Sassafrass

Black Fridaygasm: Each of my grrrlfriends is getting one of these for Christmas

Sorry to spill the secret so early in the season, kittens. Urban Outfitters is speaking our naughty knitwear language and I must answer back ($78 and so worth it!). Imagine how much more fun dinner at your granny's house and the office Secret Vague Winter Mascot gift exchange will be while you're wearing this little cardy.

Mix a few butter baby shots with the entertainment of watching the IT guy not stare at your mittens and you've got yourself an evening of hilarity!

I highly recommend pairing my delicious winter wear gift with tights, just like this 11 year old model has. Of course, you'll need proper shoes, making this the perfect time to whip those Halloween boots back out. Add a sprig of mistletoe to your feather headband and you'll be a cozy package of yuletide joy!

Speeding the pace

Years ago, I participated in what was then the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk. The challenge was to team up with several of my grrrlfriends and walk 60 miles over three days.

Since it was long before the economic dive in this country and because I am fortunate to have many loved ones who care about this cause the way I do and were able to make donations of all amounts, the fundraising was easier than I imagined it would be.

The training was harder. But I treated it like an A-student doing a social studies project. I walked and I walked and I walked. I walked miles and miles to Wrigley Field and back in a thunderstorm. I walked up and down side streets in neighborhood after neighborhood. I walked on treadmills next to the old men in tube socks and slippers who live at the Y. I walked on forest preserve trails and on the sculpture walk to the 'burbs and around and around and around my block, until I was confidently and completely prepared for the event.

It's about time for a new challenge. It's not like I need another thing on my list. But when Foodmomiac asked me to join a team of mom bloggers in training for a relay next summer, I said yes without thinking twice. We won't know for a few weeks if we'll actually get to run in that relay. But if we do, each member of the team will run three legs of four to six miles. It seems like a long time away, but friends, I have a lot of work to do.

The difference between this challenge and all the walking I did years ago is that running scares the hell out of me. I've tried many times to force myself into loving it but have never committed to it long enough to let that feeling grow from the the place where the sheer disdain for it lived. Still, I've had many opportunities to bow out of this commitment already and I am still in. I am still signed up. I am still doing it.

I don't know why, but I have an idea I need something big, powerful and hard to work toward that is not about my job, Lil E, or anything or anyone else. I think I need to prove to myself -- once again -- that I can do this. I've hidden in the safety and serenity of yoga and walking, and that has been necessary and wonderful in slowing myself and my life down to manageable gait. But sSomething is pulling me, step by step and breath by breath, out of that.

The training schedule officially starts December 8th. But after reading this ass-moving brilliance over at All & Sundry and hearing how inspired Foodmomiac is about adding a half-marathon to her own training schedule, I decided to start early.

I won't be fundraising for this event. But I certainly can use your support. If you see me lapping the park near my house, feel free to fall in line with me. If you have words of playlists, advice or your own inspiration to share, please do. If you want to join me in running toward a new and big challenge, I'd love it.

For now, I'm taking this as I am trying to take everything else right now -- one time at a time until it really does feel good and I can honestly say I am just as confident, prepared and anticipatory as I was all those years ago.

Postcards from Halloween: Before and after dark

Halloween went, as these divided holidays often do, just fine. Lil E got to spend a few hours in our neighborhood with four other boys (and two toddler girls -- one as a bug and one as a garden gnome...so funny -- who tried very hard to keep up with the super heroes and Rebel Alliance representatives who sped up and down the steps of each house). After a breather of passing out candy to kids from our own front porch, he took off for the suburbs with his dad for more trick-or-treating. 

The next morning, he happily agreed to send his very-full pumpkin bucket of candy back to his dad's house and turned in a big pile of mini chocolate bars we had here for a Star Wars action figure. Not to worry -- there are plenty of Reese's left in our house, but I am loved that the tricks I touted on channel 5 Saturday morning actually worked once Sunday rolled around.

 

 

I also admit I had a great time sipping my treats on Saturday night with one of my favorite grrrlfriends. Although I haven't been out to a bar or adult party on Halloween in years and years, the scene was pretty much the same -- lots of priest costumes, some puke on the bathroom floor, and the obligatory sexy nurse working her way up and down any Mad Hatter, Michael Jackson, or NASCAR driver who came her way.Oh!  And a very drunk shiny cop. It was good fun.

 My favorite costumes of the night? The dude with the baby from "The Hangover", Billy Ray Cyrus and one of the Texan polygamist's wives. The cult wife costume lady said she just HAD to take a picture with me, which made me think maybe we both were dressed as people being lured to the Dark Side. 

Despite my failed prediction that there would be a lot of Balloon Boys and Kate Gosselins, there was a Mr. Incredible who took a shine to my friend. He's apparently looking for just the right lady to wear the Mrs. Incredible costume he has hanging in his closet at home. No, really. I think he might have to keep looking, but I let him try on my Leia wig anyway.

The final pic: Leia's very practical running shoes and the cowgrrrl's roping boots.

Friday shoegasm: The shoes that go with every costume

Why yes, Party City does have a shoe department. That is, they have a bunch of extra-whorey shoes crammed in between the rubbery-scars-and-toxic-glue kits and goth wigs that are strangely and accurately styled.

