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Thoughts

Making a case for Girls Day

August 25, 2015

Some of the dearest blessings in my life are my girlfriends. From adolescence through college and certainly my career, I have moved through each day surrounded by some of the most amazing women, and picked up new gems to treasure along the journey.

I’m attracted to friends who speak honestly, but with care. Who inspire me both with their strengths and vulnerability. Who trust me, don’t expect too much out of me and can hold their own. I fight hard for loyalty and except the same on the other end. I find the vast differences among my closest girlfriends fascinating; The fact that there is no one combination of traits, or absolute formula, that makes two people a match. My group of high school girlfriends (a few of which have been in my life far longer than that) are the fiercest example of diverse, strong ladies who’ve formed  bold, unbreakable bonds.

Every summer, we secure childcare, pick calorie-wasted tried-and-true Pinterest dishes, embrace clear, unforgiving liquor and head north for our Annual Girls’ Day at the Lake. It’s not just about the break – although that is part of it – it’s about the connections and the reminder that, before we were wives, mothers, employees, we were a really good time. And, hell, we’ve still got it.

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more than moms
Let’s be honest, women are, more often than not, the responsibility pack mules of a household. We’re the ones who make sure there are Apple-Nana GoGo Squeezes for their lunches rather than Apple-Strawberry, which we know she won’t eat. We notice the rings in the toilets, the clutter on the counter and whatever the hell that is caked on the bottom of the refrigerator drawers. Somewhere in the cluttered lines of our to-do lists, we often forget to pencil in fun and pampering and quiet. We replace it, rather, with some menial task that resolves some minor flaw in our home.

But on this one day, which typically doesn’t even span a full 24 hours, we aren’t “Mom”. It’s not that we don’t embrace and cherish that dimension of our lives, it’s that a free pass from fueling that functionality is refreshing every once in awhile. Allowing ourselves to be tipsy and stupid and listen to music with curse words and dance like the fools we used to be all the time is invigorating. The fact that we hang our grownup hats at the door and trade them for something a little less mature doesn’t make us bad mothers. It just makes us human.

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circle of trust
There’s a sisterhood that comes with shared experiences. While no two of our lives are identical, we have a wealth of shared memories and shared scars. We’ve faced divorce, loss, marital strains. We’ve welcomed spouses, children and careers. Some have moved, some have returned. It’s funny, while we always have this history to come back to, it’s who we are now, at the end of all of it, that makes those ties so tight.

As the date rolls around each year, it seems one of the girls is in need of support. There are typically tears, which I attribute to release. We all want to be heard. We all need someone to place their hand on our shoulder, at some point. But life can get pretty freaking noisy. After we have our fun, it’s the conversations before bed that make our hearts and minds a little lighter.

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laughing is good for the soul
Things happen at Girls Day. One-person kayaks, we’ve discovered, tip when two tenants try to pick up the paddle. Pontoons die unexpectedly, and can not be towed by the aforementioned kayak, but have to be pulled by out-of-shape swimmers. Power naps have been tested and approved. Everything is better with club soda and when all else fails, a fall will make some mother of two pee her pants every dang time. There’s laughing and then there’s those gut-clenching, silent laughs that follow something so stupid it brings tears to your eyes and knocks the wind out of your lungs. Those are the kind with aftershocks. Weeks from now you’ll be sitting in a dry meeting about something semi-vital and it will replay, unprompted, through your mind, causing an embarrassing fit of teary giggles.

reconnecting on memory lane
I know these women. I’ve known them since we were girls. While the tides have turned certain characteristics and dulled sharp edges, our group maintains its cast. The nurturer still looks on me with those empathetic eyes. The social chair is still the glue that holds our ties together when the strains of the weeks wear cruelly on them. The sensible one is my most familiar voice of reason. The tough one is still the object of my awe for her strength and resilience. The dreamer is off, catching all her stars. The winds change directions, they pick up or calm, but the strengths in these ladies stand so true at their surface and feel so accessible to me, like the smell of your mother’s kitchen and how it brings calm and happiness.

