If and When

I was talking to an old friend recently who was going through a rough period and during our discussion we both admitted that we had given up on our dreams, or at least don’t think about them anymore.

My senior yearbook quote was from Hamlet “Dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.”  The accompanying picture shows me at the end of a dock with my hands poised as if in flight – hurrying off to conquer the world.  Wow, what an optimistic, idealistic young woman I was.  Ambition?  I can’t remember the last time I felt ambitious.  (Well - I did clean out the kids’ lockers last week – THAT required some serious ambition.)  Now I am a jaded, middle aged, independent who no longer believes in our political system, and can’t even muster a dream (other than some about Christian Grey, but those don’t count). 

I looked back on a few of the dreams I had when I was younger to see how they turned out:

1. Be a successful business woman

After grad school, I joined one of the many high tech start-ups in the Boston area.  I was determined to put my newly acquired business management skills to work!  People were getting rich over night left and right at these companies.  When I started, stock options were at $40/share.  Within a year it doubled and split, and then doubled again and split.  I never sold any stock – thinking it would go on like this forever and one day I would have 100,000 shares worth $100/share.  This was the late 90’s when we were riding high on bloated budgets and money on paper that meant nothing in real life.  By the time the company was sold to Intel in 2000, the stock price was $6/share, well below the $40 I had options for.  I remember being in Florida for a sales meeting and we were dancing at a bar yelling along with the song “I get knocked down” by Chumbawamba.  We substituted the catchy yet more appropriate lyrics “I got 6 bucks, but I’ll get up again.”  While I considered myself successful in terms of being a good manager and getting promoted, etc., financially speaking it was a less than a windfall.

2. After my vast prosperity achieved in the business world, I planned to use my new- found high tech fortune to buy my mom a new car and a new house.

My mom is quite frugal and seems content in her house that is paid for and car that gets around town just fine, which is good news, because at $6/share, I couldn’t even afford to buy her a Hyundai.

3. Buy my grandmother’s historic home in Connecticut and turn it into a grand summer country retreat with a pool and horses for my extended family.

My grandmother’s house did come up for sale in 2008 and sold in less than a week to someone who had a family history in the house back in the 1800’s.  I never even knew it was on the market.  Thanks a lot Grammie!

4. Own or rent a beach house on the Vineyard or Nantucket shore where I would "summer" with my family.  My kids would have their “summer friends” that they looked forward to seeing every year.  They would scoop ice cream at the local sweet shop when they were old enough to get a job.  We would have nostalgic family reunions with my east coast family each June.   In the fall and winter I would return to our beach home solo once a month and walk on the beach in a bulky warm sweater, hair blowing in the breeze like the protagonist of a Danielle Steele novel.   I would drink Earl Grey tea, paint ocean landscapes and write my best selling memoir.

When we moved to Park City, this dream evaporated (just like every other piece of moisture in my life).  You have to be quite ambitious (or have friends in the right places) to get to east coast beaches from Utah.  Second home ownership is something I don’t even contemplate in these uncertain economic times.  In fact, renting my primary residence is sounding increasingly attractive. 

About a year ago, I constructed a second list entitled "If I sell the house, I will....."

5. Live in Italy for 3 months and explore the countryside, tour museums, take art classes, flirt with Italians, and eat eat eat. 

This seems to be a common fantasy among us cougars.  So much so that there was a book compiled and a movie produced in which Julia Roberts experienced it all for us.  But then she had to repent in some strange Indian land with silence and yucky cuisine.  I will put this on the back burner until it becomes less popular.

6. Vacation on a Greek island just like the one in Mamma Mia with Colin Firth, but without Pierce Brosnan attempting to legitimize his vocal chords. 

I could probably get a lot for my $$ in Greece these days, but alas – no big European vacation is on the horizon any time soon.

Looking back at these notions, I realize that they all sound simpatico in theory, and they aren’t completely selfish. In fact, they were damn good dreams.  But they mostly rely on “if” and “when”, which places me in a purgatory of yearning.  I’m never quite satisfied and always looking back or ahead.  However, when I cease to live in the “if and when”, there are some pretty awesome things taking place in the “now.”   Yes, Eckhart Tolle, I did read some of your book!!