Looking over all of the skeezy costumes some women (who are these women? Not me! Noooo, never *cough* me) feel obliged to squeeze themselves into (this is not a slam on anyone's size...I am not about that. It is a slam on the nasty ass polyester that shows everyfreakingthing and is ever-ill-fitting), I have come to the conclusion that we all need a pair of poorly made shoes that can transition from costume to costume, from year to year.

And so, after much deliberation over jingle bell janky boots and something strange called "sports boots" and gangster booties I am not ashamed to say I would wear on November 1st, the winner is...

White patent thigh high boots!

Are you worried that they are a little too sexy-nurse for your sexy cop outfit? Concerned that they won't complement your Kate Gosselin wig or skankified pirate get-up? Worry not.

After all, according to the savvy stylists at Party City (who apparently need a copy editor more than I do here at Sassafrass), here's how these babies  with the 5-inch heel and stretch glossy patent material will address your dress-up dilemmas: "These boots adds more sexy to any sexy outfit, while giving your silhouette a knock out look!"

See? Solved!

No? Not going to do it for the slutty poly-frock you're going to wear? Dammit! Well, at least they are going to help me work my Princess Leia out after the trick-or-treater is sound asleep at his dad's house.

Now, does Party City make a clutch bag that can fit a light saber?

Final question: For the love of breast enhancement, who in the world would purchase these or these from Party City? I mean, unless you also have to pick up a case of tiny bubbles and orange plastic tablecloths to go along with your cutlets. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Three minutes (or a week) of real beauty

I love that this week is Fat Talk Free Week, an international campaign to bring activism and awareness to the damage the skinny ideal has on all of us, and particularly on women. I think it's more than good, it is critical, to set aside the fat-assery and self-deprication and be a part of a bigger cause to help girls and women live freer, richer, more authentic lives.

The interwoven issues of body image, eating disorders and the media representation of women have been at the center of academic, professional and personal lives for as long as I can remember. Still, I do not dare calculate the minutes, hours, painstaking time periods I've spent worrying about my size, stretch marks, and tiny details of my body. Nearly every woman I have ever roomed with had an active eating disorder. Almost every woman I have ever known has struggled with negative body image. Most of the parents I know worry about how they will raise their daughters and sons to be impervious -- or victorious -- in the ongoing challenges of being healthy and feeling good without anxiety, abuse, addiction, misperception, depression, and self-hatred. It's hard. What could we do if we harnessed all the energy that goes into pursuing unattainable and ridiculous ideals? I suppose that, with luck and commitment, this week we shall see.

I'm going to be a part of this campaign. And I am going to start by posting this video (via Guy Kawasaki -- thank you) of 500 years of portraits of women in less than three minutes. It is haunting and beautiful. It made me want to cry. And paint. And tell my grrrlfriends how beautiful they are. What I see here is mostly in the eyes, and I loved that. I loved focusing in right there.

In the interest of fueling creativity, passion, empowerment, a few minutes of some true beauty, please watch.

It's always good to know where you stand

Oh, Google searches. They're like that one grrrl in middle school you hung around with all the time even though she would call and bait you into talking shit about some other grrrl in your class while they were silently listening in on the line.

The one your mother didn't approve of, and you understood why but fought back anyway. The one who swore she wouldn't really kiss that boy with the feathered hair you liked so much during Seven Maybe Two Minutes In Heaven but then bragged to the whole class that she did anyway.

The one who taught you important things -- like which pages in Forever to flip to first and how to crimp your hair -- but then didn't invite you to her totally major end-of-year boy-grrrl pool party at the JCC.

Google is the new her. You love it, you feel you need it, you make it 16 friendship pins to put on it's Tretorn laces, and then it does incessant little things that make you think maybe, just maybe, you are being totally suckered.

Google doesn't steal the feathered-hair boy away from your clutches or announce to the 7th grade you got your period. Google just sends wackadoodle people to the front door of your blog by way of crazy searches. 

Searches that make you wonder where the hell you stand in the universe, or at the very least, the interwebs: "the dirt in corvallis"  (A far cry from my favorite and more popular searches for "britney's vajayjay" and "large black lady" -- I'm not kidding -- but somehow, this is a strangely compelling way to find me.)

Searches that make you feel like you are doing clock algebra when really it is just some PSAT prep question about trains that requires a simple formula but is dressed in a fucked up essay format: "dream" "mean"  (Huh? And how did something about a warrior's whiskey prayers arrive at the station before me?)

Searches that might make you hate your out of control body now but relish it years later: "just boobs" (75th? Really? Have you seen this rack? I mean...What's it take for a lady to move up in the ranks? And also to get away from the results above and below?)

Searches that make you wonder if you have actually died and gone to hell or if you are just eternally in grammar school: "lightning mcqueen underwear small for my age 14 years old" (I can't even bring myself to think too much about this one, let alone the fact that my blog comes up FOURTH for this search.)

