Re-entry Blues

I bought this wonderful, plum colored, long sleeved t-shirt at the Cole Sport sale.  It resembles sweatshirt material in that it is very soft and comfortable against your skin, but without the bulk of a sweatshirt.  I love it.  In fact, if you live in park City, chances are you saw me in it last week because I wore it for 40 hours straight when my post vacation blues reached a new high and my hygienic antipathy reached a deplorable new low.  

I love traveling, particularly to the beach.  Being warm makes me happy and relaxed and excited to have a beer at 2 pm.  In addition to being able to fantasize about other people, I often fantasize about living in other places.  (By this point, most of you are probably thinking of a good therapist you could recommend…)  Whenever I go on vacation, I picture myself having a full-on 24/7 lifestyle in whatever vacationland I happen to be in.  In Hawaii, I visualize walking on the beach every morning, taking my kids to surf lessons after school, grilling fish nightly, and wearing a bathing suit 80% of the time (ok maybe not such a big benefit – but I probably wouldn’t eat as much with my belly exposed daily).  When I ‘m in Paris, I envision shopping in the local outdoor markets, conversing in perfect Francais with the owner of the fromagerie while he tempts me with his latest cheese addition, taking French cooking classes, picking up my bilingual children from their international school, taking the train to the Alps to ski on the weekends, or to the Riviera for sun in the summer, choosing delectable treats from the boulangerie, and being at least 30 pounds heavier.   Oddly, when we visited Park City before moving here, I never experienced those vacationland fantasies.  Maybe because I don’t daydream about mucking out in 2 feet of snow to take my kids to ski practice 6 days a week, or standing out in 10 degree weather for 6 hours to watch 90 seconds of ski racing, or shoveling the walkway, or shuttling my dog into the laundry room with 5 pounds of snow hanging from her fur.

But alas, here I am.  I always get a little depressed when I return from my travels.  Departing the warm, sky blue waters of the relaxing tropics, or the bustling streets of NYC to enter the khaki grey sage brush of Parley’s Canyon doesn’t elicit warm fuzzy feelings for me.   After any long journey, I finally arrive “home” to breathe a sigh of relief.  But then, the dirty clothes pour out of the suitcases and onto the laundry room floor, I look into the barren refrigerator and groan as the kids are whining that there is no food in the house, the dishwasher needs to be emptied, we are out of dog food, the mail is piled high with things that need attention.  Ugh, ugh ugh.  I just don’t want to jump back in.  This is what I call “re-entry issues”.   You’ve been off living a carefree life, and then – boom – you are back and slapped in the face with the banalities of your every-day existence.  That is when the fantasy novel kicks in.  It is always good to have a great book while on vacation or traveling, but even better to have a book that can deliver you through the post vacation blues.  It allows you to wallow in delusion for just a few days longer as you play catch up around the house.   It offers a delayed re-entry, if you will. 

Except this time, my fantasy book (i.e. Fifty Shades of Grey) was a little too encompassing, and my re-entry – a little bit more than delayed.   On day 2 of re-entry, I literally put the kids to bed, looked at the load of dirty dishes in the sink, pretended like I didn’t see the stack of bills next to my computer, walked over the scattered laundry on my closet floor, and headed straight for bed AND Christian Grey.   Fuck it.  I just didn’t care.  (This is one of the good things about having your husband gone during the week – you can let everything go until Thursday night).  The next day, I donned the soft purple shirt.  Since it was dreary, grey and cold I basked in the coziness of my sweatshirt in a t-shirt form factor and felt a little better.   I managed to clean up the kitchen, populate the fridge, and even put away a little laundry.  But all of these chores, and very little Mr. Grey made me tired.  I brushed my teeth, put on some jammie bottoms – but couldn’t shed the comfort zone of the purple shirt.  I slept in it.  Thankfully, I did not sweat.   The next morning I rushed the kids off to school and it was still a little chilly so I wore the shirt during my morning workout.  As the day marches on, I never had time to shower and continued to sport the purple shirt.  In the life of a stay at home mom, it’s not as hard to pull this off as you might think.  By hour 36, I was starting to feel like a sloth.  I really did consider wearing the shirt to bed for a second night, but my hygienic conscious kicked in and I did the right thing and reluctantly peeled the shirt off and took a shower.    