Exhibit A) Being present and enjoying a quiet evening on my patio looking at the mountains with my husband and a cold beer (after a marathon weeding session).

Exhibit B) Driving my son around for the 8^th time yesterday because I know next year he will have his license and we won’t have that time together in the car to “bond” (aka argue, philosophize, bicker).

Exhibit C) Taking my daughter to an animated film – I know our days for these are numbered.   Pretty soon, she will want to take her friends to see Magic Mike (not sure where she gets these seedy objectives from!) 

Exhibit D) Waking up and viewing 5 hot air balloons outside my window, billowing around in the puffy clouds.   

Exhibit  E) Mountain biking through wild flowers for two hours and still feeling strong when I'm done.

I am living the dream, I just need to wake up every once in a while and acknowledge it!

Birthdays

Today I am 45 years old.  I knew that my birthday was quickly approaching when all of my friends started sending me cards.  My friends at the Sunglass Hut, my friends at the Vittoria Spa, even my friends at Knead a Massage (although I’ve only been there once) sent me a nice birthday card with a special offer.   My daughter pondered why “I even bother to celebrate my birthday at this point.”  This from the little blonde demon who plans her birthdays six months in advance!  I have to admit, I’m not terribly excited about this birthday and birthdays in general seem to have diminishing returns.  I picture myself standing in the middle of the see-saw looking back at my early forties and teetering on the edge of fifties.  Madly pushing weight on both legs back and forth like I did as a kid to see who got bumped off.  

A while back, I paid $14.95 to post my mug on the Internet and view myself in a variety of different hairstyles and colors.  Somehow, my female brain believes that all of the woes of turning 45 will be resolved with a new hairdo.  I will look and feel younger, spend less time styling my unruly mop, and in the process -- forget that half my life is over.  On the bright side, my kids are very supportive of the change and both chose the same new hairstyle and color for me.  They don’t think there is anything erratic about my behavior; I’m just playing some games on the web. 

My husband seemed to take this last act in stride.  “You’re crazy” was all he said as I emailed picture after picture of me sporting a chestnut bob, eggplant waves, or an auburn shag.  He insists that I’m crazy several times a week, so this was nothing new. Yet another friend said she would continue to like me no matter what my “frickin” hair looked like.  This of course leads me to another revelation that I’ve had as I get older.  Women were meant to live with other women.  If my husband had made this type of comment (or perhaps worded even more thoughtfully like “your beauty comes from within, I will love you no matter what your hair looks like, or how fat your ass gets, or saggy your neck...”) I probably wouldn’t have madly tracked down my hair stylist for an emergency appointment after my online recon mission. 

One of my friends looks forward to the day when all of our husbands move on to their trophy wives leaving us divorcees to live together in a blissful state of female utopia. Painful hair removal, anti-wrinkle injections and marathon workouts will be things of the past.  We will all be fat, lazy, hairy, and happy.

I still feel like I’m 28 years old most of the time (except when I’m climbing royal street on my bike, trying to exceed that 5^th mile on the treadmill, or consuming that third cocktail).  If I could turn back the clock, that’s where I would set the alarm.  I was confident, successful, happy in my job, I lived in the city, I ate healthily, worked out moderately, my skin looked clear and non-wrinkled, children had not yet wreaked havoc on my body, yanked away my memory, and created fine lines around my eyes.   28 was a damn good year. 

The twenties are all about finding yourself and defining what you want to do and who you want to share your life with.  The thirties are about taking care of that person and the little people you create with him.  In your fifties you are back to taking care of people, most likely your parents.  In your 60’s, you’ve got to take care of yourself again, but it’s no longer about manicures and facials, it’s colonoscopies and cardiograms.  There is a lot of pressure to make the forties a truly superb decade, one with no regrets.  Thus the great buildup, the incredible pressure to reinvent, rejuvenate, re-evaluate, and if necessary re-do. 

