Remembering Yourself this Holiday Season

I hear way too much talk about "surviving the holidays" these days. From the financial stress presents put on families to the schedule takeover by holiday parties, people can go a little crazy this time of year.
When I was younger, I would look forward to November and December all year round, waiting for the lights, the carols and the holiday festivities. I had that warm, fuzzy feeling from October 31st to January 1st and I was unstoppable. This girl would spend hours drafting and decorating her Christmas list and I'd fall asleep to the Raffi Christmas album every night. "Douglas Mountain" was my sleepy time jam!

It often seems the Holiday spirit inversely relates to someone's age and I am just not OK with this. That little kid inside of me still exists and she wants to live it up this holiday season. Don't you?
So, how can I do this?
My observations tell me that people lose the holiday spirit when things get too crazy and they have nothing left to give. They've spent all their time, energy and money on everyone else and they are completely tapped out. They're fresh out of patience for [insert annoying family member here] and cannot handle another [insert holiday-themed dessert here].
Does this sound familiar?

A Selfish Proposition

I'm proposing something different this holiday season: a list of ways to be a little more selfish. Now, don't get me wrong, I wholeheartedly believe the holiday season is about giving and thinking of others BUT I believe that can only be done out of a heart that is well cared for itself. When we give on repeat and take no time to replenish ourselves, Ebenezer Scrooge appears. And yes, I believe that's the clinical name for it. Here are three ways you can remember yourself this holiday season:

1. Take scheduled time for gratitude. Literally put it in your planner. Whether it's 5 minute every morning sitting in silence reflecting on all you love or a special two-hour gratitude-focused yoga intensive with yours truly at 3 Bridges Yoga (shameless plug), scheduling a time to sit with your gratitude will do wonders for your perspective. Take the time to dust off and clean those rose-colored glasses of yours.
2. Say "no" to some things. Does it overwhelm you to spend Christmas Day in a car going to see all 84723982 of your relatives? Lay the hammer down and only see a few of them. Does your office holiday party make you feel all sorts of awkward and spent at the end of the night? RSVP no. Don't have time to make cookies for a cookie swap? Then just don't do it. Outsource that sh*t to someone who does it better, like a local bakery (I won't tell if you won't). Spending too much money on gifts? Stop it. Do a Pollyanna swap with your family rather than getting each person a gift and try to tone down the "stuff". If you're able to read this blog, chances are you have too much of it anyway.
3. Take care of your body. Our bodies are our mediators with the world around us. Without them, we can't participate in our own lives. Take the time to care for your body this holiday season. Whether that's with daily exercise or healthy foods, your body needs and deserves it. Then, when events you really love come about, you can participate in all the special parts of it with abandon. Wine, I'm looking at you!

What I'm trying to say is that the holidays are as joy-filled as you make them. If you're feeling more like a Grinch than Buddy the Elf this year, be sure that you're getting what you need. Chances are, you're not. And chances are, if you do, you might notice a whole shift in perspective. 

The Sisterhood of Motherhood

My daughter screams upstairs. I'm making her put on pants...AGAIN. It may be 50 degrees outside but sister does not want pants and she is going to let everyone in a 3 block radius know. I'm downstairs with the nice child, my 20 month-old, who hasn't learned yet how to throw a really good tantrum. I treasure these last meltdown-free months.

This is not a going "my kids are so awful but they're really actually wonderful and I need to treasure every moment" post. It's just not. There are plenty of amazing posts out there but I just didn't feel like writing one today.

This is a post to remind you (to remind ME) that we are not alone in this. That, when your child is screaming, melting down, throwing stuff and overall just being an unrecognizable maniac, you are not alone.


I see you struggle with what to do next. Do you pick the fight? Do you give in? Do you walk away and give space or do you accompany the maniac in the tantrum? I SEE YOU.

I hear you use your most patient tone. I hear you lose it and yell. I hear you bargain, plead and cajole. I hear you whisper words of love and encouragement. I HEAR YOU.

I feel your heart break for your child's pain. Whether it's about something significant (but I really WANTED to see that friend) or something ridiculous (I said I wanted the BLUE underwear!), I feel your frustration and your sadness as you watch your child unravel. I FEEL YOU.

The truth is, we've all been there. Maybe some of our kids are more laid back than others (if this is you, can your kid talk to my kid, please?) but we've all been in the thick of it. We know the moment will pass but that does not take away from the suckiness (yes, I'm really that eloquent today) of it.

Know you are not alone. This motherhood we live in? Yeah, it's a sisterhood. That means that, at any point in time, if we are honest and forthright, we can share and receive affirmation from fellow mothers around us. The mud you might be in now and the mud you may be in later is familiar mud to the Sisterhood. We've been there, we KNOW how sticky it can get.