Friday rolls around and I’ve finally accepted the fact that Park City, with all of its good and bad qualities, is my home.   The house is in pretty good shape for my clean freak husband’s weekend arrival (no –re-entry issues for this fellow – he just comes and goes without a thought).   I had mentioned my “fictional novel” to my husband a couple of times over the phone.  I neglected to highlight my re-entry malaise, or the fact that I had stayed up until 1 am nearly ever night that week reading about Christian and Anastasia and their extracurricular coital activities.   Needless to say, he comes home more excited than usual for some playtime.  Because I have had so little sleep, I’m yawing and falling asleep on the couch at 8:30 pm.  I make it clear that tomorrow night would be better for all concerned.   However, somewhere around 11, I feel some snuggling, then groping, then lips on my neck and then… ouch! 

“Hey what are you doing?” I sit up and yell.  

I guess he was trying to muster his inner Christian Grey (minus the helicopter and showering of gifts – which I think are mandatory if you are going to engage in kinky behavior).  In the morning I see an ugly bruise on my neck.

“OH MY GOD!  You gave me a hickey!  We aren’t 16 anymore!  It is not fun or cute. Now I am a 44 year-old Haberdasher with a hickey!  No one is going to buy clothes from me! “   I moan.

“I thought you really liked that book,” he offers in way of an apology. 

The moral of this story is that there is a place for fantasy and fiction in our lives, but it should probably stay on the page, and in our minds.   Or maybe it should come with a warning, “Re-enactment strongly discouraged for the inexperienced.”

Fantasy Island

I’ve received mixed feedback regarding my “crush” on Josh Radnor.  Some people expressed concern that my husband might feel offended or threatened.  Evidently, these people have not been acquainted with the infamous Mr. Henderson who does not have an unconfident or jealous bone in his body.  Others have said, “Josh Radnor?  Really?  He isn’t even that buff”.  I married cute and athletic, which allows me to fantasize about witty and creative.  And finally, “Aren’t you a little old and married to be having crushes?”  In fact, it is because I am old and married that makes the crush (and/or a moderately active fantasy life) all the more vital to my existence.

Of course, my life is happy.  I have a loving husband who is only here on the weekends; I have smart, healthy, active kids, a nice house, a fluffy dog, etc.  All part of the domestic dream that I never really had, but seem to have fallen into.  That doesn’t preclude me from dreaming about the  “what if” scenario.  What if I hadn’t gotten married and multiplied myself?  What if I had stayed in Manhattan?  What if I had taken the leap in another direction?  Maybe the grass wouldn’t be greener (actually it would be mostly pavement, but I also wouldn’t have to aerate, fertilize and mow), but it would be different.   

Having a crush or fantasy is a healthy way to satisfy the many interests and lifestyles that I could have had, without causing any real damage to my current life.  In fact, a well-managed fantasy world can actually enhance certain carnal aspects of one's life.

Currently I’m working on my third crush this year.  My first started last summer with gallant Jamie Fraser from the Outlander series.  For those of you who haven’t read the book (or all seven 1,000 page books to be exact), Jamie is the Scottish warrior who is tall, muscular, copper-haired, smart, sexy, adventurous, respectful, multi-linguistic and full of honor.  He is also a savvy businessman, and an attentive lover with endless endurance who wears a kilt and goes mostly commando.    What’s not to love?  But Jamie is in love with Claire, a woman 5 years his senior who travels through time and meets him in the past (it sounds really silly when I describe it, but trust me, these books are addictive).  Of course there is a dark side to Jamie that Claire must help to unravel, but his flaw only makes him more attractive. 

