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.

Kristie's Choice for March

Wow, what a bummer.  I had this week's blog all written before I left for a trip and set to self-publish and somehow it disappeared.  I will try to recreate as best I can.

Since we are watching our figures (wax or wane I'm not sure), I thought I would look for some healthy snacks.  Jamba Juice Popsicles  are calorie friendly and affordable at your local Walmart.

Park City Coffee Roasters Latte
I'm not sure about you, but I'm getting a little bored with Starbucks.  I prefer my designer drinks with plenty of frothy foam and with a happy design on top such as a snowflake or  heart.  It seems that Park City Coffee Roaster is the only joint in town capable of pulling this off.  They have recently added beer and wine to their  menu, as well as more seating.  It is a good place for a casual business meeting, or to rendezvous with a friend and catch up.  If I'm going to pay $5 for a cup of coffee, it better look like this...

The Everywhereist
When I first began my endeavor to start a blog, I did a bit of research.  Time Magazine rated the best blogs of 2011.  There were many "helpful" websites and more than a few devoted to the trials and tribulations of being a mom, but this was my favorite.  Geraldine left her job to follow her husband around the world while he travels for work.  She is a creative and witty writer; I particularly enjoy "WTF Wednesdays", "Food Porn Fridays", and "Dick Move of the Week".   This is a good indicator of just how bad a sales person I am, I'm actually recommending the competition.
http://www.everywhereist.com/



Rescue Repair for Split Ends
This stuff is awesome.  Of course I just paid $15 for it at the salon and just found it on amazon for $9, thus perpetuating my love/hate relationship with amazon.  http://www.amazon.com/Schwarzkopf-Bonacure-Repair-Sealed-Colors/dp/B000ULRDJU

Sonia Kashuk Perfectly Neutral Palette in color 10

Last time I got my hair color refreshed, I was able to peruse several beauty magazines for much needed advice.  Of course, I was drawn to Newsweek, WSJ, and Forbes, but I took one for the team and instead read InStyle, Vogue and Bazaar.  One article indicated that a bit of champagne shadow is flattering for all, but particularly those in the middle aged bracket.  I found the neutral palette below at Target.  It is perfect because it has a built in neutralizer that you apply to your lids to get rid of redness, veins, etc.  In yet another article I read that to achieve an alluring effect you should apply the "medium" shade in the center of your eyelid, the lighter shade toward the inside of your eyelid, and the darkest shade extending out to the corner of your lid.  Then apply mascara and THEN eyeliner.  This is different from how I have been doing things for the last 30 years, so I thought I would bring you all up to speed and make the world a little more alluring.

Self Tanner
With spring fast approaching, our bodies ever expanding, and skin cancer always looming, self tanner is a must before any post -hibernation bodily revelation.  The most professional (and most exposed) option is to have a tanning professional spray tanner on you at a tanning salon.  The next best solution is to rotate yourself like a rotisserie chicken in one of the stand up spray tan booths.  However, if neither of these are in your future, there are some at-home options that will work nicely.

Nivea Sun-kissed Radiant Skin Self Tanner offers a natural looking tan that you build over time, with no streaks.  Available at most drug and grocery stores.

If you need a darker tan fast, definitely go for the Fake Bake.  Available on Amazon and possibly Sephora. You will need to apply it with gloves, and it looks streaky at first, but the next day in the shower, the streaks come off to reveal a glowing tan.  I recommend application at least two days prior to your event.  You will need to enlist help to reach your nether regions.  This is one of my husband's favorite jobs.

Katherine McPhee Workout
Finally, with regard to spring break preparation, I offer an efficient workout from Katherine McPhee in Self Magazine.  If you skip the stretching, it can be done in an hour.  Often if I am feeling strong I increase the weights and reps.  It can be done at home or at the gym, you need access to a treadmill (or run outside) and preferably a stationary bike, but not necessary.  Three minutes of jumping rope seems like an eternity, so nine minutes is close to infinity.  The jump rope kicked my ass.  And my bladder.