I keep wondering why my husband didn’t have any of these issues when he turned 45?  He just breezed right through it! He seemed happy, fulfilled and confident.  He didn’t buy any night creams or spend hours at the gym.  He didn’t even contemplate a facelift. 

Then I performed the old compare-and-contrast exercise that I learned in college.  First, he believes that he will live to be 120 (with the help of the human growth hormone) thus placing his mid-life point at 60 – no need to worry for another 15 years at least (he is blissfully unaware of the trans-fats I inject into his dinners).  Second, he has accomplished many of the dreams on his list (with support from that other person in her 30’s that patiently followed him around the country and watched his triathlons), and third – there isn’t the huge societal pressure on him to look ten years younger than he is.  Women will still be attracted to him well into his 70’s.  What, in God’s name, does he have to worry about? 

The optimistic side of me (those that know me well will agree, my optimistic side rarely reveals itself) says I should be grateful for what I have accomplished during the first half of my life and modestly adjust my goals for the future.   I should be thankful for the good genes that I got from my parents, and reserve hope that I can alter or buy new ones if things take a turn for the worse.  I should smile (even though that will create the need for Restylane in my smile lines) and take every day that comes to me, enjoy the wonderful children that I’ve nurtured, and look forward to tomorrow.  Maybe even 50 years of tomorrows.  And above all, maintain faith that some scientist will discover a replacement for Botox that lasts years instead of months.

A Real Conversation

Date: February 13, 2012

Me - “I’m heading into town to pick up some Valentine’s things for the kids”

Spouse - Long groan - as if in stomach pain, “Oh my God is Valentine’s Day tomorrow?”

Me - “Yes”

• Translation - Valentine’s Day has always been on February 14th.  Every year since you were born, and more importantly, every year since we have been dating/married since 1987.  It is not like Easter which is tied to some random, dubious religious myth, it is always February 14th.

Spouse - “I’m buried and getting on a flight in a couple of hours, there is no way I will have time to get anything”

Me - “That’s ok, I will get cards and small gifts from both of us for the kids.  Valentine’s Day is a manufactured holiday by Hallmark, I don’t need anything - really.  And please, no chocolate.” 

• Translation - (I already consumed a bag of hershey kisses yesterday) I am truly sympathetic to his lack of time and agree that it is a lame holiday that puts undue pressure on the already overwhelmed male psyche.  And if at other points throughout the year, romanticism was prioritized, it might be ok to overlook the processed holiday that V-Day has become.  However, that is decidedly not the case.  He did propose on February 13th, exactly 20 years ago - thus acknowledging and in some way rebuffing the holiday all at once.   His relationship with Valentine’s Day has been strangled ever since.

Spouse - “Ok thanks”

Me - “No problem.”

• Translation - Disappointed again.  Why do I set myself up for this?  As a reader of both the male and female brain books, I know that men cannot read our thoughts and are not on the same frequency as women.  In the back of my feminine brain, I knew this was going to happen, yet I continue to maintain some hope that things will change.  That some year in the future, in early February a bell will go off in his head (or on his calendar) that says, “hey - a romantic holiday is coming up and perhaps I should prepare myself with some token of affection - or pick up the phone and make a reservation.”   For now, I continue my work on the next generation in the hopes that my son will be thoughtful, romantic, and check his calendar where his mother has placed alerts for the next 20 years.     

Fight or Flock

If someone had told me ten years ago that I would be hopping into a pick up truck with a twelve pack of Fat Tire beer and my road bike to head off for a weekend of hiking and biking with my girlfriends in southern Utah, I would have laughed in utter disbelief.  Clubbing in NYC or South Beach was more my style for the occasional female getaway back in the day.  Now that I’m a more mature woman of (gulp) nearly 45 years of age, I opt for the low maintenance, high calorie burn vacation.  