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Do you have a tradition with your girlfriends? Don’t wait for things to calm down. Hop over to Facebook, start a group message and get something on the calendar.

Thoughts

10 things Papyrophobics totally get

August 21, 2015

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For as long as I can remember, I have loathed paper. It’s smooth, but sometimes grainy, and it just feels dreadful and sickening when you drag your bare arm across it. Strange, for someone who became a writer, I know. Strange, also, just for a human being, but it’s very disruptive and, since it has an official name, very real.

I don’t know if mine is a full fledged fear – Papyrophobia is the term – or merely a severe dislike, but there are certain instances that make my insides shrink to raisins, my arm hairs rise and the tiny whisplets of baby hairs around my face stand up. Any time any paper comes into direct contact with dry, scratchy markers or dull, catchy pencil lead the situation escalates to a point where I have to excuse myself. Certain stock or flat finishes are my kryptonite. Now, if it’s worn, recycled or glossy, I’m good. In fact, when I was in college, I used to take a fresh sheet of paper, wad it up, crumple it real good, spread it back out and use that to write notes. (This, my friends, is called owning my weird.)

Here’s the shortlist of situations related to my self-diagnosed mild Papyrophobia that reduce me to a shrieking, shuddering pile of goosebumps.

1.Hell, for me, is a room full of cardboard boxes, 3 semi-dried-out Sharpies and a directive to label.

2.The only thing worse than being forced to write a 20-page essay on printer paper using a dull pencil while wearing a short sleeve shirt, is doing all that on warm printer paper fresh out of the machine.

3.Whenever someone walks over to show me something on a document, I say a silent prayer that they won’t drag their fingernail across the page to reiterate the phrase they’re trying to highlight.

4.The best thing to come from the digital revolution was the decline of newspaper.

5.Magazine publishers who choose that thick paper stock that feels like it’s tarred and feathered in sawdust for their cover are just showing off …and also, trying to ruin my life.

6.When I get my People magazine every weekend, the very first order of business is to go through, remove the inserts and throw them directly into the recycling. Even if Jennifer Aniston is on the cover.

7.Everyone thinks I don’t send Thank You notes because of my chaotic life and endearing forgetfulness, but it’s really those crisp, disgusting white envelopes. Let me take this opportunity to thank everyone who ever gave us anything or did anything thoughtful for anyone who lives in this home, with its Papyrophobia-riddled matriarch.

8.Handling a new manilla folder is the paper equivalent of a shot in the butt with a footlong needle.

9.The charm of a good library book is the worn, wonderful, soft pages. There’s nothing worse than a tightly bound novel fresh off the press. Reason 387 why I also adore a good audio book.

10.If anyone ever wants to break me, forget the water boarding, skip the starvation, and just wrap me like a burrito in one of those giant reams of construction paper they roll around in elementary schools and put a paper coffee cup in my hand. I will wilt before you.

Thoughts

243 minutes

August 7, 2015

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On my run last night, which took 47:51, I got to thinking about time; Specifically, where I spend it and who I spend it with. Dissecting an average work day, I see my chicks from 5pm – 9pm. If you count the glimpse I steal of them sleeping in the morning on my way downstairs and the brief encounter I sometimes get with Spike, you can add three extra minutes to that. So, that’s it. A lousy 4 hours and 3 minutes in a 24-hour day. But it gets worse.

More often than not, that’s a high estimate. If it’s a jogging night, we’re talking at least 45 minutes deducted from the already slim pot. A class at the gym? That’s 60 minutes. Girls night out? I’m lucky to get 40 minutes of face time with them. Then I start tallying the cooking, cleaning and shopping, and my soul shatters. How freaking sad is that to think about? And, if I want to further butcher those sweet seconds, I could go crazy analyzing which minutes are actually considered quality time. Time where I am doing my job as a mom rather than assuming the role of the moron multitasking bystander as their childhood playfully roars by without me.

