Mrs. Claus

Every woman I encountered during the month of December was a stressed out mess.  Tasked with finding the perfect gift for not only her immediate family, but also her extended family and her husband’s family had proved overwhelming.  Wrapping, planning holiday menus, attending parties, buying hostess and teacher gifts, baking cookies, appearing at school concerts, dealing with lines at the post office have made them all dreary-eyed and exasperated.  Isn’t this the month when we are supposed to be both merry and peaceful?  Deck the halls on the Silent Night and all of those other festive oxymorons?

On the other side of the spectrum, the men I spoke with seemed rather relaxed and completely un-phased by Christ’s birthday celebration looming at the end of the month.  Granted – some of them were preoccupied with closing an end of the year deal in hopes of retaining the large bonus that would ultimately fund the gift-giving extravagance of their significant other.  But mostly I maintain that men simply don’t participate in Christmas preparations for reasons I don’t understand.

After running into female friend after friend with the same gripe, it dawned on me that along with my daughter and son, I have my doubts about Santa.  Oh - I believe Santa existed, I just don’t think he did all the work.  I believe in Mrs. Claus.  When you start to analyze the legend, it becomes obvious that – much like the bible – men wrote stories with the intent of glorifying themselves.  Behind every great man, stood a woman working her ass off to make magic happen, and it was no different in the Claus family.

Brief Santa Analysis

Fact 1: Men can’t even figure out what to get their own mothers and children, no less for millions of children all over the world that they have never met. 

Fact 2: Have you ever witnessed a man making a list?  Even a simple one that breaks things down into two categories:  naughty and nice (except for his porn collection?)

Fact 3: Have you ever seen a man wrap a present that doesn’t look like a 5 year old did it?

Fact 4: How could Santa be that fat if he was doing all the work?  It just doesn’t add up. 

Fact 5: Who else has the ability to organize and multi-task in such a way that hundreds of millions of children receive exactly the presents they requested in a mere 12-hour period?   Who could manage the cross-functional elf team, wrapping wads of presents attractively, packing the sleigh so the toys don’t fall out, feeding the reindeer twice a day, and still have time to make enough food to double Santa’s girth?  

I tell you who, it was Mrs. Claus.

I liken the sleigh ride on Christmas Eve to my own morning routine whereby I rise at 6:30 and wake the kids, make the breakfasts and lunches, pack the backpacks, feed the dog and make coffee.  My husband lumbers out of bed just before 7, breezes down the stairs at 7:10 fully dressed and says “Oh I will take the kids to school - don’t worry!” Ergo - All of the moms see him dropping the kids at the bus and exclaim “Oh what a good husband he is” while I, still in my jammies with unbrushed teeth, sit home in brazen anonymity.

I conclude that it is Mrs. Claus that performs all of the important tasks behind the scenes, and Santa dons the fancy the suit and drives the sleigh. Consequently, his name is mentioned in all of the folklore and he gets to eat the cookies while she is left behind in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess.  Remember ladies - it is He who makes the public journey that reaps the acclaim.

I imagine in present times, The Night Before Christmas goes something more like this….

Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,

Mama was a basket case trying to cook, wrap and clean without the help of her husband, that louse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would get his fat butt in the sleigh and the reindeer in the air.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

With false visions of Santa making toys wrongly placed in their heads.

With mama exhausted and cranky, and me feeling great after a night cap,

I asked for some Holiday nookie before our long winter’s nap.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear?

A wicked woman with a wild look in her eye saying, “go fuck yourself dear.”

Even though I was feeling quite lively and quick,

I knew in a moment, I should probably put away my prick. 

The bags under her eyes, and the droop of her head

Soon led me to believe I had everything to dread.

I back peddled and pleaded,

Apologized for my long list of not doing the things she needed.

Before I could make amends, she had left the room in a huff

My first thought was that she had more stockings to stuff.

I followed her out, trying desperately to atone

But alas, it was too late, it seemed her heart had turned to stone

She said, “Thank you Amazon, Target and Cole Sport,

My undying gratitude also goes to Apple, Wii, and Wal-Mart.”

And giving me the finger as I stood in the alcove,

Away in the Land cruiser (like a bat out of hell) she drove

But I heard her exclaim as she sped off into the night,

Good luck making Christmas happen by yourself next year and watch out – those reindeer bite!

Blue Skier

I live in one of the most renowned ski towns in the world.  In less than ten minutes, I can ski at three of the top resorts in the US.  Within 45 minutes, I can add another four to the list.  My husband grew up skiing and loves it.  My kids are on the alpine race team. 