Honestly, in my thirties, I enjoyed my share of fun times with my lady friends.  A day in South Beach might be filled with a walk on the beach (if we weren’t too hung over), shopping, mojitos by the pool – constantly on the lookout for celebrities, (dining was not on the list of activities so we could look good in our bathing suits) getting our hair blown out and nails done, espresso martinis, and dancing at a one syllable club till the wee hours in a couture outfit.  

Nowadays, I still look forward to a vacation with the gals, but our days are drastically different.   Instead of small dresses, short shorts and bikinis – I pack hiking clothes, biking attire, and maybe some jeans for dinner.  When we arrive at our desert destination, we do a quick 30-mile ride to warm up through the red rock canyons of Moab.   After a beer by the pool, we head out for Mexican food and Margaritas.  In the morning we beeline to the nearest bakery and shovel in as much food as we can handle to fuel our action packed day.  Then we head off on our bikes for an 18-mile ride that seems mostly uphill.  We proceed to ditch our bikes, quickly change into our hiking clothes behind the disgusting port-a-potty and hike for an hour and a half to some arch or other.  Visa versa on the hike/bike thing and pedal home another 18 miles, which for some strange reason also seems to be uphill, even though I know this is not feasible.  Beer by the pool, eat, chat, repeat the next day. 

In response to stress, the human brain has a few options  – strong people will tend to fight, weak people take flight, men like to f&%k and women – we are inclined to flock.  During our girls’ weekends, we wallow in female bonding.  We talk for hours about topics ranging from world peace to menopause to death to childbirth.  I’m pretty sure that if you put a group of women together for a weekend and gave them a world problem to solve, they would have it nailed within 48 hours – in addition to hiking 20 miles, biking another 40, and coming up with a week’s worth of dinner menus.  It is the ultimate in multi-tasking – exercising, being a good friend, benefitting from free therapy and recipes, and appreciating nature.   

In High School, I didn’t have many women friends.  I prided myself on being a tomboy.  Boys were easier to understand, simple, not caddy – what you see is what you get.  I was perplexed by the female figure.  I had a few more friends in college and grad school, but it wasn’t until I had children that I found the value of the female companion.  Now I can’t imagine life without my girlfriends; they fulfill nearly all my needs.  They pick me up when I’m down, throw me birthday parties, make me dinner when I’ve been moving all day, retrieve and feed my kids, loan me clothes, put up with my flirty husband, send me cards, texts, and emails.  They listen to me complain, make me laugh until I cry, they stick up for me when I’ve been wronged, make me a drink when I need to relax and I know that they always have my back.  I feel lucky to have so many amazing women in my life.  I learn from them every day.  I imagine us all growing old together and living in an assisted living facility – taking art classes and silver sneakers together (finally I will get to kick their ass at some sport!) and laughing, eating pudding and not caring at all about the world’s problems.

   

Cinderotica

Ok, I know we have hammered the 50 Shades of Grey theme to death, but I have just a few more things to say on the subject.

We should take note of this chapter in history; we are going to look back on the mainstream erotica period as something that shows up in a Freakanomics book in 2020.  Much like the passing of Roe v. Wade and the link between reduced crime rates 20 years later, or the baby boom after World War II, 50 Shades will create a mysterious social phenomena.   In addition to the obvious bump in sales of sex toys in 2012, there may well be another baby boom, or perhaps even a drop in births because women are so happy pleasuring themselves, they realize that having a man around is rather… superfluous.   It is conceivable that the sexual freedom unleashed by the seemingly harmless lusty novel had something to do with the government embracing same-sex marriage.  The long-term peripheral effects of this publication are infinite.