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An unfortunate series of events has granted Hank a little extra time at home during the past 7 months. As much as we joke about his temporary turn as a “househusband,” the time has truly been a gift to me. Sharing the daily chores and tasks it takes to keep this place running has given me so many more opportunities to get down and wrestle with our girls. I can chew on Sloppy Joan’s neck and listen to giggles hiss out of her four-toothed mouth, because the laundry was already started. I can do airplane until my legs give out with JoJo, because dinner’s in the works. And I can sit in awe and listen to another imaginative Spike story, because the floors got swept this morning. I’m not saying it’s fun being on the other end of the broomstick, but it has been a huge blessing for the lady of the house.

But it’s ending. In a blink we’ll be back to two full-time working parents, with a child in kindergarten and, again, the hourglass is going to drain like a bottle of Moscato at a Mary Kay party.

I don’t know that there’s an answer or a solve for fleeting time. I’ve long yearned for the chance to go back in history, find the fool who implemented the 5-day work week, and beat him until he cries crocodile tears of regret and begs for my forgiveness, but alas, the gentleman (you know it was a man) eludes me. I’m also quite certain that the grass is greener concept is at play here. If I stayed home with my girls, truth be told, I’d probably end up hunkered down in my closet with an iPad full of Sex and the City seasons, a tapped Bota Box and a can of Reddi-wip, crying while the children beat each other into submission and the basic laws of human decency toppled one by one outside by bunker. I once asked my mother what she liked most about staying home with us kids and she said, “You know, I didn’t. Some people are meant to stay home and some people aren’t. And I wasn’t.” I respect her honesty and, while I think my kids are the most awesome specimens ever grown, I think I might not be one of those people either. Sometimes, you just can’t win.

I always try to make it matter. I want their memories with me to be full of belly laughs, muddy knees and wild adventures. I want to listen and I want to lift them up. I want them to know my eyes, rather than the top of my head or my back. I want more time, but since I can’t have that, I want more of the times you take with you; in your heart, in your dreams, in the stories you tell. Every moment spent is a moment you can’t get back and they’re fleeting at an obnoxious pace. All I can do is breathe it all in, let it fill me up with joy and let my soul’s compass point back to that feeling, that purpose, often and always.

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Thoughts

Being the new guy at work

July 28, 2015

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It’s been a month. Four weeks. Thirty-ish days. I am reporting to my new post for a fifth Monday, and I gotta be honest here, change is really, stinkin’ tough. It’s not the people; the people are great. They’re welcoming and thoughtful and many of them actually feel very familiar for some reason. It’s all the other things. The 8 trillion tiny nuances of your work life that are just a tad  off center.

New technology.
I never thought I would be that girl. The one who desires that distinguishing fruit on her laptop and operates by a handful of apps. But I am all the same. Earning my paycheck in the digital sphere has me married to luxuries like a sizable monitor, Evernote and mobile machines that sync and allow me to set up shop wherever I land. The way your devices speak to each other is a language you learn to live by, and changing that setup is like finding yourself at a dinner party in … say … New Orleans. You can follow the conversation but every now and again, you feel completely disconnected.

New secrets.
Offices have secrets. They all do. One of the most charming things about finding yourself on the veteran end of a corporate position is being one of the keepers of the secrets. Who stocks ibuprofen and StaticGuard. Who lets you “borrow” stamps. Which bathrooms smell like lavender and which ones smell like lavender mixed with unpleasant things. Where to find boxes. How to ship things. Where to score a cup of the best coffee and who is kind enough to serve up a splash of their creamer. Who comes in early. Who stays late. Who has the best candy bowl; You know, the one with the stuff that really makes it worth the calories. All of these secrets make your work day just a little easier to swallow, but I’m still drinking the crap coffee and couldn’t ship my pants if I had to.

New digs.
Office space, and cubicles in particular, are very tricky. You have to strike a balance between color and conservative. Inspirational and efficient. Cute and corporate. No one wants to stare at vanilla corkboard 40 hours a week, but you don’t want a mammoth shrine to your posse at home, either. I find it best in a situation like this to introduce my obsession with my children in small, digestible doses. First, a few Stickgrams, followed by some of their finest artwork and then a few quotes for good measure. It’s like planting mint in the garden. It starts as a few sprigs and sprouts into a sweet, overgrown garden.