I hate to ski.

By announcing this to the world (or at least my paltry number of blog followers) I risk endless ridicule from my friends, (what else is new), I may be kicked out of Park City, and most certainly the marketing job at the chamber of commerce that I have been coveting will be given to someone more ski friendly. 

However, I feel if I am able to present ski life from my point of view, perhaps people will understand, dare I say empathize with my situation.  As I review my skiing career, there seem to be several clues as to why this may not be my favorite sport.

Early Years

I did not grow up skiing, which I believe is the crux of the problem.  My parents skied early in their marriage, but did not have the urge to teach my brother or me.  After helping my own kids learn to ski and knowing first-hand the great amount of patience and burning quads (not to mention $$) this endeavor required, I can see why they put this activity on the back burner.  I would also point out the obvious fact that there are not a lot of mountains in Connecticut.  I did, however, love the snow.  My experiences with snow involved making snowmen, building snow forts, having snowball fights, the thrill of a snow day off from school, and attempting increasingly more dangerous bouts of sledding through thick forests of trees (one time even with a cast on my ankle), countless pairs of soaking wet wool mittens, and hot chocolate with marshmallows.  In Utah, the snow is fluffy and dry making it ideal for the powder skier, not so perfect for snowballs and snowmen – my areas of expertise.

Teenage Years

My long-term high school boyfriend was an avid skier; he even attended the Green Mountain School in VT to perfect his talents.  He introduced me to skiing at the mountain where his family owned a classic A-frame VT ski house, Mad River Glen.  For those of you not in the know, the tag line on the resort bumper sticker is “Mad River Glen Ski It If Your Can” - probably not the place of choice for the novice skier.  He bundled me up in his mother’s clothes and old ski gear and we set off for the mountain at 7:30 to ensure we were the first on the lift (and the last to leave at 4).  Back in the day, we packed our own backpack with lunch and goodies so not to waste precious time waiting in line and paying exorbitant fees for ski lodge food.   After a terrorizing tangle with the lift, I was set loose on my own on the mountain top with a few words about “plow” and “Stem Christie” – not the more easily interpreted pizza and French fry metaphors that my children are accustomed to.  There were no hot chocolate breaks, no other lessons, just me and the mountain challenging me to ski it if I could.  By midday, my boyfriend had grown tired of my complete lack of ability and decided to ski with his more competent friends.  One day, he lost me completely and I wound up on a black diamond run by myself.  With a combination of tears and snot streaming down my face, I awkwardly carried my skis while I attempted to descend the mountain – half on my butt, half sliding in his mom’s ski boots.  We finally found each other at the bottom hours later– he in his parent’s car coming to look for me.  I stomped right by him, face red from crying and the cold, covered in snow, fogged goggles askew, trying to balance my skis across my chest cupped in my arms.  That was the end of my high school ski experience.  Mark – don’t worry, I have forgiven you – no amount of patience could have made that day any better and you were wise to find a more outdoor friendly partner than me. 

College Years

My first college boyfriend ventured to alleviate my antagonism with the sport by skiing a friendlier mountain called Loon in NH.  Still in borrowed gear and clothing, this time I was equipped with something better – a flask full of peppermint schnapps.  While I was warmer and more tolerant, alcohol did not make me a better skier.

Post College

Alas, I met my next college boyfriend, who ended up becoming my betrothed.  He was smart and determined; he didn’t attempt his conversion until we were engaged and my exit strategy was compromised.  No more borrowed gear for me, he bought me the entire ensemble:  Spalding skis (yes, the tennis ball manufacturer), boots, and my OWN outfit.  We rented a ski shack with 8 friends at Killington and religiously drove the four-hour journey every other weekend for an entire season.  We usually slept 3-4 to a bed and if I showered, I did so bravely and nimbly so as not to touch any of the walls or the shower curtain that blew around spectacularly if someone opened the door.  It was at Killington that I did find something about skiing that I loved – APRES SKI.  I have fond memories of dancing on the table at the lodge to a live band and having way too much fun at the pickle barrel in town. 