I stayed up literally all night reading over my vacation last summer to finish the first book. It was riveting.  I managed to squeeze in another 3 books over the next few months, but had to stop my obsession as it started to interfere with other commitments (such as sleep and parenting).   I am not alone with my passion for Jamie Fraser; I have friends (you know who you are) who have read 4-5 of the books.  And imagine my surprise when I visited my Grandma last December and saw the 7^th book in the series sitting blatantly on her coffee table.  “Grammie!” I exclaimed.  “I’ve read all of them,” she proudly revealed.  In case it is not clear, there is a lot of sex in these books – but to my point, even 92 year-old women can still dream.  Jamie fulfills the fantasy of the old-world masculine type who will rescue you from any unforeseen circumstance, but also respects your mind as much as your body.  And this is a fantasy because MEN LIKE THIS DON’T EXIST IN REAL LIFE (fantasy: an idea with no basis in reality).   As long as we all agree that this fantasy is going nowhere, it is safe.

Next, I moved on to Josh – who I saw briefly at Sundance in January of this year.  His hip, witty manner and heart-warming romantic movie won me over and pushed Jamie back to the 18^th century Scottish Highlands.  Josh fulfills the part of me that wants an intelligent, artsy New Yorker in my life.  To be young, living in a vibrant city and having titillating conversations on a daily basis was an ideal that I once envisioned for myself.  Josh is also safe, for the chances of him leaving Hollywood and finding me in Podunk Park City are slimmer than getting hit by lightning (fantasy: imagining things that are impossible or improbable).  My Fantasies about Josh are already well documented in the previous blog “My Dream Day”, so I don’t need to go into further detail.

Most recently, I am infatuated with another fictional character, Christian Grey, from the Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy.  Obviously these books are not winning any literary accolades, but 9 out of 10 housewives are greedily consuming them across the country (well - perhaps not in the bible belt – or anyone who voted for Santorum in the primary).  Christian, oddly enough, shares some of Jamie Fraser’s traits -- he has tousled copper locks, he is muscular and tall and is an inexhaustible lover; however, instead of the kilt, he favors linen shirts with the first two buttons open, and faded jeans.   Christian is 27, staggeringly wealthy, unbelievably sexy, intelligent, flies his own helicopter, showers his lover with extravagant gifts, and has sculpted lips.  Christian, we find out, has a VERY DARK SIDE, and he needs a woman to show him the light.  Mr. Grey fulfills the fantasy of “we can rebuild him, make him stronger and better” like the $6 million dollar man.  All women think they can change a man if they could just get their hands on him for long enough. (fantasy: a fanciful mental image, typically one in which a person dwells at length or repeatedly and which reflects their conscious or unconscious wishes)  Sadly, I’m already half way through the second book in the trilogy and I only started them 4 days ago.  And because Christian’s secret is REALLY DARK, I don’t think they will be making the books into a movie series anytime soon.   Christian will be far more fleeting for fantasy material than Jamie Fraser, but that is probably for the better.  I need to concentrate on more intellectual pursuits anyway (shirts, shirts for sale, only $109 per shirt!).

For the record, I did have a wonderful crush on my husband in college.  He had floppy blond hair and great blue eyes, played three sports, drove a Jetta, and was always surrounded by friends.  I followed him around for weeks, trying to eat at the same starch filled cafeteria that he did, go to the same beer pong frat parties that he attended.  Then one day several months in the future, we wound up in the same Political Science class.  He sat near me and asked me the time, and I noted that he was wearing a watch.   The rest, as they say, is romantic history.  Sometime later, we consummated our relationship on the floor of my dorm room, lived apart, lived together, got married, had two kids and have spent the last 25 years together.   Which sounds like a really, really, really long time.  But with an innocent crush here and a fictional character fantasy there, it seems like it was just yesterday….

Hmmm, is this Jamie or Christian???  Who cares.