New paperwork.
I just can’t. I’m pretty sure that everyone with dealings in insurance, retirement funds and your assorted additional benefits got together in a large room and decided to throw a smattering of complicated, indecipherable jargon on a binder of papers and then tell you to make copies of all of it to store in a file folder for, like, forever, until referenced in some obscure way 18 months from now.  Stupid. Just so stupid.

New crew.
There are folks who have a masters in networking. They’ve studied the art of small talk and flattery. Put them in a room of bees and they’ll leave with barrels of honey. I am somewhere a step below those people. I love a good conversation, particularly when it involves something I know about, or want to know about, but going in cold usually just leaves me feeling frozen. Typically, one familiar, friendly face can thaw and save any social situation, but when every face is a new face, I tend to resign myself to an awkward smile and excessive coffee drinking. I miss the days of a stranger being the exception and water cooler conversations about more than the weather. We’ll get there. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

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Thoughts

You, me and all our friends

July 21, 2015

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I consider myself a semi-respectable, hard-working, somewhat productive member of society. But for one night every summer, I like to let go of the reigns and raise my freak flag high, and that flag has a fire dancer for sure. For more years than I can count – minus a couple of misses due to things like labor and delivery – Hank and I, and a few of our favorite friends, have gathered in the great outdoors to eat, drink and be merry, and get just a touch stupid at the Dave Matthews Band concert.

Now, I realize that the king of happy feet isn’t everyone’s favorite flavor, and that’s actually neither here nor there. The important thing is, it feels damn good to stop being “Mom” and “Dad” for 8 hours and opt for jello shots, tone deaf singing and drunk dancing in lieu of diarrhea diapers and sisterly squabbles. It’s easier than I care to dwell on to lose yourself in the hamster wheel of roles and responsibilities. But standing in an open-air venue with thousands of your closest strangers, screaming lyrics that mean something different to everyone, but something to everyone all the same, always feels like rediscovering your younger self.

But being in touch with your younger self doesn’t mean you actually become your younger self; a realization that jolts me awake with an abrupt and heartless bitch slap more so year after year. Bruises and a bad back trump the temporary relief of a greasy entree and carbonated cola. Let’s run through some of the glaring discrepancies between the decades …

(Full disclosure: I already confessed to my chronic face sweating, so don’t adjust your screen. Grab your sunnies and prepare for the glare of a girl glistening in the best heat summer had to offer.)

Dave in our 20s
15 people sitting on laps in a small SUV.

Dave in our 30s
Good ole’ swagger wagon, baby.

Dave in our 20s
Peeing in a wide open field.

Dave in our 30s
Pumping in the third row seat.

Dave in our 20s
Funneling and forcing beers down my minor-aged throat right up to the gate.

Dave in our 30s
Bending over and taking the $27 tab for two beverages like the adults we are.

Dave in our 20s
Lawn with all the stinky campers.

Dave in our 30s
Pavilion with all the people who don’t even like the band.

Dave in our 20s
Rush to beat the parade to Taco Bell after conceding there won’t be a second encore.

Dave in our 30s
Rush to relieve the sitter so she can go downtown and meet her college friends.

Dave in our 20s
Hangover cure: Sausage and Egg McMuffins and a Diet Coke.

Dave in our 30s
Hangover cure: Black coffee and 48 hours of shakes, misery and merciless guilt.

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Hope you get to catch a show (and a little piece of your youth) this season, guys!

Thoughts

What I’m gettin’ myself into

July 15, 2015

In the last few months, I’ve unearthed a near handful of gems that have made my life smell, taste and operate better. And when you find that kind of goodness, the proper thing is to pass it along. This is not a sponsored post (I’m not quite there, folks). It is, however, kind of a mixed bag of treats, so follow along. There’s something for everyone.

