I was in a meeting in my office last week and the topic of discussion was thongs. Yes, that’s right, thongs: When your coworkers are mostly women, and you work for a magazine that covers fashion, thongs are actually quite a legitimate subject of conversation. And thank God for that! It certainly makes the day more fun. Anyway, one of my coworkers—we’ll call her A—remarked that not only does she not like thongs, but on the rare day that she does wear one, it significantly affects her mood. At some point during the day, she realizes she’s really grumpy, and then a lightbulb goes off and she thinks: “Oh, I’m wearing a thong. No wonder.” Immediately after this meeting the wonderful Julee Wilson from the Real Simple fashion department blogged about it; check it out. This thong conversation got me thinking about the very small things that can ruin your...
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Two weeks ago I was in California on business and visited a super-cool advertising agency. The agency was so super-cool, in fact, that just walking through the place made me feel extremely uncool, old-fashioned, and anachronistic. Seriously, I might as well have been wearing a hoop skirt. One of the things that made this agency so super-cool was that you could take your dog to work. The place had an open floor plan, and everywhere you looked there were dogs: some in cubicles behind baby gates, some trotting merrily out the door with their owners. And many, many napping. Fascinated, I grilled one of the people who works there, and she explained that you have to sign a contract that your dog does not bark, does not have accidents, and plays well with others. (Ah, that all humans should sign such a contract.) Since that time, I've been obsessed with...
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While we're on the subject of movies, do you have any movies that are so wonderful—even if they are sad, or badly done, or set in a time when women routinely died in childbirth—that give you a hangover? By that, I mean cast your whole life in gray and make you wish you were someone else altogether, making it nearly impossible to get out of bed or have anything nice to say about anyone? Here, an informal sampling from me, family, and friends: Pride and Prejudice (BBC version) Pride & Prejudice (Keira Knightley version) The Notebook Sleepless in Seattle (even though he is a widower and his dead wife was so pretty) Out of Africa The English Patient The Holiday An Affair to Remember (the sublime 1957 version with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr) The Cutting Edge The Bodyguard (Oh, Whitney. What happened?) Bull Durham What movies am I forgetting?
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My very good friend Sharene lives up the street, and we have many things in common. Our kids are the same age, we both love to cook, we both are close to our sisters and are married to men who play too much Ultimate Frisbee. We also both carry the Pride and Prejudice gene. You know about the P and P gene; you may even be a carrier. The P and P gene—let's call it PPG in the interest of brevity—means that any mention of Pemberley or Longbourn or even Netherfield Park sets your heart aflutter. And when that happens, you feel an uncontrollable urge to read or watch Pride and Prejudice ASAP (yes, the Keira Knightley remake counts, and Bridget Jones's Diary will do in a pinch). And then you fall into a weeklong depression that you are not Elizabeth Bennet. So imagine our delight when Sharene found a...
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Seriously, this is one of the current head-scratchers in our household. Now, a brief Web search informs me that iCarly is not appropriate for my son. To that I say, it is no less inappropriate than many other things he is exposed to as the youngest of three brothers, including but not limited to: Aerosmith songs; The Simpsons; and kids who say “Shut up!” Try as I might, he cannot live in a Pooh/101 Dalmations (the original, not the remake)/Sesame Street world 24/7. At least not without us putting his brothers up for adoption. Have I mentioned that “Hey Jude” is his favorite song, with “Come On Eileen” a close second? You don’t need to tell me that he is an unusual child. But the iCarly fascination truly mystifies. He cannot possibly understand what goes on in the show; I myself am still struggling with the absence of parents and...
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• Try a new recipe that you may not be experienced enough to pull off • Clean out the garage • Plant perennials • Finally order slipcovers for the wing chairs that have been bothering you for 5 years • Buy a new dog bed • Follow a weight-training regimen • Visit old friends • Or you could write a book. Maybe it is possible to write a book and do lots of other things at the same time. But as it turns out, if you are me, you cannot plant perennials or try difficult new recipes or any of the above if you are writing a book. Which is how I spent my non-working, non-mothering, non-sleeping hours for much of 2009. I suppose “write a book” would be on my bucket list, if I thought in those terms. Regardless, I may have to start a bucket list and put...