Searches that, during the rare moment when the spotlight reflects perfectly off your braces and light up your upward-facing eyes, remind you that you are doing exactly what you set out to: "feminist thing" (Made better by the fact this one was by way of a Google Image Search -- because we all want to know what those "feminist things" really look like. Oh, who am I kidding? This search had me at "feminist".)

Oh, Google searches. I love you. I hate you. I want my bright yellow v-neck Shaker knit sweater back.

Pumpkin with pumpkins

We took a day this weekend and drove to Wisconsin to see some dear friends who we haven't seen in far too long -- since the day after our family changed forever, to be precise. We pulled in to their driveway as very different people and still, once we exchanged hellos and hugs and reintroduced the kids, it was really very much the same as it always was.

Lil E got to geek out on Star Wars with the boys, playing, dueling light sabers, and watching "Return of the Jedi" on a projection screen. I got to spend a long time catching up with one of my favorite friends, Katie, about little details and major life transitions.

As we talked, I kept having flashes of all the moments Katie and I had, beginning as coworkers and quickly becoming friends. There were many escapes from our offices to eat chicken dumpling soup and whisper about the conservative old men we worked with. There were Halloween parties with cauldrons of sangria and crazy suburban scrapbooking get-togethers and secret meet-ups to edit resumes. There was the moment that I believe defined our friendship, when Katie called during my first attempt at letting Lil E cry it out during nap time. I picked up the phone sobbing almost as much as my baby was in the other room.

"Jessica, listen to me carefully," she said. "Go in to your bedroom, close the door, and talk to me. Trust me. He will be OK."

Every ten minutes or so, she would pause our conversation and ask if I could still hear cries. Finally, 47 minutes in, he'd stopped.

"You did it," she said calmly, sweetly. "You survived. I'm proud of you. Now call me at nap time tomorrow and we will do it again. And again and again until he goes down without crying."

I will never forget the care and the guidance she gave me that day, how she helped me carry out the choice I'd made and how concerned she was that I was as safe, sound, and OK as my boy.

Today, Katie and her husband and boys took Lil E and me to a pumpkin farm, where the kids climbed bails of hay, did somersaults in the bouncy house, squeamishly fed llamas and goats from their own wiggly hands, and picked out pumpkins to take home. As we tromped through a corn maze with our silly, leggy, talkative boys, I asked Katie if we would have ever believed the scene if we'd been shown it on fast forward ten years ago when we met.

"Oh no!", she laughed, and I tried to imagine what we looked back then in our suits and with our Franklin Covey day planners, what was important to us, what we dreamed lay ahead of us.

It wasn't this. But this...this is so much better.

The only change I'd make is seeing Katie and her family more often.  But even if it is another two years before we meet in person again -- and I am going to do my best to make sure it isn't -- I know we will be back up in Wisconsin, picking out pumpkins and picking up right where we left off with each other, no matter how much our lives may changed.

Just when you thought I couldn't be more chatty

As some weeks go, it has been an on-air one for me. I'm busy talking fall fitness on the radio for my job here -- including one ahh-oooga! ahh-ooga! show with DJs (I kid you not) Wienie and The Butt this morning (oh, the sweet life) -- and am preparing for a few Halloween segments over the next few weeks.

This afternoon, I get to take a break from abs and high-fructose corn syrup rants to talk with the lovely and inspiring Honoree Corpron Corder, author of The Successful Single Mom, and Morgan Day Cecil from ModernMarriedMama. I am thrilled to be a guest on their Blog Talk Radio show, Single Mom Revolution Radio, during the lunch hour today.

We will be talking about the very real heartaches and opportunities of dating and break-ups (and of course, shoes) when you are a single mama. All you have to do is tune in here, dial in  if you have a question or comment, and laugh, nod, or sniffle along with us if you really hear what we're saying. 

If your kids are whining or you can't blast the streaming audio in your cubicle or some phenomenal shoe sale is calling to you, worry not. I promise to post the link to the segment here soon.

In the meantime, fire away the questions you have you'd like to hear us address!

Just a sidebar: My first Blog Talk Radio experience on Single Minded Moms Radio was so positive and empowering and led me to become friends with the very talented Matt Logelin and made me raise my hand in sisterhood with Alaina from Ms. Single Mama and Jessica from OSoloMama. I just chose not to discuss dating at that time. Now, kittens, I can spill all the details freely.

Postcards from the Oregon coast: We dipped our toes in the ocean

To a Midwestern city grrrl like me, there is nothing closer to heaven than feeling the tide rise up to meet your ankles, seeing the stars clear and bright in a dark sky, and hearing any natural sound above the screech of cars and sirens and skateboards. 

I love my home in the city and it us truly where we belong. But my heart is at ease at the ocean, on a hiking trail, and where the foul smell of patchouli almost is over-powered by the aroma of good coffee and much better microbrews.

We left the patchouli stench of Corvallis in the last weekend of our first solo vacation for the coast of Oregon. We weren't solo at that point. My good friend Paula accompanied us, and made arrangements for us to stay at a lovely little hotel right on Nye Beach, just outside of Newport.

Any anxieties of work or anything else left my body the moment I saw the blue of the ocean. As I always do when I hear the waves clamor against the sand, I felt small, insignificant, at ease. There is nothing like that feeling, nothing like a reminder of the speck of sand you are in the universe to make it easy to put off (maybe even forget) deadlines, dating, dealing with an ex.