Faulty anatomy

It is important to mention that, simply put, I am not built to ski or withstand cold temperatures for extended periods of time.  I have extremely short toes.  In all of my 45 years, I’ve never met anyone with toes as short as mine.  Thus when my spouse/ski coach tells me to push the tips of my skis which are at least two feet from my boots - using my toes which are less than an inch long, it just doesn’t jive from a physics perspective.   After numerous visits to the boot fitter, he informed me that there is something wrong with the balls of my feet which makes them go numb in my boots, regardless of cold.  My nose and chin are longer than most, making it difficult to achieve maximum blood flow; consequently they also lose feeling quickly.  My fingers turn blue and white in the cold.  My skin is old, so 8 hours after I remove my goggles, I still have their outline framing my face.  My quad muscles are nonexistent.  My nose runs and turns an unattractive hue of purple.  My POC helmet squishes my cheeks together and forms wrinkles down the side of my face.  If Borat were to see me on the mountain he would scream, “Ski bunny – NOT!”

Present Day

Jump ahead 15 years and two children.  I finally gave in to my husband’s nagging and moved to Park City to “try it out” (that was almost 9 years ago).  Despite having only half the ski gene pool he anticipated, he is determined that his kids will be skiers, and they are.  I, on the other hand, am still a work in progress.

Today, it is snowing, overcast, hovering around 28 degrees.  The kids are off in their respective ski programs.  I am so excited to hunker down by the tree, listen to carols, wrap presents and finish my xmas cards.  For me, the perfect day.  And then, my husband barges in on my blissful dream,

“Come on, let’s go skiing today, it will be fun.” 

This will be my first day out on the slopes this season.  I know that he will continue badgering me until I give in.  I decide to make a deal and counter,

“Ok, but only if I get to do whatever I want tomorrow.” 

Armed with the promise of my dream day awaiting me in 24 hours, I mentally prepare myself for the task at hand.  It is like childbirth; I remember vaguely how torturous it is, but I do it anyway.  I stopped after two kids but I keep skiing year after year because it seems oddly important to my family members.  Although I don’t know why; “skiing together” encompasses the rest of my family racing down the hill ahead of me, I chug down the hill to where they are stopped.  As soon as I arrive, they start out again and so the race continues.

“Maybe things won’t be that bad this year” the angel over my shoulder whispers in my ear.  I pull together the necessary equipment: helmet, goggles, mittens, neck gator, long johns, snow pants, jacket, skis poles, skis, ski pass, and boots.  I load them all into the car and depart for the mountain.  At 9:30 the lot is almost full and I search for a decent spot.  The first step is to put on my ski boots, which has to be done outside the vehicle because it requires all of my weight plus someone pushing on my shoulders to jam my unwilling, wide in-stepped, high-arched appendages into what feels like an endless tube of inflexible fiberglass.   I push and jiggle and grunt and finally they go in.  Tug, buckle and on to the next boot.  OMG, I remember why I hate this – the devil breaths over my other shoulder.  (I believe that you need to be seasoned from age 3 to endure this type of pain.  When you learn to live with discomfort at an early age, it becomes commonplace. Your parents have geared you up to think that skiing is the best thing on planet earth and the only way you can do it is to shove your little feet into those boots and get out on the slopes.)  With my helmet and goggles in place, I grab my skis and try to put them over my shoulder the proper way during my trek to the lodge.  I have been taught the “right” way to do this many times, but it still doesn’t feel "right" to me.  The bindings dig into my shoulder and the skis end up crisscrossed behind my head as I struggle to walk in my ski boots the rest of the way.  Because of my inadequate foot design, my feet fall asleep within 15 steps of walking in the boots.  I finally get to my destination and I try to put on my skis but my boots have too much snow on the bottom and they go into the bindings crooked and I try again.  Thank goodness my husband hasn’t witnessed the last 30 minutes of struggle just to get to the first lift.  I pretend like it was a piece of cake as sweat drips down my back.  We board the chair together and proceed with our day.

He provides helpful pointers during our time on the mountain such as:

Wiggle your toes. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Not that much. Lean back.

Hold your poles out in front of you. Put your shoulders down. Make sure your gloves are in your pole straps correctly. Relax! Maintain an athletic stance. Push with your toes. Keep your knees soft. Unbuckle your boots on the lift so your feet don’t fall asleep (too late - they were asleep hours ago).

My son offered advice one time while we were powder skiing together. “You are doing what we call shopping; you are looking to turn in a certain place, you just have to turn with your natural rhythm.”  I suppose this makes sense if you have a natural rhythm, but as we know, I have no natural anything when it comes to skiing and I rather like shopping – especially for the perfect place to turn that doesn’t have too much snow, or a patch of ice, or a tree in the vicinity.  I want just the right spot.  Of course, most of the time, my shopping is unsuccessful and I end up looking like a “newb” plucking my way down the hill or traversing for miles. 