- Five minutes on the treadmill at six miles per hour
- Total body stretches
- 20 jumping jacks
- 10 push-ups
- Upper body circuit: 10 one-arm rows, 10 lateral side rises, 10 front rises and 10 bicep curls going into overhead press with five-pound weights
- Five push-ups
- Five burpees
- 30 seconds of alternating jump lunges
- Running up and down a flight of stairs twice
- Five minutes on a stationary bike at resistance 10 or 15
- 20 jumping jacks
- 10 push-ups
- Abs circuit: 45 crunches (15 regular, 15 pulling knees toward head, 15 with legs straight and hands under butt if needed), 15 full sit-ups, put hands under your butt and do leg flutters for 30 seconds and then scissors for 30 seconds, plank for 30 seconds
- Three-minute run on treadmill at seven miles per hour
- Repeat the abs circuit
- 20 jumping jacks
- 10 push-ups
- Assisted pull-ups (three sets of 10 reps) (do dips on a chair if you can't do pull ups)
- Jump rope for three minutes
- Repeat upper body circuit
- Jump rope for three minutes
- Plank for 30 seconds
- Repeat stair run
- Pull-ups (three sets of six reps)
- Three minutes on a stationary bike at resistance 10
- 10 push-ups
- Jump rope for three minutes

J. Hilburn Men's Clothier

Finally, I would be remiss if I did not include my new semi- employer, J. Hilburn, on my list of favorite things this month.  As of Friday March 30th, I will officially be an Independent Style Consultant (translation: I try to sell high end men's clothing at affordable prices for them and they have no obligation to me).  I made a New Year's Resolution to make some $$$ in 2012 and this is my first attempt at revenue generation.   At no time during my college and grad school toils did I picture myself measuring men and selling them custom dress shirts; but life changes, markets collapse, real estate flails - you have to adapt accordingly.  Not all has gone to waste, I used my hard earned marketing skills to create my own business cards, advertising post cards and thank you notes.  I made two spreadsheets to help me track my contact with potential clients as well as my expenses.  I placed hand lotion and wintergreen mints in my bag so as not to offend any male clientele with my parched appendages and sour breath.  So if you or your significant other are in need of men's clothing made from the finest Italian fabric and crafted by the best Asian tailors, or just need some nice looking clothes for an evening out, contact me at kristie.henderson@jhilburnpartner.com.   Your man may not look exactly like the fellow below when I'm done with him, but I will try my best.

My Dream Day

I was reading Self Magazine and noticed they use the “Typical vs. Dream Day” format to interview celebrities sometimes.  I thought I would try it with my own life.

6:32 am Rise and Shine

My Typical Day:  After a solid 7 hours of sleep (minus the two hours of insomnia I suffered from 3-5 a.m. where I fretted about things outside of my control ), I wake to NPR droning on about the most recent primary election mishap. I move with the dexterity of a 75 year old arthritic woman to the bathroom where I discard my night clothes that are drenched in pre-menopausal sweat. I brush my teeth and make my way to my son’s room to wake him for the day.  He is less than responsive.

My Dream Day:  I wake up and incredibly, I am 28 years old again.  I live in Manhattan and Josh Radnor is my boyfriend.  He brings me French roast coffee in bed with heaps of cream and sugar and makes me scrambled eggs.  I can’t believe how cute he is.

6:45 a.m. Keep Going

My Typical Day: I return to my son’s room.  He is still in a deep slumber.  With great patience and envy I ask him nicely to exit his place of rest.  I proceed downstairs, where the dog is EXTREMELY happy to see me.  I let her out.  I let her in. She is happy to see me all over again.  I put on the kettle for tea and make lunches.

My Dream Day: I would look at my 28 year old self in the mirror and appreciate all of the collagen in my skin, full eyelashes, and soft – yet to be damaged hair. 

6:55 a.m. Get out the door

My Typical Day: I yell upstairs like a banshee “GET UP NOW or we will be late!”  I pack his backpack, and make his breakfast to-go. I meet him by the back door and watch in disbelief as it takes him a full 2 minutes to put his shoes on.  We drive to school in silence while he eats his homemade egg mcmuffin.

My Dream Day: Josh and I decide to attend a kickboxing class at Equinox.  We look and feel so great when we are done that we head back to our apartment for some hot morning sex in the shower.   