Lil E wanted to surf in the Pacific (I love him). But once he felt the water on his toes, he conceded to just running along the tide line in the sand. We did eat great seafood and shopped in lovely little boutiques. We woke up the sea lions who lazed at the Newport piers by barking at them. We went for a tour of one of the best aquariums in the country, petted the starfish and rays, stared at the tanks of amazingly beautiful jellyfish, and clapped as the seals and sea lions performed tricks during feeding time.

One day, though, I promised him we'd be back in wetsuits to ride some of those waves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Postcards from Corvallis: And he ran, he ran so far away

Ten years ago, I couldn't wait to drive out of Corvallis, Oregon for good. I left with a wad of cash The Ex and I combined from our closed bank accounts, driving a UHaul, pulling a 1981 green Volvo station wagon. I was delirious and in a tradition my college roommate and I started when we screeched out of the small Missouri town for breaks, I flipped off the whole city as I drove away.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck you, Corvallis!" I screamed. Rebellious, I know.

I thought of that last week when I drove over the bridge where I once flailed expletives. This time, I was driving into town. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and let the happiness to be back fill me up.

I never imagined I'd return to Corvallis this way, with a boy in the backseat clinging to a light saber, visiting friends I haven't seen since I was married, relieved to reclaim this part of my past.

I went to grad school in Corvallis, laughed often at being a Women Studies major at a school that chanted "I'm a Beaver Believer." While I lived there, I was an adjunct professor, a nanny, a waitress. I lusted after a surfer, put up with a bartender, fell in love with an engineer, and found the person I thought was the one. I returned over the years to visit friends, eat my favorite dishes at the bistro where I worked, defend my thesis and claim my degree, and hope I'd run into the baby girl who I once helped raise during her first year.

Now we were back to see one friend, the fabulous Paula, who runs a blueberry farm with her husband on the outskirts of town. We came to Corvallis to wander around and just enjoy the town for what it is -- pretty, smallish, very Oregon. 

I also wanted to show Lil E the places where I lived, where his father and I met and shared a home, where that history was forged. It felt important for him to see if he will ever understand the whole story of our family, so that neither of us gets stuck in the transition or or pain drama or last couple of years.

We took refuge on the blueberry farm. We only ventured out to tour all those old apartments and a bit of Oregon State University. We stopped in for pizza and salad at an old favorite, American Dream, and find another bartender friend at a new restaurant, Aqua. Most of our time was spent walking in between aisles and aisles of blueberry bushes, cuddling up to our friends' many pets, and relaxing under twinkly lights in the hot tub Lil E kept calling the "warm pool."

The most precious postcard from this part of our trip took place in our first few hours there. After driving out to the edge of the farm and collecting buckets of blackberries and blueberries, our hands stained with the evidence of all we ate while we were out there, we climbed in the golf cart to head back to the house. Lil E asked politely if he could run along side with the dogs rather than run. It was a long way back to the house, but we agreed, cheering him on as he ran and ran and ran and ran all the way home.

We laughed when he did double-takes when the road forked through different rows of bushes and as he pumped his little arms hard to keep up with the dogs and outrace our cart.

He was so determined. And still, a sense of peace and freedom emanated from him.

I loved watching him, loved that I captured a bit of it. If it is possible, I loved him even more in those minutes.

We're back, I kept thinking. I am here with my boy and we're back.

Yes, we rode the Beaver. Shush it.

 

 

 

Casey, the not-always-friendly horse, loved Lil E.

 

Cooling off in the shed with an ice-cream sandwich and dogs Porter and Rex.

 

On the river walk just outside the restaurant where his dad and I met. I rode my bike on this path and pushed another mother's child in a stroller along the river on many summer days. So lovely to share it with my son.

 

 

Postcards from Portland: The first bit

It was time for me to go back to Oregon. I missed it terribly, needed to see two of my best grrrlfriends who live there, wanted to use the time Lil E and I had to travel in some simple and sweet way. So I booked our tickets and we headed to the Pacific Northwest for my first time in almost three years.

I went to graduate school in Oregon, and it was there that I met The Ex. When I was ready to move, he chose to join me, and we U-Hauled toward my hometown. That was ten years ago. Before our divorce, we returned to Portland several times a year, spending most of our time with his family and trying to make room in the schedule for friends, side trips, reminiscing little dinners at favorite restaurants. That seems like was a lifetime ago.

This trip, I decided, I would see Oregon on my terms, in my own way. Lil E didn't argue. He was just happy to have a backpack full of tiny toys and puzzle books for the airplane ride.

The ride is long and boring but when the plane dips down toward the mountains, the hours of unfiltered air and (someone else's) screaming babies are worth it. Once in our rental car, driving and up- and downhill into Portland, my heart opened up in my chest and tears welled in my eyes.

I felt like part of me -- a part that has been quietly tucked away for too long -- was home.

 

Ladies, black shirts, boobs. It's how it's always been with us. You can't mess with a 14-year formula like that.