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•Legos •Dead batteries •Mateless socks •T-shirts that belong to kids who I did not give birth to •Dog hair •Remote controls •Bowls that are a little chipped but still usable •Did I mention dead batteries? •Swatches of fabric that I love but have never found a piece of furniture for •Charging devices (phone, Nintendo DS, camera, iPod, you name it) •Notes for homework that may or may not have been handed in •Dented ping pong balls •Soccer cleats
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So on Saturday I finally saw Julie & Julia, which I loved. Of course! I have never seen a Nora Ephron movie that I didn’t love. I’ve also never seen a Meryl Streep movie that I did not love (that is, if you don’t include Mamma Mia, which was disturbing on so many levels that it temporarily made me want to break up with Meryl, which I could never, ever do. And Colin Firth, for that matter. So I have permanently erased Mamma Mia from my mental hard drive, so much so that I don’t even remember if it’s Mamma Mia or Mamma Mia! with an exclamation point!) I saw Julie & Julia with my sister Valerie and her neighbor Leslie, because my husband Does Not See Those Kinds of Movies. Which is fine with both of us. Then on Sunday my friend Kim came over for an impromptu drink...
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As I have noted on this blog before, I get a lot of dumb e-mails during the course of the week. A number of them, alas, are from PR people. Now, I have nothing against PR people; Real Simple has a crackerjack PR department and if it weren’t for the smart women running it, I probably couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. But there seem to be a lot of PR people around who need to think about their audience a bit more. Let me interrupt this rant by pointing out that if I read another magazine article or see another ad for a TV show that includes the word “cougar” (and we’re not talking about the big cat), I’m going to jump out the window. I’ve just had it with the whole cougar thing, which I consider deeply silly and offensive in ways that I can’t quite...
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For those of you who read my editor’s letter in the September issue and want to know more about my dream bag, here it is: I realize I should have just put this picture on the page, but here’s why I didn’t: The bag was expensive; it is probably no longer available; I was not organized enough in the moment to take a photo of the bag; and I wanted to let all of you imagine your own Platonic ideal of a bag as you read. However, enough of you have asked about the bag that I thought I should provide details. (Real Simple is a service brand, after all.) Details: I bought it at Saks on 5th Avenue and 49th St. in NYC I bought it either in 2005 or 2006, can’t remember which It is approximately 16” wide and 12” tall It’s made by Miu Miu The leather...
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Yesterday my husband and I took Eldest and Middle to the U.S. Open, which we do every year. It's a real late-summer highlight for me: The weather is usually great, it's a short trip from our house, everybody in my family loves tennis and some of us are actually good at it. The Flushing Meadows grounds are set up in such a way that you can not only watch matches, but—the highlight for me—can also watch players practice. (Let's just say there is nothing like staring at Rafael Nadal as he hits the ball for an hour to make you feel small, weak, old, not cute and very mortal.) The people watching is wonderful, because there are lots of (inexplicably) dressed-up women, which makes you feel like you are going to a sporting event at a giant country club in the 1950s. And the food is wonderful. Here's what we...
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I’ve just spent the last two weeks on vacation, which means I’ve had a lot of time to ponder life’s big issues: --am I a good mother? --just how important are good grades in the grand scheme of things? --why is my family so messy? --is the choice that I have made—to just let my family be messy, instead of being the only person of the five of us who ever picks things up—the right choice? --can I live with the way my house looks, having made that choice? --is a flock of crows that seems to follow you around for a whole afternoon trying to send you an ominous message? --why can’t my kids ever tell which of their clothes are clean and which are dirty? --is there a way to be vacation-relaxed without needing a prescription? --why do I hate sunscreen so much? But as I pondered that...