Gettin into
1. Lifestinks deodorant.
The discovery of this antiperspirant, for me, was much like an archeologist uncovering a mastodon, or a couple from the Bachelor making it to the alter. It felt unlikely, but it was true. For years, the idea of applying aluminum to my underarms on the daily has driven me to seek and employ nearly every brand of natural deodorant on the shelves. They all resulted in the 1 pm stinkies, until I found her … the one. A friend turned me onto Lifestinks and I haven’t stopped powdering since. The Lavender regular strength is lovely, and justifies the price tag by promising a 9-months supply in each decanter. A little dab’ll do ya for the pits, and bonus, it doubles as dry shampoo.

2. Moscow Mules.
We’ll call it 4 years ago, I had my first copper cup of bliss at a quaint little watering hole called Congress in downtown Austin. One sip and I was sold. What was this bubbly ginger beer and where had it been all my life? The years tore us apart, but a trip to Put-In-Bay a few weeks back rekindled our boozy, unbridled love affair. The recipe is a simple prescription of vodka, lime juice and ginger beer. Feeling fancy? Toss in some mint or muddled raspberry and throw your mouth a party it will never want to leave.

3. House of Cards.
I am in a one-night-a-week binge relationship with this Netflix original. Now, I’ll be honest, a lot if not all of the bureaucratic jargon is completely over my head. (Damn you political science and your three branches of complicated terms and power players.) But Francis and Claire … how freaking fascinating are these creatures? The pair of them just make the show for me. They’re twisted in the most wonderful way and I just want to put on a stealth black jogging suit and gasp for air behind them down a dark trail. The Congressional pieces for me are just foreplay. Give me more of these weirdos getting all power wasted and disregarding basic human decency in exchange for titles and self gratification. Ah, the American dream.

4. Regalo Easy Diner Portable Hookon Highchair.
Hank found this puppy on Amazon and it has been a game changer. Initially, we wanted to keep it in Emma for picnic table dining. But now we’re slappin’ this sucker on every sturdy surface we can find. It’s stupid-easy to attach, wipes up like a shiny new penny and folds down into a handy little pouch. It’s a great solve for restaurants, visiting friends or something for the grandparents to keep around when the kiddies stop by.

5. Oh, and there’s that half marathon training. I’ve been getting into half marathon training …

Thoughts

A deep post about decisions

June 14, 2015

How do you make a difficult decision? It’s a dilemma as old as freewill itself. You have one choice in your left hand and one choice in your right hand and, even though one might be heavier than the other, or prettier or more beneficial, it’s hard to see the answer when you’re holding the options too close to your heart.

I recently found myself in a two-month internal battle that began at a fork in the road. Contemplating a career change, I spent my waking hours jumping from prong to prong, second-guessing and weighing and over analyzing, until my head throbbed and my stomach ached. (It’s amazing what stress can do to your body.) A dear family friend said simply, “You need to walk, and you need to pray.” So I did. I strolled and I looked up to the clouds and tried to let my heart be as open as possible. I settled in to a guided meditation where you were instructed to ask yourself over and over, “What do I want? What do I want?” When my inner voice responded in a whisper, it merely said, “a cheeseburger.” Not the insightful nudge I was hoping for.

There was this great post by Lysa TerKeurst – who writes wonderful lifestyle pieces from a spiritual perspective on her self-titled blog – about decision making. She suggested, when analyzing a crossroads in your life, you take a walk along the banks of a hypothetical river. It’s important, whenever possible, to follow the flow of water to see what you will pass and where you will most likely end up, for every available option, and then compare the different journeys. Once you jump in the water, you don’t have nearly as much control, so it’s important to know where the current might take you. So, I tried to follow Lysa’s advice, and walk the riverbanks.

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I waffled, almost hourly, between, “Get over yourself, this isn’t that big of a deal. People have much tougher decisions to make with much greater consequences every day, all around the world.” And the opposing, “Oh my gosh, if you pick the wrong job you could trigger a surge of misfortune so powerful your great grandchildren will feel its wrath.”