We began our week with my friend, Lulu (no introduction needed; I'm sure you already love her from this and this). Lulu's has a thriving pet business, taking dogs on adventure hikes and jaunts to the park, and hosting animals at her house most days. Lulu and Lil E immediately hit it off, not only enamored with each other but with each dog she introduced us to. Lil E became her apprentice, racing off to get treats for the pups from her doggie cookie jar, petting them, whispering to them, and coaxing them into chasing a ball or Frisbee or him through the yard.

 

Boy, dog, both smiling.

[Click on through to continue reading, lovelies. Or at least make it through these pics. And not just because it took me four years to upload them. Because I am pleading because they took four years to upload.]

Now if only we could all meet up for (more) lattes and gimlets

Are you tired of reading about my gallavanting about during BlogHer? Too bad, there's more. But I cross my heart that I'll keep it simple. I just could not let another post go by without offering up a word about some of the amazing women I saw last weekend. And when I say "a word", I really mean a word.

This time. Normally, I'd promise that but then go on and on until your drink was dry and the reasons to excuse yourself from the conversation were Rollodexing through your mind. Just this once, I mean it.

If you are not already reading these women's writing, please do. They are hilarious, clever, insightful, amazing. I loved seeing them in person and have delighted in getting to know their blogs for the first time or all over again. You must meet them, through words. Or if you are lucky like me, in person.

Chris from Notes in the Trenches - Gigglesister

Veep Veep - Tweetalarity

Mike Adamick - Cussbrilliant

Marcie from Grown In My Heart - Mustanglusty

Sahar from Fat Fighter TV - Inspirationlovely

Kristen from a bezillion blogs - OMGcrazyfun

Crazed Parent - Soulspeaker

Grace D (she gets two words, don't argue) - Forgiving, forgiven.

Did you get all that? Not to worry. You will when you read.

When you figure out which of these bloggers is pictured above, shout it out. She wore the wig so she deserves the love.

The Ford event redux: I wore flats for this, friends. Please pay attention.

A week ago, I asked you to tell me what you want in a car. I promised that I would pass your comments along when I met with the people from Ford and toured the plant. You came through and darlings, I kept my promise,  with your smart and savvy suggestions. I was so pleased that the many representatives from the company paid rapt attention at the What Women Want event. They wrote your stuff down, lovelies. On dry erase boards and big pads of paper. It was serious stuff.

Quite honestly, I went to this event both excited and skeptical. I was thrilled to spend the day with a group of amazing women bloggers -- some of whom I know well, some of whom I met that day but have admired for ages, and some of whom I was introduced to for the very first time. I was happy to see a car plant -- so far out of my realm and speaking to a geeky, techie part of me that I don't often reveal. I was also interested to hear what Ford is up to and, frankly, why as a woman I should care.

Then there was the skepticism. I am willing to listen but I am also a label-reader, a researcher, a person who was raised by her father to never opt for the bullshit unnecessary warranty. I went in to the event with that attitude -- open and also analytical.

7 ways to make sure your feet survive BlogHer (or any other big event). Especially if you insist upon wearing sassy shoes

You are all on your way to BlogHer, if you are not already here. My own BlogHer began last night, sitting around a table with some of the women who inspire me, support me, and make me laugh, think, and tear up the most. These are my friends. Seeing them was like finding my way back to the circle with my tribe.

One of them, the illustrious and lovely CityMama, challenged me to do a post of shoe recommendations for BlogHer. That was weeks ago. It has yet to be written. But I will tell you that I was shocked to see that the Crocs sandals she swore up and down to me really were cute but that I skeptically had to see in person actually (God love you, honey) really were cute. They are red and strappy and very sassy. She also swears they are comfortable, but only two days tromping through a giant hotel and around the city to an endless string of parties will reveal that (usually counted in number of gummy blister bandages).

Since your shoes are already on your feet, packed tight in your bag or lost at O'Hare somewhere, I will offer you these  7 tips for gracefully sashaying through the BlogHer weekend. Remember, kittens, hangovers subside but callouses are forever.

Do break in your shoes. I know you don't want to hear this and I know you will probably ignore me. But do know that even one night of clomping around your hotel room can help break in your shoes. Even more importantly, it is enough time to develop some red flags streaked across your toes and heels that will tell you exactly where to strategically place Band-Aids when you put them on to actually leave the room.

Don't worry if someone stops by for a libation or some pre-conf goss. If they've been to BlogHer before it won't even faze them why you are wearing clicky shoes with your yoga pants and last year's swag t-shirt.

Do fill your toiletry bag with Band-Aids and blister bandages. And not the generic kind that are way cheaper. Trust me. You will regret it. Instead, opt for the good kind. Band-Aids that are plastic-y (not the fibery ones or clear ones) that match no one's skin color stay put the best. When you are choosing blister gear, get the bandages that are gummy and protect existing boo-boos as well as prevent rubbing. You feet's pain and misery is well worth the eight or ten bucks you throw down for them, trust me.