Today my goal is to make it for two hours.  I can do this.  I look at the clock every time we get on the lift.  The minutes click by and soon I’m half done, but my puny quads are killing me.  My nose and chin are completely numb and I can’t talk which at least has the benefit of limiting my ability to complain.  I commend my husband for his tenacity; if sheer will could make me love skiing, I would be on the world cup.  He suggests we go to the lodge and warm up.  He buys me hot chocolate and rubs me feet until they come back to life.  Somewhat rejuvenated, I head out hoping to conquer another 4 runs.  Well, maybe 2.  Luckily, my daughter calls with a bad sore throat and needs a ride home.  I can’t get down the hill fast enough.

I want to like skiing.  It seems like it should be fun, swooshing through the fluffy powder with the greatest of ease like the Warren Miller athletes.  I do like to ski for an hour or so on a nice blue, groomed run, but that is about it and I don’t win many friends with this lack of ambition.  It is also not really worth the $54 I pay for a lift ticket (that is the heavily discounted local rate).  For $54, I could take two painting classes, get a pedicure, 4 manicures, half a facial or watch 6.5 movies at the theatre - all things that make me infinitely happier than putting two slick boards on my feet and plummeting down a mountain. 

  

Of the 6M or so people out there skiing each year (less than 2% of the population), I know that I am in the minority.  I have never had a YEEHA moment.  I’ve muttered a lot of obscenities, but never shrilled in sheer delight as I gracefully bounce through 2 feet of powder.   But if you were in my boots – where half your body is numb, you undertook the sport as a cynical adult, your only coaching has come from people you were romantically involved with, and you can imagine 100 other ways you would rather spend $54 and 3 hours of your time, would you continue your fight with the devil?   Or call it a day and make a snow angel in the back yard.

   

Role Reversal

Several events last weekend made me realize that my life with children has come 300 degrees around the circle.   My husband and I got up around 7:30 and were shushing each other so as not to wake the kids, because if you wake them up on one of the precious two days that they get to sleep in, well – heaven help you.  You will need full armor to protect yourself from the attack.  We went for a hike and got home before they were even out of bed.  We have reached that point that I dreamed about 14 years ago, which seemed unfathomable at the time.  I get up earlier than my kids.  For many of you with young children, this sounds like nirvana.  But it isn’t all smiles and zzz’s.  

Back in the day, I was exhausted much of the time.  Waking up drearily at 6 am or earlier and trying to find something to occupy the kids while I napped on the couch, did chores, or attempted hygiene.  If I chose the former option I would encourage them to be quiet so Mommy could get a little more sleep.  Inevitably, one kid or other would find Dante’s toy, also known as THE POPPER, that he pushed like a vacuum and was delighted by the plastic balls inside popping frantically like an endless supply of bubble wrap.  This was emphatically the plaything of choice when we were hung over.  I want to believe that Fisher Price was not malicious, and was in fact trying to instill a behavior/reward tendency in these young urchins to pick up a vacuum or lawn mower as they got older, but I think they failed.  The device met an abrupt ending, as I recall.  We would proceed with our day by taking an exotic excursion (to the likes of the grocery store or the park) until lunch and counted the minutes until the afternoon nap.  You prayed for a full two hours of time, but could never actually count on it to do anything important; it had to be an activity that could be left at any moment.  I mark this time as the beginning of the decline of my brain cell count and concentration span.  The inability to focus on anything for than 10 minutes becomes the equivalent of maternal instinct.   A few more hours of mindless alphabet play and then we had dinner, bathing and BEDTIME!  The prize being a glass of wine, perhaps a television show, and a brief view of ourselves as we used to be. 

On the positive side of these early years, while life was physically demanding, I was young enough to possess the stamina to get through it.  I could leave the kids and they didn’t remember.  I wasn’t in my car from 3 pm -7 pm driving all over town in pursuit of the next activity that will provide my child the full resume required for college entry.   I could have a glass of wine or two without my kid summarizing my consumption, and pointing out the horrors of DUI.  It was funny when they repeated the swear word I uttered by accident. I could walk around naked and they didn’t even notice – I’m not saying that it was like Boogie Nights in my home, but we did not want nudity to be alarming.  We wanted our kids to be comfortable with nudity and their bodies.   They would run around naked or in a diaper and we would chuckle at how cute they were and tickle their belly or grab their chunky thighs.  Which leads me to another weekend incident exemplifying how my life has changed.

