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.

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.