So reach out. Be honest. If you're in a good space, CELEBRATE IT! If you're struggling, LET THE SISTERHOOD KNOW.

We moms need to stick together. Our job is critical and our cargo is precious.

In the meantime, there is wine. There are bubble baths. There is laughter (these kids are FUNNY so do yourself a favor and laugh at them...and with them, I guess that's nicer, right?).

And there is the Sisterhood.

5 Ways Parenting is Like Being a Teenage Girl

Being a teenage girl was SO fun, right? As if.

While I was lucky enough to escape the teenage years relatively unscathed (belly-button piercing scar excepted), I still thank the Good Lord that I am not thirteen. Or sixteen. Or nineteen. Nope, I am 29 and will forever stay here. No matter how hard Cher sings, you can't turn back time, people. Be realistic (this does not apply to me). 

In addition to being a teenager (let's be clear, this was only like, 10 years ago for me), I was both a camp counselor and a high school teacher for years. I actually ADORE teenagers. They are amazing. Really, I have nothing but love for them.

But, they are intense. Like, really intense. You know what I am saying?

I thought that, being the 20-something gal I am, that I had escaped the tumultuous time of my teens. Then I had children. While my girls are far from being actual teenagers, I am reliving my teenage days IN ALL THEIR GLORY. Let me count the ways... 

The drama. You thought middle school was dramatic? Goths and cheerleaders have nothing on my daughters. If there was a crying Olympics, my children would medal. EVERY. TIME. Seriously, villages in Africa could exist off their tears. Not only would my daughters medal due to the volume of liquid produced, but the lightning speed at which it is produced! Oh, you didn't want that kind of cheese? PUDDLES.

Someone is always telling you what to do. You may have forgotten but, being a teenager is hard. Your voice is seldom heard. Any control you have is pure illusion. Sound familiar? It's kind of like life with my two lady monsters.
     Mama, do not go upstairs.
     Mama, this milk is cold. I want it hot.
     No potty breaks today, mama. (Ok, I am making this one up but you feel me, right?)
     Put Harper in the pink dress, mama. I want us to match.
      

via GIPHY   

The Ups and Downs. When I was a teenage girl, I could have the best moment of my life AND the worst moment of my life in the span of half an hour. This is SO my world now. One minute, Charlotte is reading to Harper and the world stands still and I think, "I am the luckiest lady in the whole wide world." And the next minute, I am in a total "Jesus, Take the Wheel" moment as Charlotte catapults her sister off the coach and the puddles ensue. Perhaps it has something to do with how BIG my heart is for these kids. I feel ALL THE FEELS as if I was going through adolescence again because never before have I been so exposed, so raw. The entirety of my heart is walking on four unstable legs right out in front of me. It's enough to make anyone feel bipolar.

The moodiness. While I put out a ton of moodiness during my teenage years, I also had to deal with a lot from my sister and friends. Here I am again! I am 1000% biased but my daughters are super cute and sweet. AND THEN THEY ARE NOT. 
       Mama, where is my tutu?
       Which tutu, Charlotte?
       The one like cousin Caroline.
       Hmmm let me see, this one? (holding up incorrect tutu).
       No. my. Red. TUTU!  


via GIPHY

The butterflies. Oh the butterflies. I would get crushes on EVERYONE. All. The. Time. From my very first boyfriend Clint (I lived in Texas, people) to the boy who asked me to roller skate with him (I still hold a small candle for you, Adam), butterflies were a way of living. Just one look at that special someone's face and I was done. Well, being a parent is like that, too. Amidst the chaos, all I need to do is take one look at my daughters and the butterflies are back. It's really incredible. I love what Dax Shepard said in an interview about his new daughter, Lincoln, "When I look at her, it’s like when I was in 7th grade and fell in love for the first time, where it’s debilitating. That’s available 24/7 if I want, which is amazing.” I mean, RIGHT?!?!

There is so much to wade through as a teen and as a parent. From angst to acne (oh, the ACNE!), these two phases in life run the bases. Yet, I find myself reflecting on my teenage years with more fondness now that I've put them in perspective. How brave I was to navigate all of that! I'm not sure I could do it again.

But, here I am. In the throes of more tears than I've ever seen, more drama than I've ever made and, most of all, more butterflies than my heart can handle. Would. Not. Change. It. 