8 am. Deal with the Unexpected

My Typical Day: I return from taking my son to school and plan to repeat the whole process again with my daughter; however she has a headache and a stomach ache.  She throws up while I hold her hair back.  I remember that I never got my tea.

My Dream Day:  I put my cellulite free body into a trendy NYC outfit.  Josh and I kiss passionately before we depart for our jobs – He to the movie he is directing and me as editor of Travel and Leisure Magazine – for which my primary responsibilities are traveling leisurely and writing about it.

10 am Mid-Morning wake up call

My Typical Day:  After the second round of vomiting, I take a break from my daughter to look for the dog.  My goal is to use the endless canine enthusiasm to improve my daughter’s spirits.  Upon petting the dog, I realize there is something sticky and hard in her hair.  A quick olfactory test substantiates that it is some form of animal shit.   Her cuddle quotient has just dropped into the negatives.  And I will have to find time to bathe her in between my daughter’s barf intervals.

My Dream Day:  I research my next leisurely travel assignment to the Seychelles Islands.   Buy a teeny bikini online for my trip.  

12 pm Time for Lunch

My Typical Day:  Even though I have been a witness to five hours of dry heaving, I still can muster up an appetite.  In fact I’m starving but don’t have the energy to create anything healthy, so I root around in the pantry for a quick carb fix.  Graham crackers, thin mints and I force down an apple to trick myself into thinking I ate nutritiously.  

My Dream Day:   Josh and I meet for lunch in the meatpacking district.  We are whisked away to the finest outdoor table in the New York spring sunshine and we toast our good fortune with a fine Italian Prosecco.  He agrees to accompany me to the Seychelles if I will make a cameo in his film. 

3 pm  Taking Care of Business

Typical Day:  My daughter has finally calmed down and gone to sleep. I contemplate running on the treadmill, but decide against it for a reason I can no longer remember.  I pay bills, fold laundry, check email, make a grocery list, and dick around on Facebook.

My Dream Day:  After wowing my boss with an incredible pitch to research castles in Prague for my next adventure at Travel and Leisure, Josh calls to see if we can meet for a quick afternoon coffee.  He is so witty, adorable, and young we wind up in bed again!  This time at the Plaza Hotel in a suite.  Suddenly Josh throws up on me and it smells like poop!  There are dishes and laundry all over our bed!  What is happening?  OMG! I think my real world has just collided with my pretend world and the results are disastrous.

6 pm Fine Dining

Typical Day:  After picking my son up from skiing, I make 3 different dinners for various family members.  No one is satisfied.  I clean up and do the dishes.  I strongly encourage my son to finish his homework, while giving my daughter ginger ale and saltines.  

My Dream Day: Josh and I have dinner reservations at the newest Italian place, Marea.  We share the seared sea scallops and lobster ravioli.   We finish with a decadent Tiramisu and authentic espresso.  I’m not worried about being up all night with all of this rich food because a) I’m 28 and these things don’t effect me yet and b) I don’t care if I’m up all night as long as I’m with Josh.

8 pm Evening Entertainment

Typical Day:  Get the kids to shower and into their beds.  Check my daughter’s temperature. Wash everything she has come in contact with over the last 12 hours.  Hope that I somehow got the same bug and will lose 2 pounds over the weekend.  

Dream Day:  Josh gets us tickets to Book of Mormon on Broadway.  We laugh hysterically.  Afterwards, over a nightcap at the Mandarin, we joke about how we could never live in Utah.

10:30 pm Bedtime!

Typical Day:  After spending an hour in the bathroom trying to make myself look 28, I get into bed and listen to my husband laugh at a Beverly Hills Housewives rerun.  I insert my ear plugs and roll over.  He spoons me and I fall asleep fantasizing about Josh Radnor. 