There are a plethora of romance/erotic novelists out there trying to capitalize on the Fifty Shades anomaly.  Lately I’ve heard radio advertisements that go something like this “Long before Fifty Shades of Grey, so in so was writing erotic books for women.”   Maybe there are a few women who really get off on reading about sex with no plot.  However, I believe that the unique fascination with the Fifty Shades novel stems from the fact that it is simply a theme borrowed from the grand master of permanent child scarring, Walt Disney.  Fifty Shades is the kinky Cinderotica story that the middle aged woman has been craving.  As much as we don’t want our daughters to subscribe to the Prince Charming philosophy, its appeal to society throughout the years has no bounds.  We always fall for it.  We loved it when Mr. Darcy was smitten with homely, dowry-less Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice (“I believe I must date it [her love for Darcy] from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley).  We rushed to the theatres to see a prostitute clad Julia Roberts lure Richard Gere into her web in Pretty Woman; we were taken in again in The Proposal when Sandra Bullock was a lonely, repressed publisher and Ryan Reynolds – her dashing younger Canadian Prince Charming.  We even went crazy for vampire Cinderella stories with Edward and Bella in the Twilight series.  The list goes on and on…. And now we have Cinderella with sex toys.   EL James even shamelessly borrowed one of the stepsisters’ names by using Anastasia!   Elena could be the wicked step-mother/dominatrix.   Yikes, it is embarrassing to have fallen so desperately into this trap again in my 40’s.   Am I really that shallow?  I’m afraid to answer that question.

With an increase in the wealth gap, and the subsequent rise in potential Cinderella’s representing the 99%, and overly wealthy men that are part of the dreaded 1%, the Cinderella story has regained its allure with the general population.   What happened to the role models I had later in life, the powerful women of Sex in the City, who dressed in slinky outfits, blatantly talked about sex in the diner, and were consistently out on the town having fun with a variety of men?  Let me see, I think Carrie fell victim to the Cinderella ending with Big.  The other two got married and became mommies.  In the end, Samantha is our lone shining example of the powerful woman who isn’t defined by  (nor supported by) a man.  I guess our odds aren’t that great.  Best to stick with the Cinderella plan.  

While we are on the Cinderella theme, I wrote this a while back.  Some of you have seen it already….

Overqualified Cinderella

1.      Vacuum

2.            Mop Floor

3.            Fold Laundry

4.            Call appliance repair

5.      Prepare noose

Never in all my time in college or grad school or marketing management did I ever dream that such an auspicious to-do list would appear on my calendar.  Me?  Mopping?  What happened to that young, aggressive, skilled employee of yore?

She met prince charming, had kids and moved to Utah where the nearest high tech marketing job is two states away.  Disney doesn’t spend much time enlightening us about what happened to Cinderella after she gave birth to two beautiful children and the real estate market crashed, leaving Prince Charming without his impressive castle and sparkling smile. 

In fairy tales, you don’t step back 15 years in pay, or bend over every time someone makes a low ball offer on a condo.  No, these are horror stories, topics for Stephen King – who always seemed to be more my style anyway.  However, my macabre imagination did not prepare me for such a change in momentum.

 Most fairy tales go from rags to riches for this is what people want to read about – not the reverse.  Riches to rags goes against the Great American Dream, it’s like reading from right to left, it is awkward and uncomfortable and makes you think too hard. 

 So what did happen when the real estate market tanked and along with it 80% of Prince Charming’s net worth?  Charming is quite tenacious and very loyal to his business endeavors.  His gallant upbringing and years of jousting wouldn’t allow him to admit defeat or give up easily.  However, his sad face and angry voice were growing intolerable.  Cinderella staged an intervention with the help of Charming’s father – who always had a soft spot for Cinderella. 

 “You must leave this business behind, go back and pursue the Medical Device Industry – this is where you will find your fortune again” – we told him.  And so it was that Grandpa and Cinderella managed the flailing real estate business totally dictated by demanding buyers.  After a lengthy search and many lunch meetings with Charming’s other royal friends, he was able to find employment in California, where he now spends 70% of his time.

 Meanwhile, back at the castle.  Who has money for help?  It is a good thing that Cinderella has prior experience in domestic chores and her upbringing was less than regal.  This makes her a suitable candidate for wielding a mop, thrusting a vacuum, and manipulating mounds of laundry.    It is hard to remember a time when I was master of the spreadsheet, creator of awesome presentations, writer of product specifications, and my nickname at work was “rain woman” because I could remember so many numbers. But alas, I find solace in the following:  I am still fairly astute when it comes to Algebra homework, I can have a basic conversation in Spanish, and I come up with catchy sentences for vocabulary studies.  I console my daughter with greatest of empathy, and listen to my son’s teenage angst in its newest forms.  Maybe I’m not using my multiple degrees in the way I envisioned, but at least Prince Charming will be able to present his well-adapted children proudly at the next ball – whenever that may be.