The Mom Lie

Photo by Mallory Parkington Photography

I've seen it play out countless times on my favorite makeover shows:
Zoom in on the sloppily dressed woman who, after years of mothering and nurturing, has completely forgotten how to run a brush through her hair. 
OK so maybe I'm being a teensy bit dramatic (as I am known to be) but haven't we seen this? There's something about becoming a mother that turns a lot of women into a the first 15 minutes of What Not To Wear. Or, at the very least, keeps us from feeling like the women we did before having children.
While I don't believe our worth should be measured by what we look like or whether or not we keep up with the latest trends, let me suggest that this tendency for mothers to fall into the pre-makeover category is indicative of a greater problem: The Mom Lie.
The Mom Lie goes like this: once you have kids, you must come last. All. The. Time. Especially regarding your body.
But here's the thing: our bodies created these tiny little humans. And after our bodies actually formed them into the perfect little mess makers that they are, they exited our bodies in a way that was both beautiful and damaging. You know what I am talking about. And then, even after we formed them and birthed them, we kept (keep!) them alive with the fiber of our very being. From breastmilk to middle-of-the-night bottle feedings to acting like a short-order cook in the kitchens, our bodies literally serve and nourish our beautiful little creations. And don't even get me started on those mothers whose bodies waited and waited in utter agony for that call from the adoption agency. And when that call came, those bodies did a most amazing thing: in an extraordinary act of fusion, they made theirs what was once not, in the fiercest, loveliest way possible.
Let me put it another way: our mothering bodies are effing amazing and beautiful. Just as they are.
But once these small little bundles enter our worlds, it's as if we completely forget the miraculous work of our flesh. Its beauty too. We pledge some unsaid vow to deny ourselves and our bodies any real self-care. We strap on the guise of martyrdom because we feel it is what mothers do. We forego the right to make ourselves a priority because it feels unnatural now. We have so much love for our babes that we think any tangible showing of love to ourselves would be selfish. That it would slight them.
And then the years pass.
  And then it's been a year since I've had a haircut.
    Ages since I sat down for a meal that wasn't leftover pb & j crust.
     I realize I only wear real clothes when I have to and rarely when I want to.
The funniest thing about it all (not funny "haha" but funny "punch me in the face") is that I thought I was taking care of myself. My attempts at self-care were so disordered, though. A glass (or two) of wine when I was stressed (I need this). A candy bar on-the-go (I deserve this). Lack of exercise (I need rest). Binge-watching my fave shows at any free moment (this is totally going to recharge me).
Granted, those things are often amazing and necessary but let's not let them masquerade as self-care. For one, if they turn into habits, they can lead you to a pretty gnarly pre-makeover situation. And I don't care one bit if you are a size 2 or 24, if you don't feel good or feel like yourself, that is a problem that needs a solution.
This whole "deny thyself" aspect of motherhood isn't something we've inflicted on ourselves without help. From lack of decent paid maternity leave to the absence of healthy conversation surrounding PPD, our mothering bodies are being asked (expected?) to roll over and make way for some greater good.
Herein lies the problem. How are we supposed to keep these tiny humans alive on a daily basis, do our jobs and be at least an average friend/partner/employee without a little energy spent on ourselves? We have to make ourselves a priority.
Making ourselves a priority is like swimming upstream. We have to ask for it, demand it and fight for it. It's really hard. And don't even get me started on the guilt that comes with it.
But let me let you in on a little secret (that you probably know already but just humor me and pretend I am BLOWING YOUR MIND):

A few months ago, I started taking better care of myself (you can read more about that here if you like). It was an adjustment for the whole family. More time, more energy and even a little more money was being spent on this mama. But, I have to say, I am happier now. The benefits outweighed the costs. My efforts to take care of myself have had a tangibly positive effect on the people around me. My kids benefit from having a more patient mother. My husband benefits from having a wife who isn't at the end of her rope. My employer benefits from the extra time I spend creating rather than being tapped.
I heard this amazing quote the other day. You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work of progress simultaneously.
How freeing. I am amazing just as I am but I am also allowed to be someone who needs care (who deserves care).
Want to be a better mom? Take care of yourself. Want to be a better employee? Take care of yourself. Want to be a better partner? You guessed it. Take care of yourself.
If we operate from a place of deficit then we are unable to be the generous, kind, hard-working people that we are. If we fill our cups? Well, there's no stopping us.




    

Why Doesn't the World Stop When We Lose Someone We Love?

It's a Saturday morning and it's quiet in my house. My husband has taken our 3 year-old to swim lessons and my 1 year-old is pretending to nap upstairs. Snow is falling outside and there is something particularly quiet about snow falling. Like it knows it's so beautiful that it wants to sneak up on you so that when you look outside, you are wonderstruck.
Life appears to be normal. But the thing is, it's not. Earlier this week, my beautiful cousin took her own life. After struggling with addiction and more, she made a choice that has left us all in pieces. We break for her that we could not have done more. We break for her parents who are dealing with the unfathomable: the loss of a child. We break for her brothers and sister, her friends and for all those grappling with the same kind of pain she must have felt.
What strikes me this Saturday morning is that the world is continuing on. That even though this horrific thing has happened - this abrupt ending - it's business as usual for Mother Nature and all her friends. Why doesn't the world stop when we lose someone we love? Our lived experience in times like these is that everything halts: the dirty dishes remain in the sink, the work gets put on hold, the trips cut short. But that's just one tiny little corner of one tiny little block of this very big world. The truth is, everything continues on. And it feels cruel.
Jonathan Larson, in his musical Rent, writes about this in the song, "Without You":