During the week I still have to rise early – usually by 6:30 most days, so I can wake the veal (aka my son), re-wake the veal about ten minutes later, feed the veal and drive him to school.  Repeat for my daughter (who is definitely more self sufficient - you can infer what you wish from their various role models)- from 7:30- 8:10.   During the day, I have time to run errands, do chores, work, etc.  But the time goes quickly.  You wait breathlessly for the “all day” option and suddenly all day is much shorter than it originally seemed in my imagination.   After we drive around throughout the afternoon, we are greeted by the homework war.  I often picture the teachers as feebly armed terrorists persistently bombing my home night after night, chipping away at my patience and happiness.

On the weekends, our date nights are rare verging on nonexistent.  (There were a couple of nice years where my son was old enough to “babysit” but young enough not have a social life – this is bliss – enjoy it!) If we do venture out, we are usually interrupted during the course of the evening to drive someone here or there and we are generally home by 10 pm because that is when scattering occurs.  After ten there is no good place for teens to loiter legally so they tend to congregate in the home of the parents who are out trying to have a life.  Tsk Tsk on them.  I’m fine if the teens choose my home, but I feel a responsibility to be present when this happens, and so we trudge back to our abode.  Most times, we don’t go out, and there is usually a friend coming and going from the house – often at odd hours.  The play date of the past that took place from 11-1 during the day, now happens between 8:30 -11 in the evening.   You may be on the hook to drive during this time, so it is advisable that you not be lounging around in your jammies sipping a cocktail. 

Last weekend, this was indeed the case.   Keep in mind that my brain was still in a haze of foggy real estate terms and was probably not functioning at its highest level.  I was very tired and was looking forward to an early bedtime.  I was vaguely aware that my son had a friend arrive during the evening.   To celebrate completion of my real estate studies, I took a bubble bath.  I dressed in a long-sleeved cotton nightgown that came down to my knees.  Certainly not sexy, but I did break my own law of not lounging in my jammies.  I had promised my daughter that we would do our nails so I searched the house to find her.  I walked into the TV room where my son and his friend were “hanging out”  (the teen equivalent of a play date) and I called her name.  For no apparent reason, my son starts yelling in a strange monotone voice, MOM LEAVE. MOM LEAVE.  MOM LEAVE. Over and over again in the manner of a skipping 45 record.  I stood there, like a deer in the headlights, trying in vain to figure out what I had walked in on.  Thank God I was home to catch them in whatever terrible activity they were embarking on.  Were they watching Real Sex on HBO?  Playing an R-rated video game on Wii?  Drinking whiskey from a concealed flask?  Hiding a bong in the couch cushions?  Were they evilly torturing my daughter in a way that was not immediate to the naked eye?  What was going on in here that required my exit so urgently? After several awkward minutes of this, my daughter finally understood that I was not in my right brain and blurted out, “Mom, Your Boobs!”  I looked down and realized that it was not the kids, but me – a deer WITH headlights that was causing such commotion.   I made a hasty retreat to my bedroom and not finding any way to ameliorate the situation, started laughing so hard, I couldn’t stop.  As it turns out, I was the only one who found my slightly pendulous headlights to be comical; my kids had no urge to grab my thighs or blow on my belly.  They were completely embarrassed.   And so, I pretended that they were in their cribs – told my husband that he would have to do the driving on that particular evening, made myself a cocktail, watched Boogie Nights on Showtime, and wallowed in the luxury of being able to sleep in the next day.   

Favorite Things October

Clothes

Hanro sensual cami bra

I purchased one of these bras several years ago, and I just bought a second. 

They are expensive ($75), but the quality is amazing and when treated properly they last a long time – gotta love the Swiss.  You benefit from the support of an under-wire with the comfort of a camisole.  They are true to size, so if your regular bra size is 34B,  this will fit the same. They used to be available on BareNecessities.com, but lately I can only find them in multiple colors at Neiman Marcus.  And because I appreciate a good marketing writer, I had to include the description of Hanro on the web.  "With a 130-year history, the Switzerland-based company Hanro specializes in clever, stylish, and alluring underpinnings. Known for a superb fit and seamless design, this line blends trends with comfortable and highly practical style."  Underpinnings?  I can picture myself in the Four Seasons overlooking Lake Geneva, frolicking with my Swiss lover and in the heat of the moment he says, "Ah Darling, you are so magnificent, you must remove your underpinnings this instant!!"