Do buy a package of cushy inserts to take with you. I wear heels a lot, so I have a stock of these at the ready in my shoe organizer. If you don't pick up a package of three when you are buying Band-Aids. I recommend the pre-shaped ones you don't have to cut (recognizable as the cheap kinds, once again) that have adhesive tape to easily fit (and stay) in your shoes. If you do not use them, do stash them in your bag. If the balls of your feet start burning or your shoes unexpectedly start slipping off your heels mid-day, you will thank the goddesses of all things shoe whoreish that you have inserts handy.

Do carry a pair of flip-flops in your bag. I will not do the sensible thing and wear flats or tennies, so I will be sure I have relief in the form of flip-flops with me at all times.

Do wear wedges if you must wear heels. Wedges have a wider area to distribute the stress placed on the foot from being cranked up in high heels (as opposed to two tiny pressure points of the center of the heel and the ball of the foot). I find that I can wear wedges comfortably for hours beyond the adorable jobbies that look fabulous but are not meant for standing more than ten minutes. I bought a cute pair of satin and cork wedge sandals that I am hoping look and work just as fine with my jeans as with my party dresses.

Don't have any shame about skipping out on a session or meet-up to go up to your room and soak your feet in the tub. Fill the tub with just enough warm water,and bubbles or gel soap, and relax for ten or fifteen while you and your tootsies take a much-needed break. Consider it self-care from the very bottom up. Don't fret about what you are missing since you will re-emerge refreshed, re-energized and ready to stomp it out.

Bodies and babies, choice and control

[You will note by the wedding ring that this is clearly not a recent picture. No surprises, kittens, just an image to make this post look pretty. You may resume your reading.]

I meant to write about how my computer went crazy and then I did after being completely offline for two days. I meant to write about perfect little quiet spaces to escape the BlogHer mania while you are in Chicago. I meant to go on too much about something Star Wars-related or why in the world I didn't know Elton John and Billy Joel were playing just three miles west of me at Wrigley Field tonight. There was a list of a million little things I intended to put up on this screen.

And then my heart got all clenched up.

Perhaps it started weeks ago when I started watching "16 and Pregnant" on MTV. I couldn't help myself. I am compelled for some reason by teen pregnancy, by the girls and choices and stories attached to the young bodies we so easily judge, by where we are in this country with Bristol Palin and Jamie-Lynn Spears somehow (how again?) standing for so many young women standing in bathrooms and staring at their own pregnancy tests.

I watched week after week, drawn in by the profiled couples and their vulnerability, desperation, immaturity, hope and fear. Every episode, my heart broke a little.

Of course, all women have this choice to carry on or terminate a pregnancy, no matter our age or environment or family situation or socioeconomic status or prospects for continuing our education or getting a job that will support all of our own and our babies' needs. I believe wholeheartedly in that choice.

And still, I also know how much it takes to be pregnant, all counted in energy, attention, love, money, self-care. I can only imagine how high school and ended college dreams and a lack of parental support factors into that time and experience. How in the world do these girls make it through? I wondered that every time I watched them try to fit into a prom dress or study with a colicky baby screaming on their laps.

They just do it because they feel they have to, I thought in response to myself. They just do.

It could be that my heart started clenching up last night when I had dinner with an old friend over sangria and conversation much deeper than either of us intended. We talked about having babies at this age -- both of us are 37 -- and how that might happen.

Our heart-to-heart spilled over as we shared experiences of our own and of our other women friends, from fertility questions to infertility aching, abortion to adoption, choosing to parent with a partner to opting to go it alone. All of it came back to a teary, almost-whispered understanding of what it is to feel out of control, not just of whether to have a child or not, but of your body.

My friend's experiences and mine are not the same. Still, we had this tie between us -- we'd both been there, feeling the choice to mother or not had at some point slipped from our grasp.

It was powerful, hard and sweetly connecting to put all of that on the table, to share how two feminist, pro-choice, activist women had felt the pain of not feeling in control of our bodies.

Perhaps the clenching goes even further back, to the week before my marriage crash-landed, when I was obliviously and hopefully mapping out my ovulation, making sure our plans to try to conceive the next week were on track. Of course, that pregnancy never happened and there was great relief and grief followed.

There were also many months where I tried tried tried to get OK with the idea I may never have more children, holding fast to the deep understanding that Lil E is far more than enough to fill my life.The question still whispered, Would I ever have another chance? Would divorce make the choice for me or would I be able to choose if I had another child?

Maybe the heart clenching has simply crept in during small moments in passing on my maternity clothes, in the ovary flip of holding delicate handmade baby shoes, in watching a friend's baby clench his face in the most adorable scream, in fostering the fantasy that I can certainly slip a baby into a sling and work and live and thrive as a single mama to two children.

It's not that I am ready now -- no matter what you've read here that may lead you to believe that. I am definitely not ready to have another child right now. But what I do want is a stronger feeling that when I am, it will be possible, it will be a choice, it will be in my control.

It could also be that the tightest clenching came tonight during the season finale of "16 and Pregnant", when a high school junior and her boyfriend chose to give their daughter up for adoption. They did it with a sageness I've not yet seen on the show and despite their parents' awful and manipulative pressure to somehow raise the child in two highly dysfunctional, uproarious homes.