Without you

The ground thaws

The rain falls

The grass grows

Without you

The seeds root

The flowers bloom

The children play

The stars gleam

The poets dream

The eagles fly

Without you

The earth turns

The sun burns

But I die without you

When something as horrible as this happens, it feels like the world should stop. Because a beautiful soul was lost and a family wounded beyond repair. Why doesn't the world around us recognize this? Why doesn't it feel the loss as its own and, at the very least, pause in acknowledgement.

Upstairs, my daughter is beginning to wake (did she even sleep?). She lets me know this by jumping in her crib and squealing for joy. She'll need to be changed and fed. And soon, my toddler will return home from swim with lots of stories to tell. And so I will change and feed, greet and listen. Because the world keeps going on without you. And I'm so sorry and so sad it's going on without you, Marigene. It was better with you in it. We love you and we miss you. And we wish there was something we could have done to have kept you here with us. 

The snow continues to fall and the roads are getting messy. The plows will come soon and my husband will need to shovel the driveway. I'll be inside, hoping and praying that returning to the goings on of this world will eventually heal us. I'm certain some answers lie in my daughters, whose goings ons are the work of my day. For that I am grateful.

An Open Heart

I went to the dentist today to get a filling (which, by the way, is the WORST). My dentist lets us listen to music to drown out the drilling and also wear sunglasses so the exam light doesn't blind us. She's quite thoughtful, really. I put on a playlist I had made for a yoga intensive and on that playlist was "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten. It's a powerful song she wrote about taking back her life and getting back to who she is, amidst a lot of hardship. So, I'm sitting in the dentist chair, mouth pried open with some kind of torture device, getting my teeth drilled by an actual torture device, completely numb and drooling, trying not to audibly sob while I think about my powerful friend who absolutely embodies this song right now. Thank goodness for the sunglasses. I mean, what is WRONG with me? Who gets choked up in the dentist's chair?

A good friend recently gave me a children's Christmas book by Nancy Tillman. We have a number of her books but not The Spirit of Christmas so I was thrilled to receive it. But let me tell you about Nancy Tillman: lady makes me UGLY CRY. Like, openly weep. Oh, that's so sweet, you say. Yeah, not when it freaks out your children who haven't quite figured out what a sentimental sap you are and instead are wondering Did you get an owie, Mama?

From Tillman's My Love Will Find You

I was not always this way!

While my talent for choking up is genetic, I wasn't always so susceptible (a.k.a. I didn't always need sunglasses in the dentist's chair). I don't particularly enjoy wearing my heart on my sleeve but two things have happened to me in my life that have ripped my heart wide and opened the floodgates: I had my heart broken and then I had children.

Having someone you love hurt you is devastating. Whether they break-up with you, leave you or pass away, it is debilitating. The heart, while a muscle, breaks like a bone. It can shatter into a million pieces. To say this hurts is an understatement. But out of this shattered matter fuses a heart stronger than the one before.

The second thing, having children, made my heart burst. The levies that surrounded my heart gave way. There was not a powerful enough border to contain what transpired (and transpires) in my heart due to these little monsters running around my house. The love was (and is) overwhelming. Yet just like my heartbreak from years prior left me disassembled, so this bursting left me in pieces. Pieces that were glued together in a makeshift way, as if the cause of the burst (my children) were doing the repair themselves.



One could argue that a reassembled heart is weaker and more vulnerable to re-breaking. I suppose that's true. At least, it's true if we accept society's definition of strength as having a hard, unbreakable shell. I'm thinking I reject that definition and I'll tell you why.

A heart with cracks can let more OUT, too. A heart that knows it's been broken and survived has the ability to be braver because it knows where it's been. It has been to the depths and lived to tell the tale. All the seams present from the repairs are not scars but rather passageways through which love can pass.

I think of a piece of ceramic pottery that has been repeatedly repaired and forged back together after years of wear and tear. Against the odds, it maintains its structure but it also leaks. This is my heart. It is a leaky, glued together albeit strong, piece of pottery. It allows light and love in more easily than it used to, and releases them with more generosity.

It is precisely in the leaking (in the gaps) that my strength lies.