The Roller Coaster of Motherhood

It is amazing how life can go from an idyllic mother’s day setting to the devil’s garden in a matter of hours.  The highlight of my mother’s day actually took place on the Thursday before.   Without any prompting from me, my kids rode their bikes to Main Street (with their own money no less) and each picked out their own present for me!  This is a first and that act alone made me sure that I had produced thoughtful, loving, children.  I am such a good mother! 

On Sunday, I awoke without my kids – which makes me sad because it is the one day of the year when they make a point of being sweet, refrain from squabbling, bring me breakfast in bed, make cards, all of that gooey Hallmark mother’s day glam that we live for.  They stayed with their grandparents the previous night– which was good in that it allowed me to sleep in, journey to Home Depot for some fertilizer, and go for a bike ride with my husband (hmm, sounds a little like father’s day to me).   Anyway, when I did see my kids later that day, my reception was less than I imagined it to be– but tolerable given they had lost their stamina for demonstrating devotion by mid-afternoon.  I made dinner for the family and my in-laws (still sounds like father’s day) and the kids produced their gifts. My daughter chose a beautiful necklace that says “mom” – which she had her eye on for some time she informed me.  And my son got me a… small beaded bird.   “What is this?” I inquire with the utmost of sweetness in my voice.  “Well, I don’t know,” he replies.  At this moment he reminds me so much of his father.  “But the lady told me that some woman in Guatemala made it and it enabled her to start a business and make some money, so I thought it was a good thing.”  And indeed he is right.  I don’t quite know what to do with the bird, but I love the thought he had while choosing it.  I’m not quite so enamored with the rose scented incense that he settled on, but you can’t be picky on these occasions.  I love my kids.

Less than 48 hours later, I am sitting in my office in tears.  I rue the day I ever decided to have children and am contemplating booking a one-way flight to Italy.   I am a terrible mother!  I’m having one of those days.  It started innocently enough, but rapidly disintegrated.   My son is like a sulking snail in the morning; he moves so slowly he makes me want to scream, and he is so tired he can’t even mutter a few syllables.   He even leaves slime from his breakfast on the counter.  I prod him along continually like an agitated cow herder until we finally exit the house 10 minutes late, resulting in traffic and further delays.  When I return to get my daughter, (and prepare for her departure) we are also running behind and so the dominoes fall.  I plead with her to take her allergy medicine because she has been lethargic, and complains of itchy eyes and a sore throat.  She refuses, debating the validity of taking a pill to help her symptoms.  “Fine, suffer then” I say, exasperated.  I switch over to another health related topic - sunscreen.   “It is going to be warm today, please wear the 55 sunscreen on your face.”  “Make Me” she replies.  Really?  Make me?  It is so unimaginative, but it works.  The ultimate trigger in the tween’s vocabulary.  I envision myself tying her up, putting masking tape over her mouth, and smothering her skin in zinc oxide.  Instead, I offer my most disapproving glare and walk to the car.  She invoked the same phrase last week about wearing her helmet.  I told her she could walk to school, or wear her helmet and ride her bike, and I left the room.  About 5 minutes later I saw her leave on her bike, helmet protecting that stubborn little noggin of hers.  I’m flexible about some rules, but brain safety and skin cancer are not among them.   These are hard limits for me. (wink-wink - my goal is to use some quote from Fifty Shades in every blog until the end of the year)

Later that day, I have an appointment with my son’s guidance counselor, which we have both known about for at least two weeks.  The goal of the meeting is for us to discuss his overly complicated schedule for 9^th grade and make sure he is taking all the right classes for credit.   The overly complicated part comes from the need to work around his commitment to the alpine race team.  After 30 minutes, we emerge with what I foolishly believe to be a tough but manageable schedule.  We get into the car and he yells, “I can’t believe how badly you messed up my whole schedule; other kids are doing XYZ.” 