A Style Consultant is Born

Last week I officially started my new flex-time position as an independent style consultant.  Ideally the job is supposed to allow me to do all of the things I need to do at home AND make some extra income to support my kids’ activities, or maybe some of my activities (translation: botox, restylane, and sculptra).  My journey began with product and sales training in Dallas Texas!  I haven’t traveled in a while, or at least not in the early morning while simultaneously trying to take care of everything else in my life.  At 11:30 last night I felt confident about my morning departure, my checklist looked tidy. 

• House Clean
• Grocery Shopping one
• Lunches 80% complete
• Kids' homework ready to turn in
• Laundry - washed, folded and returned to its usual place of residence
• Boarding pass printed
• Mail retrieved and categorized by action needed
• Bills Paid
• Training documents printed and reviewed
• Emails answered
• Measuring appointments set
• Kids' schedules finalized and communicated to care giver
• Corresponding rides and babysitting arranged

This only took me 17 hours to finalize the previous day, thus leaving me in a state of exhaustion before I even started my new endeavor. 

I woke at 5:45 for an 8:30 flight, which should have been plenty of time to wrap up the remaining 20% of items that I needed to do.  But it was not.  While opening the soup can to make kids’ lunch entrees, I watch in slow motion as the top flips off and bright orange lentil soup flies everywhere, including the front of the white jacket which I plan to wear for the next three days.  I attempt a Lady McBeth on the stain (out damned spot, out I say!) and it fades to a dull yellow.  I add a scarf to my ensemble to disguise the mishap.  

I gulp down 3 bites of oatmeal and rush out the door 15 minutes late.  My last glimpse as I pull out is my daughter’s sad face in the window, gravely waving goodbye as if I were heading to Mars for an extended space exploration trip.  “It’s OK, honey I’m just going to learn how to measure men for luxury Italian clothing at affordable prices so I can pay for your ski school, I will return shortly!” I mouth, but she doesn’t understand.  Even though I have been home with her since birth (with various stints of employment that she doesn’t remember) and I’m going to train for a job that will help pay our bills, I feel a pang of guilt.  It’s just a pang, let’s move on.

For 30 minutes, I’m happy listening to Howard on my way to the airport.  I get a decent spot in long-term parking and record “section 18B stop 3” in my iphone because my short term memory is verging on the Lilliputian.  The security line is longer than I expected, and there is only 25 minutes until my flight takes off.  As I am stumbling to replace my boots (and hide the socks that don’t match my outfit) I see a somber security guard carrying my blue shimmery faux lizard skin purse (a fashion don’t if I ever saw one).  I immediately start to worry about a possible lip-gloss infraction.

“Do you have anything sharp in your bag?” He questions with the grave manner of an abu ghraib guard.  

I can’t think of anything possibly sharp in there, but it is a large handbag and I did take it to the ski race last weekend.  He pulls out my trusty Swiss army knife.  My main reason for carrying such an item is for its deft capabilities at opening a variety of alcoholic beverages.   Shit.  $30 down the drain, and no portable opener.  He offers the charitable option of allowing me to return it to my car, but I only have 20 minutes until my flight now and I decline.  I briefly lament that if it were a $30 lip-gloss, I probably would have chosen to miss my flight and put the offending make up back in my vehicle.  I picture my husband shaking his head at me and calling me a “rookie flier”.  He is right.

My flight is not in the usual Delta area so I hoof it over to terminal B along the moving walkway.  Along the way I am astounded by the number of “fashion don’ts” that I encounter.  My favorite is the woman in the faux leopard skin coat, with a different sort of faux leopard print bag (this would be a deux faux pas).  Topped off with the pumpkin tinted hairdo that is spiked all over the back to give the appearance of volume.  Yikes.  Perhaps my impending new title of style consultant has made me more keenly aware of these style infractions. 