Five years ago, my dad had a quintuple bypass. The day he had surgery, I was far away in San Francisco where I lived at the time. Picturing him lying on an operating table with his chest open - his heart open - scared me tremendously. My sentimental, generous, hard-working, loving and amazing father was in the most vulnerable position ever: lying on a table with his heart completely open. I was so worried that he would never be the same.

A lot of things have changed since my dad had surgery. For one, he now has six grandchildren for whom his love flows out of his leaky heart like a river. Thankfully he is in good health now and ready and willing to audibly sob at any feel-good movie or children's book (he can't get through a Tillman, either). His heart has been reassembled stronger than ever, thanks to its scars and cracks. I'd argue that his heart and capacity to love is stronger now than it has ever been. He knows where he's been and what he's survived and rather than being unwilling to re-open that scarred heart of his, his commitment to love through the cracks is unyielding.

How to Keep Your Sanity Through the Holidays

I'm obsessed with Christmas. LOVE IT.

• I hijack our Netflix queue during the month of December and we watch only Christmas movies. 
• I know EXACTLY what my girls are wearing for every Christmas-themed activity (and yes, it's adorable). 
• We have the new Amazon Echo (highly recommend) and she absolutely knows to play "holiday music" during this time or else she gets a stern, "Alexa STOP!" even from my daughter (when my daughter isn't yelling "Alexa play Frozen" at her).
• I know all the words (multiple verses) to every Christmas carol. Thank you, high school ensemble! This baffles my husband who can't even remember the lyrics to "Row, Row, Row Your Boat". Nope, not kidding. 
• As I've stated before, I redecorate my tree on a regular basis. 

There are countless other ways in which my obsession for Christmas comes through but I have to preserve some mystery here (and keep you from judging me for the crazy Christmas elf that I am).

Yet, as much as I LOVE Christmas, there are aspects of it that are really hard. 

  The surplus of unhealthy food.

    The endless travel.

      The crazy hubbub of family and friends.

        The heartache of missing loved ones far and lost.

Just to name a few. So while I would never want to just "get through" the holidays, I do think it's important to arm ourselves with a few tricks to make this time of year the most enjoyable and as light on stress as possible. 

Here are a few tricks I use to make the holidays successful:

1. When I can, I eat clean. That means avoiding processed food and sugar (that isn't from fruit or good sources like honey or real syrup). Yeah this is SOOOO easy, right? I try to stick with the 90/10 rule (which sometimes turns into the 80/20 rule). Eat clean and wonderfully 90% of the time and go bananas for the other 10%. If you allow yourself that 10%, you'll be more discerning about how you use that portion. Christmas cookie? Oh yeah. Grandma's sketchy holiday eggnog? Um, I'll pass...
2. MOVE. As in, take a break from your A Christmas Story marathon and do something. Anything. Walk around the block. Shake your booty to Mariah Carey's Christmas album. Pretend you're Rudolph and pull every kid present (which may or may not include your emotionally stunted cousin, Victor) around in a "sleigh". 
3. Get outside. We head to San Diego every other Christmas so this part is a piece of cake for me. Go outside in Sunny CA when back home it's frigid and dark? SURE. But seriously, put on your parka and smell some fresh air. Whether you're dealing with jet lag or depression, the sun's rays and a little fresh air can work wonders for the bod.
4. Take time for yourself. So key, especially when you are not in your comfort zone (A.K.A. at your in-laws). Go take a yoga class or check out that boutique downtown. Go to Starbucks and "get lost" for an hour. I am always the very first to volunteer for a grocery store run just so I can ride solo.
5. Talk to your people. This is one of those "do as I say, not as I do" ones. I can totally suck at this (as Mr. Fix It, my husband). Make sure you take time to connect with your people (or person) over the holidays. It is beyond easy to isolate yourself and miss opportunities to bond with the people who really matter to you. In my opinion, this all happens much better over a glass (um, bottle?) of wine. I make it a policy to drink frequently over the holidays. 
6. Celebrate and remember. Who are you missing this year? We lost my grandfather (my Bubba) earlier this year and this is our first Christmas in San Diego without him. I plan on telling as many stories about him as I can remember, imitating his guffaw with frequency and, best of all, doing this all with other people who were loved by him and loved him. 
7. Give.  Maybe money, maybe time, maybe hugs. Just be open to giving and look for opportunities to be generous. There is nothing like the spirit of generosity to chase away the Scrooge in all of us. And to disarm even the judgy-est of relatives. 

I hope this list (lists are my FAVORITE) is helpful to you. Trust me when I say that, when I don't do these things, there is drama. When I do, there is none. 

HAHAHAH just kidding there is always drama! Ain't nobody escaping Christmas without it BUT, you will be able to face the drama better so that, rather than be a participant, you can--at the very least--be a bystander who silently judges. 

Merry Christmas!!!

    

It's the Remix to Transition . . .