March Madness

I’m not talking about basketball, or even ski racing - both sports culminating in massive amounts of training, races/games, high tension and in some cases questionable gambling throughout the month of March.  For me, March madness symbolizes a different sort of neurosis:  the culmination of 5 months of beauty dormancy.   My body has been completely hidden from view, happily tucked into jeans and sweaters at best, and in many cases layers of long underwear and ski clothes.  All of which seem to easily accommodate my ever-expanding saddle bags and pot belly.   March represents the final phase of comfort food dinners featuring the likes of macaroni and cheese, beef stew and pizza.  My skin and hair are intensely dry from the combination of harsh cold weather and indoor heating.  And perhaps worst of all is the ghastly hue of my skin.  Pale. Waxy. Ashen.  The whitish tint highlights every cellulite bump, unshaven hair, freckle, scar, and unsightly vein on my body.  In March, like no other month, I feel blah all over.  You have heard the old proverb that if March comes in like a lamb it goes out like a lion and visa versa.  In my life, March always comes in like a hippopotamus and (with any luck) will go out like a svelte cheetah, puma or cougar as the case may be.  

Next month, I am thankful to be taking a warm vacation with friends.  I am not looking forward to displaying my post-hibernation figure in a swimsuit for all to see.  I’ve been doing a little recon to see how the Sports Illustrated models get ready for their photo shoot.  (Not that I am at all comparing my Michelin-man self or my family vacation to a swimsuit shoot in exotic Ibiza, because they are NOTHING alike).  While we are all aware that these women are born gorgeous, I’m sure they indulge every once in a while and need to adopt a routine to perfect themselves for the celebrated swimsuit debut.

Here is what I discovered.  3 weeks before the event, the model starts working out twice a day (She didn’t specify  - but I’m assuming around 2 hours, one hour of cardio and one hour of strength training).  She eliminates dairy, meat, sugar and gluten from her diet.  12 days before, she stops eating solid food and only drinks shakes or vegetables and fruits that are juiced.  12 hours before, she eats and drinks absolutely nothing.  Keep in mind that she is probably in her early twenties and has an incredible metabolism.  

Let’s see if I can employ my every day math skills to figure out a similar program for myself.  I am twice her age and my metabolism is at least half as slow.  I am also half her height.  I think this indicates that I need to do twice as much for twice as long.  Ergo, 6 weeks before our vacation I should have started doing 4 hours of workouts per day.  24 days before departure,  I should abstain from solid food and 24 hours before, proceed into starvation and dehydration mode.   This sounds like cruel and unusual punishment that one would suffer at the hands of a demented prison warden.   

Given that I only have 3 weeks until our trip, (and am not into self-inflicted anguish), I have devised another plan:  Two weeks before:  Find large cover-up to fully cover up fat ass.  One week before: Purchase large hat and sun glasses to ensure anonymity. Schedule colonoscopy 24 hours before departure for a full cleansing covered by insurance (5 lbs)! Immediately after colonoscopy drugs wear off, head to tanning salon for a fake spray-on tan (virtual 5 lbs).  Get on the plane:  drink two margaritas to forget about how I look, give my husband the SI Swimsuit issue to ogle, and hope that none of the swimsuit models have chosen to vacation on the same island where I will be.

the world according to remy

Even though my ancestors reign from Portugal and water is my middle name, i can’t swim.  My family seems rather irritated by this peculiar lack of functionality on my part, but hey - Portugal is a long way from Butte Montana, where I was born.  Besides, i can pass for a doodle on a good hair day.  

i have a big brother who wrestles and plays tug of war with me.  Even though we weren’t part of the same litter, we are kindred spirits.  i often sleep with him in his comfortable bed and he even puts a soft pillow under my head.  We create some formidable smells together during the night.

i also have a little sister who is constantly hugging and kissing me.  i try to be patient, but she takes cuddling to the X-factor level.  Recently, she has also invited me into her place of slumber and i reluctantly agree to follow her.  i plant my rear end firmly near her face so she can’t grab my neck for a hug.  She attempts to clothe me, like some sort of commercial build- a-bear, which i loathe.  They should have bought her a small terrier that she could manipulate more easily.  

My dad is not often around, but when he is, he allows me to join him in his special room where he gazes at a screen most of the time.  i round myself into a ball on the leather chair that shares my color and enjoy peace and quiet.

