my jeggings than wear those god-awful boots out in the world!

And I meant it.

Until December 1st.

Best gifts for kids after a divorce

Oh, how a parent, particularly one who is going through or has just been through a divorce, wants the holidays to be magical, restorative, everything for their kids. And there's just too much that can interrupt the sweetness and snow.

I've been through a few of these holidays. I've passed by windows decorated with Harry Potter and Santa with his miles-long nice list in department stores that smell like Chanel perfume and faux fur on my way to the courtroom. I've yelled back at my ex on the porch on Christmas Day while my mother distracted my little boy inside. I've sobbed into my dad's chest after sending my son off with his father only hours after Santa visited. Those moments were tough. But the days, the actual holidays themselves, were also wrapped up in a lot of hope and calm. Maybe because, after all of that, I needed them to be, we needed them to be.

Things are better now. Mostly. What I've learned is to hold on to the time with my son that I do have. And to put thought, rather than just money, into the holidays we share together. It's easy to throw a debit card at a holiday to make it feel BIG! WONDERFUL! PERFECT!, especially when the child will head off in a Honda CR-V to his dad's house where there it will surely be BIGGER! MORE WONDERFUL! EVEN MORE PERFECT! It's easy to make the gift-giving a game, with your kid in the middle (again).

I do buy gifts. Maybe more than I should (I'm working on that). Aside from the ridiculous Lego sets with 8,000 pieces and 400th stuffed animal and play kitchen kitchen that took five hours to assemble, I've learned that the gift that really means something has always been the one that I've put my whole, throbbing, sometimes-terribly-broken, often-gushing heart into for my son. It's the gift that says, "This isn't what it used to be. And I see that means for you. I love you and I get it." 

It's the gift I make or buy that puts away a joint parenting agreement, an irrational text message, even an hour or two alone next to the Christmas tree to validate what the small child is experiencing. Of course, it's not the only time he (or your child, I am quite sure) has been the focus of love and attention during a divorce -- many of us leave our relationship with the kids' other parent because we want their lives to be better. Still, it's the opportunity to pad what can be time that's full of heartache and hope for everyone in every house.

Do you have a child you'd like to give something more than a LeapPad Explorer or American Girl armoire of outfits? Here are the gifts you can give a kid you love whose family is in the midst of a separation, divorce or big change that will tell them (and remind you) that it's all going to be OK.

Seedling DIY Family Kit ($40) - Your child's family (and many children's families) probably aren't made up of the standard dollhouse foursome anymore. This kit is an artistic, empowering, lovely way of acknowledging that's perfectly fine. You and your child can decorate the wooden people to make up the  people in your family that feel most familiar. 

Where you hang your hat

When the Not Boyfriend comes to see me, he travels light and he always carries a hat. His leather duffle is never at maximum capacity. His camo National Guard backpack safeguards only  a few items - a book, his laptop, earbuds, a small notebook where he keeps track of to-dos and ideas. Somewhere in there or upon his head, sits a chapeau. Usually a fedora.

I love his hats, not just because they are classic and dapper in a way most Docker-clad, worn-brimmed baseball-capped men don't care to be (save the hipsters...thank God the hipsters are keeping this whole granny thing a-goin', one pair of Harry Caray ginormous plastic glasses and salvaged Don Draper hat at a time). I also love that it is so him -- attentive to details, like a little wink across the room or just the right flavor of half-and-half in the fridge.

[keep reading after the jump]

Grateful: for our family's thriving self-image

Thank God the names are on these place cards. How else would we know who they belong to?

You won't find mine here. My hands were too greasy from wrestling my mother for the turkey wing. Rest assured, my turkey was totally descked out with a sparkly waddle, huge silver earrings and long lashes. My boy knows me. Too well.

My mom. Also fancy.

My brother. He's an engineer, so that's probably one of those wacky calculators with a hundred buttons those nerds use.

Looking for love: floating in the ocean

I've found it in a rush, trying to get out of the house in the morning.

I've found it over dinner, trying to get as much conversation and romance in as possible to one meal.

I've found it underfoot, when the universe saw me walking through stress and grief and sent a subtle sign to me to slow down just for a moment.

And last month, waist-high in the ocean on our last day in Hawaii, after a week of stress detoxing in saltwater and sunshine, when an unfamiliar ease filled my brain and body, I glanced down and saw it again.

How to have a Ninjago party

 
You wouldn't be clicking on this post if you didn't already know that Star Wars Lego is wayyyy second-quarter 2011 and the ninja Lego who practice a precise and ancient plastic craft called Spinjitsu are totally au courant kiddie toy. If you haven't heard the name "Ninjago" 400 times in the last day-and-a-half, then I commend you on your finely honed parental ignoring skills or you can expect it to come in 3...2...

There was no contest what the theme of this year's birthday party would be. Or there wasn't after we decided Lil E's party would once again be held at his Tae Kwon Do studio, and after I (apparently ignorantly) suggested we somehow weave together Star Wars battles and martial arts to make some kind of killer intergalactic seventh birthday celebration.

I call this one "I get by with a little help from iCarly"

Sorry, Beatles. No, really. I am. I know my kid will one day hammer out "Imagine" on the recorder and we'll be good again. Until then, there is only this conflagration. At least it's neatly printed?

 

 

New favorite places: City Provisions

I've been meaning to stop in for ages, and last weekend, in between errands and a manicure and lady-talk with another single mama friend, I finally made it to City Provisions Deli. 

It sits on Wilson at Ravenswood, very close to where I once devoured fried ice cream in the dark booths of Zephyr, in a space that is open and airy and full of light. There are big, heavy stripped down tables, counter service and plenty of smiley, knowledgeable staffers to deliver your food, tidy up after you and ask if you are having a wonderful day. 

I love them enough for both Madonna and me

They are my favorite flower, hydrangeas. I adore them when the petals are a rich, steely blue. I gasp when I happen upon a bouquet painted in pinks ranging from faded to intense. I love single stems of white hydrangeas standing stoicly in a vase, commanding attention in the middle of a huge table. These, smeared with the palest blue and yellow look like summer clouds or, at some angles, a swarm of butterflies. It's dreamy to describe them this way, but isn't how flowers, especially those you choose carefully, pay money for, place carefully around your home where you will wake up or glance away from your screen or rest your eyes and see them?

There are no Zen masters, only Zen plastic

Many emails from the Not Boyfriend are tagged with a saying that also is taped to his refigerator (right next to the calendar from August 2009). I've read it a thousand times. I have a feeling he'd say it is my journey to hear it a thousand more. 

There are no Zen masters, there is only Zen.

But what the Not Boyfriend, with his shaved-head practice and divinely timed inbox and icebox reminders may not have known is that Zen is carefully built piece by interlocking piece, placed upon a glassy surface to rest delicately and float staunchly. Then smeared like a mofo with some kind of invisible shield of crazy glue.

At least this incarnation of the Lego lotus of enlightenment is. And in our house, when all else fails, we let go and Lego.