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I have been spontaneously bursting into tears for the last two weeks and I've had just about enough of it. That is how long our dear cat (and, really, sort of first child) George has been in decline, after nearly 18 years of excellent health and extreme flexibility in the face of all sorts of headaches (starting with 3 children and a dog) that we brought to his life.
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Last week I was sitting in the office of Real Simple's executive editor, Sarah Humphreys, and I borrowed a pen. Of course it was a wonderful pen, and better than any pen in my office. Why? Because other people's pens are always better than yours. As Sarah knows, there are actually a number of things that are better when they come from someone else. At the top of the list are a sandwich and a drink, regardless of whether or not it is alcoholic. Can you think of any others? I'm sure I could but I am currently still obsessed with Sarah's pen.
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Every spring for the last three years, a robin has laid a nest in a rhododendron right next to our front porch. It is also right next to the driveway, so every time we get in and out of the car, the robin leaves her nest in a little panic and flies to a nearby dogwood. But she always comes back. The nest is about six feet off the ground and, if you ask me, built in a fairly stupid and overly public location, but what do I know? I am not a robin. I always get excited when the bird appears, as if overnight (really, we never see her build the nest—suddenly it’s just there), and my kids get excited too (or they feign excitement for my benefit). Each year, we monitor the progress of the babies until they leave the nest. And, of course, there is always the...
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So this past weekend my husband and I took Eldest and Baby (Middle is at camp) to meet my youngest sister’s new baby. My youngest sister lives 4 hours away in Pennsylvania , on a dirt road across the street from a giant meadow with only one other house in sight. She has three children and nine chickens and a mean rooster who appears to have feathers on his feet. I, for one, did not know birds could grow feathers on their feet, which is yet another example of what a city slicker I seem to have become. My sister also has two giant vegetable gardens, fruit trees, and a creek running through the back yard. On her porch is a bench that, when I was there, held three jars filled with different sorts of bugs for her children to study up close. She decorated the bedroom I stayed in...
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I know somebody--T.S. Eliot, maybe?--said April is the cruelest month. I actually think that honor belongs to June. I'm not even talking about teacher gifts, which stump me every year. We routinely fall back on gift cards because I read a New Yorker article by Caitlin Flanagan a few years back in which she basically said that most teachers hate most gifts. So I figure you can't go too wrong with a gift card, particularly if you miraculously convince your child to write a really nice note to go with it, which somehow I managed to do this year. No, I really mean the convergence of so many deadlines at once. There is the looming end of school, with its attendant parties and bizarre half days. (And can anybody tell me why the last day of school only lasts an hour?). There is the need to get everything in your...
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10. Eldest is being confirmed this coming weekend.
9. Middle is graduating from elementary school next month.
8. And I have volunteered to be in charge of the production of the 5th grade yearbook, as if we needed further proof that I am insane....
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--more money --more time --better hair --family members who do not have to be asked three times to empty the dishwasher 1) More money Pros: less stress, better jewelry Cons: certain friends and relations may ask to borrow from you, and you know how that goes 2) More time Pros: less constant rushing which, despite what your crazy--and apparently understimulated--husband tells you, really feels like it's shortening your lifespan Cons: possible boredom 3) Better hair Pros: less self-loathing Cons: none that I can think of 4). Family members who do not have to be asked three times to empty the dishwasher Pros: cleaner kitchen, heightened (if delusional) sense of control over your life Cons: having to find something else to bicker about
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Yesterday I went to the dentist to get a crown, which I had been putting off since last October, not because getting a crown costs about $2 million, as it appears to, but because I was certain I would die of fright. Never mind that I have given birth to three children. Getting an injection--of painkiller, no less!--into my mouth seemed, in my over-active imagination, to be the equivalent of 20 epidurals, which believe you me were scary enough. It turns out that I may just be the biggest wimp on the planet. When my dentist came toward me with the needle, I asked the hygienist, Yasmin, if I could hold her hand (I am not kidding). She kindly agreed--until I squeezed it so hard that she remarked, "My health insurance does not cover injuries to the hand" (again, not kidding). And so I let go, but by that point...