I love a good old-fashioned pros and cons list as much as the next gal, but with someone as hyper-analytical as me, it simply falls short and, in this scenario, the options were nearly equal. I reached out to my ghosts of managers past and gave them the details in exchange for council. I have to say, I have been blessed to work with some seriously kickass women. The kind of women who say things like, “Proceed with confidence,” and “Make it matter.” The kind of leaders who make you want to start a business with only the name picked out, or go braless just because it makes your dress look better and you don’t give a shit what people think. Those kind of women. And they all said it was time for a change.

The worst part about making one of these gut-wrenching decisions is that, the second you pick one option, the other slowly starts to look like that old boyfriend. You know the one. He chewed like a horse and the conversation was dull as children’s scissors, until he got a new girlfriend. Then he looked all shiny and sharp.

But the truth is, no matter what decision I made in the end, it would (and will) inevitably transform into my “what got me here.” A person’s retrospect is typically seen through rose-colored glasses. We justify things with, “If I hadn’t picked this, then I would never have done that …” And it’s true, to an extent. Every choice ignites a plot twist, or a freshly paved path or an unexpected stop. We embrace our present  because we know no different and it’s impossible to go back in time and see the alternate storyline. We can send a “what if” out into the great abyss, but it seldom responds. All of this suggests it’s best to just avoid tripping over the things left behind, and focus the eyes forward. So that’s what I’m working on.

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I’m now nearing the tip of the prong I picked. I made the decision, ugly cried to make it official, and am training my neck not to look back. It is time to proceed with confidence, and to jump into the roaring river and let the rapids take me where they will. Let the plot twist begin.

Thoughts

Confessions of a chronic face sweater

June 10, 2015

Summer is here and, for me, that can only mean one thing: face sweat. You all have your sweet spot … be it the small of your back, or hairline or, the most popular, pits, where sweat gathers and glistens in the sauna of the afternoon sun. But until you’ve been a bona fied face sweater through the muggy month of August, you can’t truly understand the pain.

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I chalk it up to genetics. My dad drips in dew as the degrees climb. He, in turn, passed the torch on to me, his youngest daughter, in an effort to ruin every outdoor activity for me for the rest of my life. On one particularly disgusting occasion, I took him to a Colts game at Lucas Oil Stadium. They had the roof open on one of those September days where summer is gasping its last hot breaths. As we wedged ourselves into the “generous” stadium seats, I sighed in relief, observing we’d landed in the shaded section. But as passes flew and the minutes ticked by, I noticed the sundial shifting. We were in our own game now, and it was one against time. We had 10, maybe 15 minutes, before the sun cast her wicked, relentless rays unforgivingly upon us. I looked up at Big Rog, wondering if he, too, saw our impending doom. He glanced toward the nearing horizon and we both knew there were no words. We simply sat in our solitary sweat lodge. The hats we bought couldn’t block it. Beer couldn’t cool it. Shade could not stop our pools of perspiration. We were face sweating like the father-daughter face sweaters we were, and I couldn’t even tell you if the home team won.

My affliction doesn’t just surface on my personal time. Last year, when I was 30 months pregnant with Sloppy Joan, I waddled out to the fancy food truck that came to the parking lot every Tuesday. Fish tacos and fries with aioli; pregnant food porn, for sure. But on that gorgeous day in May, the fish wasn’t the only thing fryin’. I walked into a perfect storm of steam: direct rays + a pond + aluminum + 75 extra pounds + a crowd. Before I knew what hit me, my mug looked like I just surfaced from an abrupt drop in the dunk tank. “Ma’am, you can wait under the awning,” the cook said. “Courtney, we can bring your food in to you,” a friend from the gathering crowd of my non-perspiring peers offered. They all saw it. “I’m a face sweater, guys!” I joked, officially acknowledging the awkward, obvious streaks of embarrassing water racing down the sides of my nose, and giving them permission to do the same.