I finally arrive at my gate, which is at least a half-mile from my point of origin.  The other plane is still de-planing so I head over to Starbucks (for lack of a better option) for a small decaf coffee.  The line is very long, but I persevere.  I need that goddamn decaf!  I spot a well-dressed man and briefly entertain the idea of giving him my style consultant business card that is hot off the presses.  I chicken out.  After ordering, I wait as 10 drinks that are way more complicated than mine make it to the drink pick-up zone.  After a hasty inquiry they pour the decaf and I am on my way.  As I rush back to the boarding line and head onto the plane, I spill coffee on my sleeve.  Note to self: don’t wear white when traveling. In my flurry, I forgot to get my pink luggage tag.  I back track to the gate to get my ticket.  By this time, there is no room for my bag in the “luggage convenience shelving”.  I put down my purse and my hard earned coffee to stuff my suitcase onto the device, which allows me to work up a good sweat in my linen blazer.    I look over to see a man in a suit bent over picking up my coffee which has been knocked over by my blue purse and is pouring all over the floor.

“Thanks so much, it has been a really shitty morning” I say as I try to retrieve my things.  As he gets up, I can see that my first impression was incorrect; it is not a man in a suit, but rather a teenage Mormon missionary, trying to look like a man in a suit with his Elder XYZ tag proudly displayed on his lapel.  This poor soul, on a mission from God to convert the fine people of Dallas (good luck with that one, buddy – there is enough religion down there already) to Mormonism, has now been offended while trying to do a good deed.  In fact he has been offended twice 1. By me taking the word for feces in vain and 2. By the mere presence of my Starbucks delivered straight from Satan.  I’m actually surprised he attempted to save my evil coffee to begin with – maybe his divine knowledge allowed him to discern that my coffee was not filled with that heinous substance known as caffeine thereby making it safe in the eyes of the Lord.  At first I feel badly that I have been so thoughtless with my remark and my consumption, but this feeling is quickly replaced by the dread that he and his entourage might be sitting next to me on the plane and spend the next 2.5 hours trying to convince me that Joseph Smith really did find those plates, and if I’m not busy, perhaps I should consider being his 3^rd wife.

As luck would have it, I am free to ponder my heathen existence on my own for the remainder of the flight.  Training goes fairly well.   Even though I have left Utah, religion is prominent in our training discussion.  At first I begin to write down every reference that I hear regarding our Holy Father (It was God’s plan that I embarked on this career, By the Grace of God I was able to be successful) but I pull myself together and focus on the finery's of Italian clothing, and how to achieve just the right fit.  I probably could have learned everything I need to know via a video conference, but I will play the game as I was trained to do so long ago.  I leave the hotel armed with a hefty book of fabric samples, a few pages of notes, and the tools of my new trade – a measuring tape and custom designed measuring belt. 

On my return flight, all of my reading material is on my Ipad, which I can no longer use during take-off and landing.  I choose to peruse the Sky Mall and I start with the last page first as is my customary approach to any magazine read. 

There is some weird shit in the back of the sky mall. 

I will provide a few examples:

Lamp Lady – this thing is $495!!  Can you imagine this in your living room?  Doesn’t this represent some sort of drinking joke?

Urinating Brussels Boy – Having lived in Brussels, I feel so fortunate to have seen this stunning work of art in person.  People travel for thousands of miles to view this cute statue, and now you can purchase it for your very own back (or front?) yard!

A word to the wise: just because a fake plastic tree adorns the top of the litter box does not make it invisible to your guests, you are still going to smell the feline elimination. However, they recommend you buy two!

Finally, want to try out a beard with your girlfriend but don’t have the patience to grow one?  The bearded cap is the best way to end any relationship.

Thankfully we have reached cruising altitude and I can continue reading my ibook.  I was getting a little freaked out about who might actually purchase some of these items.  

An hour into my flight, my seatmate initiates conversation.  After we exchange our assorted reasons for travel, he actually asks for my business card!  He thinks selling men’s clothing in Utah is a great idea!  Alas, a saleswoman is born and I am on my way.  But no journey to/from Utah would be complete without re-entry to the airport where you are faced with throngs of family members that are not yours, carrying balloons and signs that say “Welcome Home Elder XYZ”.  I’m not sure how their mission went, but mine is complete.  I have been converted to an Independent Style Consultant.