While searching for this bra online to provide a photo, I ended up in the “daywear” sub section of Neiman Marcus lingerie.  Hmmm.  Daywear.  For me, daywear depends on what I am doing that day.  If I work out in the morning, then my gym clothes become daywear, if I have an appointment with a client, then I wear some office/work attire during the day.  If I’m sitting at my computer for 8 hours straight taking super boring real estate classes, I wear my pajamas.  It appears that “daywear” is garb for someone who has nothing to do during the day but choose an outfit they can lounge around in.  If I ever get to that point in life AND I can afford to buy clothing in the “daywear” category, this is what I picture myself in.

Joli

My friend Katherine just opened a fabulous boutique in SLC.  While the store space is small, the offerings are grand.  Katherine buys only the most beautiful, unique, and stylish women’s clothing, accessories, and jewelry for her clients.  There is a tasty little bistro next door, so grab a bite and do some shopping before the Holiday Season begins!  (1594 Stratford Ave, SLC just off the 1300 Sugarhouse exit) http://www.saltlakemagazine.com/blog/2012/09/shop-the-grand-opening-of-joli-boutique-in-sugarhouse/

Products

Dove Go Sleeveless deodorant

Deodorant, it seems, it like mascara these days.  The kind that I bought 3 months ago is no longer available.  Instead, there is a new and improved version that has cannibalized its sister product in the market.  Consequently,  I am forced to sample the Dove “Go Sleeveless” deodorant,  fully believing that this is just a new marketing ploy.  However, I have to say – since I started using it,  the hair under my arms grows more slowly and is very thin, so I don’t have to shave as often.  This could be a real break-through!  I’m going to try it on my legs next, then the bikini area, and perhaps even on my chin where those annoying hormonally infused hairs grow sporadically and seemingly right before big events.

CeraVe cleanser and facial lotion with spf

My dermatologist recommended this for my son who has some breakouts.  I figure what is good for the hormonally charged gander is good for the hormonally challenged mamma goose.    Both the cleanser and the lotion have hyaluronic acid, which is supposed to help skin retain moisture.  You can buy this at Walmart, Target and Amazon.

B&B products – The term B&B has been thrown around for a while and virtually every cosmetic company seems to be producing one of these B&B creations thus making it a commodity, but I do like the Loreal Youth Code lotion.  I mix it with the CeraVe moisturizer to get a bit of coverage without feeling overly made up.

It’s a 10 – leave in hair conditioner that defrizzes, detangles, smooths, conditions, etc.  There are ten things that it does but I can’t remember all of them because as we know, my memory is filled with irrelevant real estate terms, but I do know that it is available at Target and Amazon.

Apps

Food for table (my brother turned me onto this) – this app allows you to plan up to three meals per week for free and more if you pay extra for the bigger version of the app.  You can choose from chicken, meat free, slow cooker, salads, etc.  It also alerts you when grocery stores in your area are having a sale so you can plan your meals around those items.  The meals are pretty simple, so I would say this is more for weeknight meals, but it is great to have on your phone in the grocery store when your time to shop is limited  and your creativity is in even shorter supply.

Nike training app This app offers general workouts at three levels: beginner, intermediate and advanced.  It also has fitness routines for specific body areas such as a “better butt”.  The app demonstrates the exercise and then times the workout and notifies you when to switch to the next exercise.  Great for the at-home workout.  My only complaint is that it is a kilobyte hog.   My friend Amanda, who has a much better butt than me, gave me this app.

Books
What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty
This is an entertaining read, not any great classic - but very fun for anyone married and/or with kids.  Alice gets banged on the head and forgets the last ten years of her life - but amazingly she seems to only forget the bad things.  What a concept!

Left Neglected by Lisa Genova
Also a quick read, Left Neglect is actually a form of brain injury.  Fascinating and frustrating!

Movies
Argo
I was 13 when the Iran Hostage Crisis took place, so in hindsight I probably should be more familiar with this historical event, but I was preoccupied with boys, Steve miller, and other teenage distractions during 1979 and 80.  Anyway, this movie keeps you on the edge of your seat, is very well made and Ben Affleck, even with the bad early 80's hair and clothing still looks entirely sexy.  I don't even like facial hair.  I can't explain it, I think this real estate class has permanently scarred my brain.   (yes this is my new crush)

Recipes

Coconut chicken curry

My sister-in-law gave me this recipe. It is really tasty and you can make it ahead of time.  Good for a group, serve with rice (and the trimmings listed below) and steamed broccoli or asparagus.  Or a salad with toasted almonds, goat cheese and mandarin oranges.