Before you read what will be an amazing post, look to your right. You see that blue box telling you that you can help people by providing clean drinking water? Put in your email address and help P&G provide up to 100,000 days of clean drinking water. I promise you will not be inundated with emails from P&G. Do it . . . or else.


We. Are. Moving. Finally.

Yes, now that blurb at the top of this page that describes me as someone who is "about to make a move" is legit. I am really, friends, about to make a move. We have set our sights on Portsmouth, New Hampshire and should be there after Christmas to ring in the new year, Granite State style.

What's that, you say? You've never been to New Hampshire? Well, watch this educational video and learn. I promise it will be illuminating.


So, folks, this is where I am moving. It's just like Old Hampshire, but it's new. This means, I am officially in a period of transition. We need to figure out how we're moving our stuff across the country, how our little Satan (our cat) is getting across the country and, of course, where we'll live when we make it there.

Overall, I like change. Now, I didn't say I was good at change, just that I liked it. Call it my ADD but I love switching things up because it keeps things fresh and exciting. Take my shampoo, for instance. I rotate through shampoo so my hair doesn't get bored or worse, take the hair products for granted (I do buy Aveda, after all- that s#!t's expensive).

My husband complains about the volume of products but his luscious locks totally thank me.

I have loved pretty much every minute I've spent here in SF. So, to show my appreciation, I've made a list of the things I will miss most about this great city (you know I love lists).

1. Wine Country. Really, this is self explanatory. Not since football games at Boston College was it appropriate to drink before noon. Thank you, Sonoma, for making inappropriateness acceptable again.
2. Food. Yes, I know there is food where I am going but not like this. From sandwiches at Ike's to Tsunami sushi, I will miss the smorgasbord of opportunities to stuff my face. I feel like like Templeton from Charlotte's Web when he's at the fair! So many things to choose from I might not get home because my tummy is so full!
3. People of Color. Yes, I feel I have to say "goodbye" to diversity as I am moving to New Hampshire where I will be with, pretty much, only other white people. I am sad about this because I know diversity makes us better and well, I need all the help I can get!
4. Being Outside . . . all year. I am moving to a place where it gets very cold and I'm kind of in denial about that. I don't really want to talk about it so . . . moving on!
5. My friends. Yes- I have friends in NH. Fabulous ones that I can't wait to be near. But, I also have fabulous friends here that I don't want to leave. When I finally master teleportation and/or apparition this long distance will not be a problem. If you don't know what apparition is, then I feel sorry for you but you can look it up here. 

I hope that, in the next few weeks, I take the time to reflect on what this place has meant for us. To often, we jump from one thing to another and never take a moment to soak it all in-- sometimes, we are really bad sponges. I wish, for myself and my husband, that we will internalize all of the wonderful things we've had and allow them to make us better and stronger. Then, we'll share that wealth with New Hampshire and, all I have to say is: New Hampshire, you're welcome.

This Blonde Bakes?

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me-- I am not domestic. It's not that I can't do domestic things or don't think they're valuable: I can and I do. It's that I hate doing domestic things like cooking, baking, cleaning, sewing (that one I actually can't do), etc. All I'm saying is, they're called chores for a reason and now that I don't get an allowance, I'm just not interested. 

Even with my domestic aversions (I think I might be allergic), I actually baked this past weekend. As per usual, I had a craving for chocolate and something had to be done about it! Perhaps I was feeling sorry for my husband who, when he wants something homemade, has to make it himself, so I decided to bake some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies-- my absolute favorite vessel for delivering chocolate to my mouth.

Besides a wife's guilt, my reason for choosing to make these cookies was sentimental. When we were younger, my grandmother (Claudymom's mom) would bake cookies for my siblings and me when we would come visit. She baked oatmeal chocolate chip for my sister and me and oatmeal raisin for my brother (Which is a lesser cookie, let's be honest. What's the point of a cookie without chocolate? She obviously liked my sister and me better).

Claudymom never let me bake growing up because she said I made a huge mess.

As I was baking, I thought about my Grandmother, or "Gram," as we called her. Just like her daughter, she was one of the quirkiest quirks that ever quirked. Whether she was mispronouncing words, chewing uncommonly loudly or singing Carly Simon's version of "Itsy, Bitsy Spider" in her car off of the only tape she owned (given to her at the dealer so she see the "caliber" of the sound system, I guess), this woman was full of life. As I made those cookies, I felt her presence and may have even sang a few bars of the song good old Carly made such a classic. Obviously, it sounded awesome.

They were ridiculously tasty. They're all gone now.

I felt really close to Gram that day because I was doing something she had done, over and over again, for us. She wasn't just a memory or a concept, she was an action: baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. The tangibility of the baking process helped me remember her in a new way, especially because this was the first time I baked these cookies since she died ten years ago.