The high schoolers chose a married couple to raise their daughter, and there were the very real moments of hesitation, many reminders of why they made this choice and lots of tears. What gripped me was the boy, holding on to his girlfriend so she did not have to see the baby being pulled from her body, telling her over and over how he loved her, how they loved the baby, how they were all strong enough to let her have a happy life. More tears accompanied an awkward hand-off to the adoptive parents and then the parting words from this girl, who had only given birth and given away her baby days before as she spoke directly to the camera.

I hope one day to get to know her. I am at peace with my decision.

I watched, my palm subconsciously pressed to my chest, the tears falling on to my fingers. I wondered once again how this girl did this, how she made it through. Before the answer came to me, a voice over from the birth mother answered.

I just did what was in my heart.

In all its complexity and simplicity, there it was. In all of its heartbreak and heart healing, she just followed the answer she found there.

My own heart is still all tangled up. And this wisdom certainly doesn't answer the million questions about if and when and how I might ever have another baby.

But what I love, what I am going to cling to, what did help my own heart unclench just enough was the thought that followed, the feeling that filled me and made all the other things I was going to write about quickly slip away.

I may not have complete control over my body. But I can seek out peace with all that has come before  and what might happen with my fertility in the future.

Peace, peace. That might be the most critical and most difficult, most painful and most empowering thing to choose. Even as -- especially as -- a woman, a mother so adamantly pro-choice.

4 favorite Chicago places you absolutely must visit during BlogHer

Am I the only one getting a little anxious over all there is to do BlogHer weekend? How in the world are we ever supposed to pay attention to the conference schedule? Especially when there are so many fabulous places in Chicago to eat, toast each other, and devise wicked plans with our favorite lady-friends to take over the interwebs?

Since BlogHer is back in my city (thank you, very much), allow me to be of service to you in your time of scheduling mayhem and big city panic. Here are 4 places I personally think you must go to, if not frequent, while you are in town.

Mind you, these are not just good places. These are some of my very favorite spots in the city. And kittens, you know I would not steer you in the wrong direction in my very own town. Gather your grrrls and put these four places on your itinerary. Now. Seriously. I insist.

1. Violet Hour - This speakeasy-inspired lounge, I've been told, is the perfect place to take your mistress. Perhaps that is because of the high-backed chairs snuggled into dimly-lit pairs. Or perhaps because the louder bar area and the hallway where you will inevitably wait impatiently are partitioned off my smoky-colored velvet curtains. Whomever you choose to accompany you to this, one of my very favorite spots in the city, choose someone who will enjoy the Wicker Park people watching while you stand in line, will ooh and ahh over the gorgeous design and stunning marble bar and will sip one too many ginger syrup and rosehips cocktails with you once you get inside.

2. Anthropologie - If you have only ordered from the catalog or don't have one in your city and you want to shop Chicago style, skip the Magnificent Mile and hop a cap to Anthropologie (there is one on State Street and one on Southport in the Lakeview neighborhood). Trust me, you want to be inside this store. Flipping the pages of the catalog will be mere foreplay for you once you've been to one. The clothes are divine and the sale room is a corner of heaven. Whether you need a sassy little skirt, a pair of good ass jeans, a swingy evening cardigan or a shabby chic something or other to place on your desk when you get home, you will not regret investing in an Anthropolgie souvenir for yourself.

3. Moon Palace in Chinatown - Shhh, don't tell anyone but...one time I was eating with my parents at this family favorite restaurant and we saw Alpana Singh, the glowingly gorgeous, clever host (who has a killer blog) of Chicago's prideful "Check, Please!" show on PBS. When my mother said she has always wanted to write in to nominate Moon Palace to be highlighted on "Check, Please!", Alpana begged her not to. She said it would get too busy and she would be so upset if she couldn't get a table there (now don't the four of you go nominating Moon Palace and making me look bad in front of Alpana after I pinky swore her I'd keep silent). Normally, that would be enough said for a Chicagoan, but I must tell you to be sure to order the sesame chicken and Szchuan green beans. After dinner, wander in and out of the shops and be sure to get a giant bag of fortune cookies to take back to the hotel for after- afterparty noshing.

4. Isabella Lingerie - Of course, of course. You have plenty of Targets bra shops where you live. As much as I am sure you think the 20-jobbers you've been wearing thin are doing a fine job for you, you need to visit the Boobologist. And the Boobologist (or one of her many wonderful staffers) is only at Isabella Lingerie. Trust me and my grrrls (Danielle and Jeanne), this woman will do wonders for your girls. You will spend a lot of money. And when you see your boobs in BlogHer pics all over the the damn place, honey, you will know it was worth every penny.  Take a cab to Isabella in the Lincoln Park neighborhood, where there is very little parking and too many ex-sorors and guys jacked up on Armani cologne and their own biceps who live there to stay way too long. When everything's hoisted, head down the street to Lori's Shoes and try on some fabulous footwear. Also expensive, also hoisting, also fucking fabulous.