Well, just last week, when I went to the intense Friday morning class at the gym, at the urging of a close girlfriend, only to realize she is secretly Tina Turbo, it was there. About 3 minutes into the warmup (the most ass-whooping warmup I’ve ever done, I feel inclined to mention), the instructor turned her perky self around, locked in on my face and said, and I quote, “OK! I see some of you sweatin’ out there!” Just me. I’m sweating. I was the only mother mover in that joint dropping that kind of water.

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My inner circle knows “the stache” (sweat mustache) will make an appearance when prompted by any of the following scenarios: nervousness, stress, an excess of hot beverages, a car with no air, dancing, exercise, motion sickness or vomiting for any reason, crying, carrying or moving objects, cuddling a baby, intense thought, eating warm meals or setting up for a party. I have learned to dab and deal with it.

But, as a card-carrying member of the club, I beg those not burdened by these inconvenient beads of bullshit to withhold judgment and comment. Let’s make a deal that will live on from this post until forever … I won’t say anything about the spots under your armpits, if you agree to hand me a towel, smile kindly and turn away as I remove the sweat from the sides of my sniffer. There’s no cause for concern. Those aren’t tears coming from under my sunglasses, I swear. They are evidence of a genetic misfortune.

A woman wiping her brow with a handkerchief

A woman wiping her brow with a handkerchief

The next time you get an invitation to join in a backyard barbecue, birthday cookout or, the nightmare that haunts my summer days, the absolute worst, an outdoor wedding, take a moment to appreciate your dreamy, dry face. Remember there are those who immediately panic about the face sweat that will accompany them on that fateful day, and the fact that just the thought of that face sweat, makes their face sweat. Sure, we could inject botox (the only treatment my research revealed), and lessen the liquid, but really, isn’t it better if we just embrace the face and the sweat that comes with it? I’d say so. Bring on the summer stache and cocktails!

Thoughts

The 5 stages of being hungover in your 30s

May 31, 2015

It’s a rare occurrence, but I recently found myself victim to a massive hangover, the result of a martini happy hour and a lot of catching up with some of my high school crew. As I succumb to the pain and nausea, and gave myself over to the worthless sack of crap I would be for the day, it occurred to me that the years had not been kind. It was never this hard in my college days. The process then, looked something like: predrink, actual drink, eat pizza rolls, watch Cheaters, sleep, eat grease, resume role as functioning member of society. It was beautiful in its simplicity and sad in hindsight. But I lost my stride in my late 20s. The “day after” transformed into this heartless, brutal series of sacrifices and compromises that make the whole thing worth it only when entirely necessary, like 30th birthday parties and a warm night on a terrace with great girlfriends. What follows a night of cocktails is, inevitably, ugly, and outlined below.

The 5 stages of a hangover

1) The realization

As long as there have been adult beverages, one fact has mystified those who choose to partake. No matter how seasoned of a social drinker I become, it still astounds me how you can go from beautiful buzz to one too many and no turning back in one fateful sip. For me, the realization typically arrives when I go to bed. Regret swirls around in my head and stomach as the lines in our blinds bend and wave, taunting me to try and focus. Misery is the moment you become cognizant of that fact that you are in the first hour of what is sure to be a 24-hour hell.

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2) The paralysis 

When faced with unpleasant physical circumstances, my typical response is to stay as stationary as humanly possible. Maybe if I’m quiet, the hangover won’t notice me. It’ll get bored and decide to move on. Throwing up is at the top of my list of least-favorite activities, along with going to the dentist and writing on cardboard boxes with a marker. Because of this fact, what follows is an epic battle between my mind and esophagus. I find that a strong will and deep breathing can buy me at least an hour, if not a complete pass.