Even though I wished she was there so much, it was nice not to have to share the privilege of licking the bowl with my sister. I never did like to share.

As we near the holidays, I hope I can pursue actions that connect me with my loved ones that are gone, as well as the ones that I am lucky to still have with me. What will you do this season to connect with those you love?

If you want the recipe, I've posted it here. This whole "writing about baking and posting recipes" is not going to be a habit. I will leave that to the fabulous Lady Gouda, who knows a whole lot more than I do about the "kitchen" subject.

News Flash: Christmas Coming Early This Year!

I know what you're thinking: This dumb blonde just wrote about Halloween and now she thinks it's Christmastime already? 

My answer for you: First of all, stop being so harsh and secondly, get your ass in the Christmas spirit!

Look at it glistening in the sun . . . it's so beautiful.

Everyone knows there are two authorities on the arrival of the holiday season: Coca Cola and Starbucks. Think polar bears and red cups, people! The Diet Coke can has spoken: it's that time of year again! (side note for all of you worrying about my health for drinking diet soda. If it kills me in the end, it'd be a good way to go!)

I purchased this glorious D. Coke this afternoon on my way to Walgreens. The festive can was my first clue and the overall decor of Walgreens was my second that it is indeed the most wonderful time of the year (I encourage you to sing that as you read it. Come on, try it. No one likes a Scrooge).

Some people do not like Christmas to come so early. There are even people out there who won't let their wives to listen to Christmas music in the house until Thanksgiving. These same kinds of people think that changing the entire Netflix queue to all Christmas movies is going overboard. I know, I know, who are these Grinches?

Sure, there are some who might be overwhelmed at the amount of Christmas paraphernalia already present in their local Walgreens. Maybe their wives didn't use up all the glue on purpose so, in terms of a leg lamp, they're all set.

But me, I like to see all of the decorations for sale, both tacky and classy. There's something about stretching Christmastime out that makes me happy. Not because I like to shop or because I buy into the frenzied pace of some people's holiday seasons. I like the feeling in the air; the contagious joy. People are more patient, more generous-- dare I say, jollier? What's wrong with stretching that out for as long as possible?

I would also consider myself a fan of baby Jesus. Sue me for getting religious on you but I enjoy being reminded of God's love during this time. How does a leg lamp remind you of God's love? you ask. Well, I'll tell you. It all has to do with tradition. Every Thanksgiving, when I was a kid, we would get out the boxes of decorations and begin to decorate the house. I would be playing with the Lladro creche (unbeknownst to Claudymom, obvi), my brother would have on our scratchy Santa hat, my sister would be singing carols at the top of her lungs all while my mom yelled out the window at my dad hanging the Christmas lights to make sure he did a good job decorating the trees. It was too cold for Claudymom to be outside so she settled for yelling her orders from the window. It was like this for years. These quirky traditions and decorations remind me of the love in my life and, since I believe God is in all people, the love God has for me. Even my demonic cat in her elf costume (gift from Claudymom) fills me with joy. Only Christmas can do that.

The real challenge for me is, Why does it take Christmastime for me to be so connected to deep joy? I must try harder to remember the poetic words of Dickens' classic, coming from the mouth of the converted Scrooge:

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year!

What Are Your Intentions?

This question always makes me think of an awkward guy meeting his girlfriend's father for the first time. The father, ever so protective, wants to know the long-term hopes and dreams this poor kid has regarding his daughter. My Dad used to joke about having a gun and a shovel upstairs when he met a new guy of mine. My brother would help him out as well, but normally in a more "teenage boy" way like telling a very unfortunate boy who once called me, How can your name be Rob? Rob is a boy's name and you sound like a girl. Ah, adolescence. Fun times.

I was thinking about intentions the other day in yoga because, before every class, my teachers always encourage us to set one. An intention, in the yogic sense, does not mean a goal. Philip Moffitt explains their differences this way: "Setting intention, at least according to Buddhist teachings, is quite different than goal making. It is not oriented toward a future outcome. Instead, it is a path or practice that is focused on how you are 'being' in the present moment." For example, I wouldn't set an intention for my practice of mastering a difficult pose. Instead, I might set an intention to connect with my breath more deeply during the next hour or two that I am practicing. Or to feel each pose in my body instead of just tuning out the physical sensations. The differences are slight, I realize, but clearly one is more about success while the other about presence. One is more about achievement while the other, mindfulness.

The struggle between working for success and presence happens both on and off the mat for me. I am an extremely competitive person who prides herself on her achievements. It's easier for me to feel good about myself if I have something to point to that is tangible that shows my self-improvement. T-shirts from finishing races, certificates of completions-- that's the stuff I want! The whole idea of striving for presence is so challenging because the art of being present in the moment is not measurable. Where are my results? How can I get a PR or some kind of certificate for that? Even a pat on the back would be nice. . .