“We just talked for 30 minutes about your schedule and you didn’t utter one word of dissent.” I explode back.

“I know, I was trying to catch your eye, didn't you see me?” he asks. 

Needless to say this escalates into a shouting match of me vs. him laced with expletives that I swore I would never use in front of my children, let alone at them.  I am fumigating by the time I get home and tell him to call his friends and his coaches to figure this out because after all, this is HIS schedule, and HIS skiing that we are talking about. 

I try to calm down and decide to walk the dog.  The only constant in my life, she always wants to walk – but on this day when nothing can go as planned or without a fight, she stops on the trail and won’t budge any further after only 10 minutes of walking.  My best friend, my calming influence, has also decided to pick a silent fight with me today.

I get home and my husband calls.  As I attempt to relay the events of the day, he says, “Stop talking so loudly, you are getting all worked up and I can’t understand you.”  Jesus Christ.  I hang-up, I simply can’t face another altercation.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I acknowledge that I am the common denominator in all of these equations.  I must be giving off some sort of antagonistic smell or signal (note – complete absence of PMS on this day).  I cease all interaction with my family other than the basics.

As I put my daughter to bed, she apologizes for her bad behavior earlier in the day. 

As I say goodnight to my son, he admits that his coach thinks his schedule is perfect – which is the closest thing to an apology I’m going to get.  He proceeds to tell me about a movie he watched in science about ecosystems.  Something about a cane toad being transported to an island where the ecosystems were supposed to match, but failed miserably resulting in massive numbers of cane toads all over the place.  In some cases, they are squished by the dozen on the roadway (and make an entertaining popping sound in the process).  Apparently these toads have quite an appetite for reproduction, despite their over-population.  He can barely contain his laughter as he tells me about one cane toad trying to hump another cane toad, which had perished on the side of the road (I point out that perhaps the cane toad has necrophilic tendencies).  And I am reminded once again, that he is just a teenager.  His brain is on emotional overload right now, and his body is a mass of hormonal fluctuations (we have more in common than he knows) -- the fact that he even chooses to have a conversation with me is a victory.    

I love my kids, I am a good mom.

From Style Consultant to Social Pariah in 30 Days

Direct selling.  There I said it, that terrible dirty word.  I was approached a couple of years ago by some friends to get involved in a direct selling company (also known as referral marketing) and it made my skin crawl.  I was not about to engage in actively pushing products on my friends.  And worse yet, recruit others to do the same.  I did not want people to start avoiding me for fear that I would try to sell them something. Part of the problem at that time was that the product they were trying to sell did not provide me with any of the benefits that they were marketing.  It didn’t work for me and I didn’t really believe in it.  The thought of selling in general makes me queasy, but selling something I did not use myself?  Impossible.

When my friend back east started making overtures about the company that I am now working for (J.Hilburn), I had a similar reaction.  Ugh.  No way.  I nearly spit out the word “direct selling”.   After a fair amount of badgering, I ordered a shirt for my husband to see for myself what this was all about; I figured the worst-case scenario is that he had a new shirt.  I was skeptical and had low expectations.  Much to my surprise, I was genuinely impressed when the shirt arrived 3 weeks later.  It is made from a high quality, beautiful Italian fabric.  The craftsmanship is amazing and it fits him better than any other shirt he owns.  And the price was similar to what he paid for a shirt in a department store that wasn’t made to fit him.  Next, I ordered a pair of wool trousers.  I am fortunate that my husband enjoys and wears nice attire and doesn’t mind spending a little more money for quality.   The reality is that he wears his nice clothes for 5-10 years.  Men’s style doesn’t change quite as much as women’s.  They can wear the same slacks or sport coat many times over – they don’t worry about wearing the same outfit to a party where the same group saw their outfit two weekends ago.  The male brain does not work like this.  Anyway, I was dubious.  So I ventured upstairs to our closet and fetched a pair of his Italian wool trousers that he paid $400 for at Nordstrom.  I laid down the pants from Hilburn and compared them to his pants piece by piece.  The fabric quality was the same.  The stitching, reinforced construction around the waist, pockets, the lining - - all the same.  And these pants were only $180.  Hmmm.  They could be on to something here. 