And then, there is my adopted mom.  Our relationship is complicated.  When they first brought me home, i assumed that i was the queen bee or alpha female as they say in the canine domaine.  This bossy woman thought differently.  We battled it out for a couple of months, but her large brain and tight hold on the leash allowed her to triumph in the hierarchy war.  i’m pretty sure she is bi-polar - either she is kissing and hugging me like the little one, or she is yelling at me and banishing me to the outdoors.  The latter takes place every time she grabs ahold of that ridiculously loud robot that she wields around the kitchen.  She also has a strange preoccupation with my paws.  Whenever i return from a jaunt outside, she scrubs them madly with a towel before i am allowed to continue my path through the house.  i find this OCD ritual annoying, but don’t have much choice in the matter.  i do forgive some of her less desirable traits as she is the one who takes me out to explore the world.  She also feeds me that remarkably bland dog chow twice daily.  She has the biggest bed of all, but i am rarely allowed access to this space. 

There are a few special friends that i enjoy adventuring with:  Hoku and Koa claim to be Hawaiian, but they look like black labs to me.  At first Hoku was weary of my presence and gave me several warnings, but as i pose no threat, we have an agreement:  he protects me from other dogs and i don’t bother him.  Koa is like my great uncle, kindly and pleasant, but i run circles around him.  

Schumacher is a stocky fellow like me, but he is less than a foot tall and has supremely long ears and a deep voice.  We dated for a while, but he couldn’t keep up with me on our walks and our courtship ended rather abruptly.

Then there is a Spade.  He is thin, with short prickly black hair and he is faster than a cheetah.  i think his father was a boxer, which accounts for his quick feet.  He always has a ball in his mouth, which i find strangely attractive.  Being a curly haired female brunette, i am no stranger to the butt sniff mambo.  In fact i am quite popular on the trails.  Because of our close relationship, Spade attempts to mount me, which i simply don’t understand.  i do the same thing back to him.  Somewhere in my psyche i sense that i am not equipped for this act, but i do it anyway.  Neither of us derive any pleasure from this activity. 

i know 10 words (which places me in the “average intelligence” category), but through context and situation i actually have a much greater sense of meaning than my family thinks I do.  You will notice that most of the words i know are capitalized and followed by an exclamation point.  No one speaks to me quietly, they assume i am deaf and shout these words as if i were a 98 year old dog, when in reality, i’m only 21.

  

COME! - they either seek out my company because they love me, or they are mad and want to punish me.  If their inflection insinuates the latter, i often pretend i don’t comprehend this word.  

GO! Mostly the bi-polar one yells this to me on the trail when i’m not trotting fast enough.  

SIT!  This is a pleasant word to hear.   After i perform this task, i receive some sort of treat.  i’m still not sure why i need to have my arse on the ground in order to get a cookie, but i comply nonetheless. 

STAY! My arse remains on the ground.

WATCH OUT!  This means that if i proceed any further i am going to experience that egregious shocking sensation around my neck, or that an automobile is approaching.  Either way, i stop in my tracks.  

OK!  This signifies that it is safe to cross the road, or pass through a specified area without high voltage therapy.

NO! i hear this often.  Every day.   Multiple times per day.  

OFF! When i meet someone new, i want to get a better look at their faces so i get up on my haunches.  Apparently, this is considered rude in the human world and i am continually rebuffed for my actions.  When i try to sniff their butt, it is even worse.  i don’t know how i am supposed to get to know these people better.

REMY - this is my adopted name.

LEAVE IT!  i enjoy a little coyote excrement as a delicacy now and then, but boy does my mom go postal about this one. i can’t even repeat some of the words she uses.  Very unladylike.

Here are a few other things i know:   

• When my keen sense of hearing identifies a “chop chop” sound emanating from the kitchen, more often than not I will be the beneficiary of a delightful apple core, so I drool and wait, sometimes I even cry loudly.  
•  Small people who enter the house ALWAYS drop food so i follow them around mercilessly.  My brother also falls into this category, even though he is quite tall. 
• Occasionally an older couple takes me to their home in the suburbs for a visit, and i take advantage of them - they feed me everything and let me sit on the couch!  They obviously don’t know the wrath of bipolar betty!  They better WATCH OUT!!!