The idea of setting intentions for presence easily translates to daily life. I have many dear friends who say grace before a meal together, reminding themselves to fully engage in the company present as well as their food. They don't set a concrete goal to have a really great conversation about politics (or whatever) or to finish their green beans (something I will never do because green beans are disgusting). These grace-ers grace because they want to be more mindful of the present moment. Saying grace is setting intentions.

Now, when I ask you What are your intentions? I hope your palms don't go sweaty and your voice starts to crack. Don't worry, my dad was just kidding about the gun and the shovel and my brother is not so tough. I'm simply asking you how you plan to live in the present moment.

Sometimes . . . I ruin adventures.

So my husband loves to go on, what he calls, adventures. I know what you're thinking: I'm either married to an eight year-old or to Indiana Jones. Let's just compromise and say he's a bit of both.

I have ruined a couple of our adventures because, well, I can be fragile. By that, I mean I have motion sickness and am absolutely not a good sport about it. I also go from zero to starving in like a millisecond. He loves that. I'm not necessarily proud of this "not being a good sport" thing but this blog makes me feel like I'm in the confessional room on The Real World (back when it was good, obviously).

When we first moved to San Francisco, my husband and I drove up to Point Reyes. Point Reyes is a beautiful peninsula about an hour and a half drive on a ridiculously curvy road. Ridiculously. My very own explorer extraordinaire had the route mapped out for us. I will spare you the details but you can imagine how this scenic drive went for him and his adventure-ruiner. Let's just say I have not returned to beautiful Point Reyes and I don't intend to unless they make a straighter freaking road. I know California's broke but I personally think it should be on Arnold's "to do" list. I know what you're thinking, Why would your husband make you go with him when he knows you'll just get sick and ruin everything? The answer, my friends: naive optimism. Remember: a hybrid of an eight year-old and Indiana Jones. It's a dynamite combination.

I have a long history of ruining adventures with my fragility. I'm like a peach.

I was six when we took our first ski trip. We were living in Madrid, Spain at the time and decided to go somewhere in the French Alps (I feel ridiculous even writing this because it sounds snobby. Please feel better about me knowing that I was in a bright purple one-piece snowsuit and my dad was decked out in neon colors . . . see below). Of course the road was brutal and I threw up all over my purple snowsuit. My father, ever the problem-solver, had me go out and roll in the snow to get cleaned off. Awesome. Despite my vomiting and later peeing myself during ski school, I actually enjoyed my first skiing adventure. That purple snowsuit went through a lot.

So yeah, I'm fragile. It's a miracle I am still here.

 Sorry about the quality- best my secretary could do. . .

"Quirky" by Claudymom

I love quirky people and would like to be one someday. Maybe the quirkiest person I know is my mom, Claudymom. She is both delightful and a little odd-- my favorite combination. She has these tiny little freak flags (they are subtler and more tasteful than mine-- I think she hired a decorator) that she displays from time to time. I decided to dedicate this post to Claudymom and give you, all 5 of my readers, Claudymom's Guide to Being Quirky:

1. Put ice in your white wine. Because, no matter what, it is just never cold enough!
2. Get a hula hoop and take up hula hooping. Do it for your daughter's friends when they come over. They will love it.
3. Purchase a sling shot and some ammo. Get to be a really good shot and chase the geese away that ruin your backyard.
4. Mispronounce random words that everyone else can say. Refuse to ever get a Volvo because it would sound like you are talking about female anatomy any time you'd mention it.
5. Never spit out your toothpaste because it is crass to spit. When you are lectured by your daughter for poisoning yourself, tell her that you've been doing it all your life and you haven't died yet!
6. Say things straight out of "Charlie Brown" like good grief! Add your own spin and expand to good griefous! or something like that. Go crazy!
7. Get the most out of every tank of gas. Don't refill until you are literally about to run out of gas. Pass this trait onto your daughters.
8. Make up your own names for things. "P.F. Chang's" restaurant might become "P.C. Fang's" or, for short, "Fang's." Get creative with it.
9. Get a really kick-ass nickname like "Claudymom" and become an entity unto yourself. Own it. Live it. Get an aol screen name circa 1996.
10. Don't be afraid to incorporate new lingo into your life. It might mesh well with words from your vernacular like "hunk" or, everyone's favorite, "heebie jeebies." Surprise your kids when you "call bitch" (aka claim the middle back seat of a car for yourself.)

I think the overall message of Claudymom is to be all around fabulous and well-liked. Loved, actually.

Well, good luck being quirky! Claudymom has helped all she can- the rest is up to you.

Who is the quirkiest person YOU know?