And then there was the big, bedazzled divorceabration

There was a lot to celebrate, well beyond the binder full of paper signed off by a stern judge in January and followed by the paragraph of auctioneer-paced legal jargon and ended with, "The marital union is dissolved. Ms. Ashley, good luck."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. It has taken years for the divorce to take place. It has taken a lifetime to get here. What my mom had in mind when she planned this event all came from a silly conversation we had somewhere in all of the muck and the mire. We needed to laugh and so we started talking about all of the sassy, evil, fun, raw, overdone ways we could get together a bunch women to be happy that I was free of everything that made me (and us) cry, rant, unable to sleep or eat for months, lash out, and eventually leave for good.

Maybe a dance-around bonfire to burn the bouquet? Possibly a dinner party to finally crack open the wedding china? A swanky something? A silly soiree? Whatever it was, it was going to be packed full of grrrl power.

It was a good plan, it was the same reason we were laughing so hard when the pain was the greatest. It would be something to look forward to, it would be a break from the binder, it would be a reminder that life would (eventually) go on. That there would be happy dancing somewhere in the great beyond.

 

The only thing I knew for sure was that I'd be wearing my wedding tiara. Mostly as a sparkly "Goodbye, lovahhh, you so pretty and shiny on my head."

We didn't know how fucking long it would take to arrive in that great beyond, but last Friday, it finally arrived. (It hasn't actually taken me this long to recover...I'm just lazy.) If this all sounds a bit too lovely, do know that the name of the whole shebang was nothing but. 

It started with buttons labeled Vamp, Feisty, Lucky and other great tags. My mom said everyone could pick their own. Except me. Since there wasn't Shoe Whore, I was Too Hot. (Thanks, Mama)

 

Yes, my mother insisted we serve this appetizer she enjoyed calling "Cut Your Own Sausage."

Thanks my friend Viola who I met in drama club in high school (go The Crucible senior play!), we called our night of spa-liciousness and drinks...

...wait for it...

[it's after the jump, swearsy]

Before the divorceabration, there was all of this

This weekend, there was a big party that marked a fresh start for me. But before we get into all of that, I thought I would once (and this is it, and this time I mean it) provide some context. Here's the rundown:

In April 1972, I was born. Stop calculating. I'm on the downslope of my 30s.

At some point in 1975, I had my first big crush. His name was Antoine. We called him Twany. His killer afro has a role in many of my preschool memories.

In the fall of 1977, I sat on the circle painted on the floor in my kindergarten class next the boy I assured I would be the stewardess on the plane he was determined to pilot. It's all good -- I was wearing a hot pink Ms. magazine t-shirt.

During the school year of 1983, I went to a sock hop at school. With a boy as my sort of date. We were so nervous, we never did dance together.

In April 1986, I had my first real kiss. He had braces. It was thrilling and sloppy.

In October 1986, I went on my first real date. The boy was 6 good inches shorter than me. Really.

In April 1987, I went on my first date with an older boy. A senior. He spent all of his money on a cab getting to my house since my parents insisted on meeting him before we went out. My dad drove us to Water Tower Place to see a movie and I paid (he should have taken the train) and when I dropped popcorn on my itty bitties, he grabbed it and ate it and laughed. Later he kissed me (much better without braces) and asked me to prom. The prom thing never materialized. I went home both thrilled and mortified.

In November 1988, I went to an all-ages show and met the boy who would become my first real boyfriend. Swoon. I was in love. Big time. I laughed, I sighed, I made mix tapes. It was so good for a moment in time. Until...oh, you know how teen love turns out. [So much more after the jump.]

All the single ladies, raise your drink up: Single mama mixer in Chicago

Layyyydayyys, I want to meet you. And so do my bloggy friends Ms. Single Mama and Modern Single Momma. That is why these two lovely women are hosting a meet-up in the Windy City tomorrow night. TOMORROW NIGHT! Quick! Call your sitters.

The event is open for women only (wah-wah-wah, gentlemen) and is a chance for us to talk about Tampax, Mac lipstick and boobs. Lots and lots about boobs (more crying, gentlemen). No, no no. I am sure it will all be about professional endeavors, parenting dreams and personal goal-setting. Really. I swear.

Won't you join us? Please do. I'm paying my sitter $15 bucks an hour and it needs to be really worth it.

See you downtown, kittens!

When: Friday, April 24th - 9:00pm until we all fall down.

Where: W Hotel, 172 West Adams Street, Downtown Chicago

Why: Because we can, that’s why. 

Who: Only women. Can be single, married, moms or not. But no men. (Sorry guys).

Putting my boobs to bed

Or at least I am putting by boob issues to rest.

Today, I had an ultrasound mammogram, the second in a series that has included many exams, lots of phone calls to insurance and scheduling desks, and innumerable worries. Lying on the table covered in warm goo, I closed my eyes and did a meditation. Inhaling prana, the breath of life. Exhaling any toxic, eating worry. It was out of my hands.

Within minutes, it was done and the doctor was reviewing all of my films and ultrasounds slides.

"There's not a thing here," he said. "You are completely clear."

I exhaled sharply. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath as he clicked through the computer, the meditation welling up in me until it had to escape.

He shook my hand, told me to come back when I turn 40 and to take good care.

I am going to do that. I swear. I swear on my empty boobs, full heart and deep breaths, I am going to take good care.

I can't think of a better birthday gift than to finally -- finally -- let this worry go.