My suspicious brain kept nagging at me.  How can this be?  And so I thought about what “direct selling” means.  Instead of spending millions of dollars to create a brand through advertising and maintaining a huge store front in a mall or Main Street – this company relies on me to spread the word for them and to bring products to the customer.  And if my clients are happy – they will tell their friends and the “brand” finds its own following – at a fraction of the cost that Ralph Lauren or Giorgio Armani spends.  In this particular business, most of the clothes are made to order – so there is no inventory carrying costs.  They don’t use headhunters to hire people.  They don’t provide benefits or car allowance or computers or even sales tools to their sales force.  All of this converts into huge savings that are passed on to the customer.  In our current economic state, this translates into smart business (in the last four years, the company has become the number one seller of dress shirts in the US – not bad considering this is the worst economy in 50 years).  In business, this is described as a win-win.  But for me, this has resulted in my worst nightmares coming true.

People who are my friends or maybe used to be my friends see me at a party and begin preparing for the worst.  “Oh no, she is going to try and sell me a shirt.” Trust me - I would rather be selling to strangers – surely the group of people I don’t know in Utah is much greater than the group I do know, but the reality is that I have to start somewhere to build an audience and brand awareness.  And so I am starting with people who trust me and know me  (or used to anyway).   However, I am not going to think less of you if you don’t buy clothes from me.  It will not change our relationship.  If you want to support Giorgio Armani or go bargain hunting at TJ Maxx, I could care less. 

DO NOT FEAR THE HABERDASHER (Many thanks to Nick who aptly dubbed me his personal haberdasher). If you ask me how my business is going, I will tell you, I might even say how impressed I am with the quality of the products.  Just as you might tell me that pharmaceutical sales are down or up this quarter.  But I’m not going to pull out my measuring tape and start throwing fabrics at you.  If you or your significant other are in need of apparel and you appreciate fine quality and first-class fit for a fair price – then I’m happy to meet with you outside of the social occasion to see if I can complement your current wardrobe.  I love fashion, and honestly it has been fun for me to help a guy (and sometimes his wife) choose unique fabrics and create pieces that work with clothes that he already owns.  When he emerges wearing the shirt and pants that fit him perfectly (that we designed together) and that he is able to wear with his other suits or existing clothing, I have a huge smile on my face.  I am a pleaser by nature; I do not tolerate discord well in any part of my life.  When I help someone, it makes me genuinely happy.  Some guys need a lot of help and others know exactly what they want – either way, I am delivering something that they need, and by the way, I am bringing all of this to them.  They don’t have to drive to SLC to one of two men’s clothing stores and navigate racks of garb to find something that may or may not fit.  And if for some reason it doesn’t work out?  I dispatch the item to the tailor and pay to have it fixed or I handle the return for them, and they get their money back.   The risk reward ratio is definitely in the customer’s favor.

So far in my marketing efforts I have emphasized the high quality, personalized service, amazing fit, at an affordable price value proposition.  What I realized is that I’m going about this all-wrong. The world is a different place.  Erotica has gone mainstream, Saturday Night Live is doing skits about moms with vibrators.  I need to engage customers at an emotional level to create desire.  I also must simplify my message.  And so, here is my new advertising campaign.  I welcome feedback.

Ladies – do you like it when your husband/boyfriend puts on a suit?  Does he look more powerful?  Do you enjoy looking at his booty when his pants highlight his tight glutes?  How about a shirt that reveals the contours of his chest and flat abs, while enhancing the color of his eyes?  Does it make you proud to be with him and more attracted to him when he dresses nicely?  (By the way, we do sell linen shirts and faded jeans too)

Guys – do you want to get laid more often?  Dress up.