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3) The guilt

When you’re a college kid and you piss a day away, it’s called “Friday,” which ceremoniously follows “Thirsty Thursday”.  When you’re a 32-year-old mother of three, it’s called “being a piece of shit”. There is a direct correlation between the level of guilt I feel the morning after a night out and the amount of time that passes before my next night out. If I really get rowdy and can’t function until 2 pm the next day, and the girls want to go outside, only I can’t because my cranium is on the deck of a ship in the eye of a hurricane, for instance, we’re talking like a good 6 or 8 months before I’ll dip my toes back into the water. A mild headache … probably 2 or 3 months. It’s not an exact science, but it seems the occasions I’ll drink are fewer and fewer, as my recovery time gets longer and longer and my tolerance gets lower and lower. There’s this song by the Avett Brothers called “When I Drink,” and it is set on involuntarily shuffle in my mind on these mornings: “But when I drink/I spend the next morning in a haze/But we only get so many days/Now I have one less/Just do your best” Ahhhh … yup. Like a knee to the gut, that verse.

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4) The triage

When I was 21, I could wake up at 11 o’clock in the morning, pile into a hot car with 3 other girls, go to Wendy’s and get a cheeseburger, fries and a fountain Diet Coke, and it was like the jungle juice never happened. These days, it’s a process. I begin by opening my eyes and taking a quick inventory of the damage: head – throbbing, mouth taste – like a visit from the poop fairy, stomach – unstable. Sensing the need for immediate action, I then slide the lower half of my body out of bed, finding stability and then slowly, ever so slowly, stacking my upper half on top, keeping my head tilted so as to trick my brain into thinking it’s still on a pillow. I then shuffle to the kitchen, where I grab the largest cup we have and fill it with ice water. By the time it’s topped off, my brain catches up and demands I go back to bed. This is where I will stay for at least 2 more hours. I will then move down to the couch and resume the same position to pretend I’m not being a completely terrible mother, because at least I can turn on Netflix for the chicks. Around 10 or so, I turn into the very hungry, hungover caterpillar: On the first hour, she tried some toast and black coffee, but she was still hungry. On the second hour, she went on a ballsy binge and ate 1 popsicle, 1 can of Sprite, 2 handfuls of goldfish crackers, 1 bowl of Kix and 1 sliced apple with peanut butter. On the third hour, she went back to the couch, but sat upright.

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5) The gamble

Once the influx of carbs and sugars settles, I start evaluating my limitations and abilities. I could probably run and get the presents for the birthday party, but definitely not working out today. Although if I sweat it out, that could be good. Maybe I should watch one more House of Cards and chug this last glass of water and reevaluate. Eventually I do get up and scramble to salvage the hours that remain of the day I will forever recall as “the day I was so hungover I hated myself for a full 24 hours.” But it’s dicey, for a full day.

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Again, just to drive the point home, this post in no way indicates that I have a problem other than the loss of my tolerance and occasional ridiculously bad judgement. But I will say, the mornings I feel the worst are often preceded by the best nights. Getting carried away by a conversation or dancing to my jam and laughing like the fool I love to be sometimes. It’s all good. You can’t have honey without the bees. It just sucks so bad when you get stung.

Thoughts

Arangadang adoration

April 27, 2015

Before we can even get into the obscene amount of adorable that I’m about to put on you, we have to get on the same page. If you have not already been witness to this piece of pop culture history, take a moment, won’t you?

This was pre-Anna, and, mind you, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Veronica Mars follower. At one point, the sole source of my appreciation for Kristen Bell was this sloth video.

Bringing it back to this post, our Children’s Zoo recently welcomed a baby orangutan, Asmara. There are two things I geek out about when I take the girls: 1) Feeding the giraffes, and 2) the orangutans in the rain forest exhibit. Spike calls them “arangadangs” which, let’s face it, just adds another layer of awesome.  I mean, they sit on branches with trashcan lids on their heads for crying out loud. They can kill you with a swift backhand, but they have such humanistic features and expressions.

When someone at work sounded the alarm for a last-minute photo shoot, I threw out the zoo as a suggestion, never imagining in a trillion years we would end up, as I imagined in my dreams, on a Friday morning, standing in an observation room in the rain forest with just 5 feet of space and a pane of glass between me, Asmara and her family. They were sloths, and I was Kristen Bell.

 

 

 

 

There are times when I can, and then there are times like this when I … just … can’t even.

Plus,  these dudes:

 

You’re welcome. Now go hysterically cry and record yourself.