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Last week I made the terrible mistake of telling Middle as we walked to school that his outfit that day was “super cool.” Now, in my own defense, I don’t think I’ve ever used the phrase “super cool” before and hopefully I will never do it again. It does not help that I said it as one word: supercool. There is nothing less “super cool” than a mother who uses words like supercool, and Middle let me know that, and I mean immediately. As it turns out, I am: not qualified to rate whether an outfit is cool or not not encouraged to say things like supercool without fear of extreme embarrassment better off if I say very little, even if my son is the only one within earshot After this exchange I began to wonder if it’s ever possible to be cool in the eyes of your children, and...
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For months I have been trying to avoid seeing the movie Yes Man. You
see, one of my children thinks he is Jim Carrey, which as far as I'm concerned is not the most charming thing about him and is absolutely not to be encouraged. Still, we have watched just about every Jim Carrey movie ever made, at least the ones that are semi-age appropriate. Which is a lot more than I would like, alas.
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... but now wish I had a lot more time for.
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I have completely fallen down on the job, blog-wise, because last week I
was out of the office, attending a Time Warner women's leadership
conference. It lasted for four days, during which time I did not go
outside, exercise at all or see much of my family. But the food was really
good, which made the whole thing worthwhile.
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Last week I came home one night to a very warm hello from 10-year-old Middle, who has not greeted me at the door since he was, oh, four. So I immediately knew something was up. After about five minutes of hemming and hawing he did that classic kid warmup--“I need to tell you something but don’t be mad”--which led inevitably to “I’m not going to tell you what it is, let me just show you.” When I asked him if something had broken, he said, “Yes, but not something you care about.” Smart, smart kid.
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Pie, Bed, Yes, Son, Wow....
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I am typing this from the central jury room of the Westchester County Courthouse where I have been called to serve on jury duty. It is my first hour and I'm having a ball. I really do not understand why jury duty gets such a bad rap; I personally find the whole thing pretty great. First of all, you get to sit down and read for long periods of time, with no one interrupting you or calling you on the phone. There are no meetings, at least not at the beginning, which is bliss. There is, in my case, a nice woman in the row behind me who volunteered to share her newspaper with me. And the chance to engage in a little armchair behavioral science is just too good to pass up. To wit: --when people get up after orientation to go to the jury lounge for exemptions, are...
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In order to get Middle to school on time*, we need to leave home by 8:10. School is four and a half long blocks away, and we can walk it in 10 minutes if we don’t have any sort of shoe or backpack malfunction. I prefer to walk, unless it’s pouring or below 20 degrees, because sometimes that’s my only outdoor time of the day. (Sniff.) Nevertheless, at 8:10 I am invariably upstairs brushing my teeth while Middle is downstairs pretending to tie his shoes but more often than not trying to watch five more minutes of ESPN before I hit the roof. Every morning I marvel anew at how I am constitutionally unable to get out the door on time, even though by 8:10 I’ve usually been awake for more than two hours. That’s right, folks, a two-hour lead time and I’m still late. And so the walk to...
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Like everybody and his brother, I've been spending all of my spare time thinking about the economic state of our country?. Never mind that I don't understand the bailout and haven't looked at my 401K balance in four months--whenever I have an idle moment, my brain seems to wander to the recession, like a runaway train. My train of thought is not always heading into a brick wall or over a cliff, however. For example, this morning I realized that thinking about the recession leads to a mild personal panic about the way I conduct my life which in turn leads to the realization that my daily needs can actually be broken down into a list of 10 essentials. This realization makes me happy, because anybody knows that a list of 10 things is almost always safe and manageable, unlike the recession itself, which seems both unsafe and unmanageable. The...
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I have been remiss in posting on this blog for a couple of reasons; work has been crazy (but good crazy) and half of my family is sick. The dog has a weird black spot on his tongue that appears to be getting bigger, and I am reading a book that I really love . But the real reason I haven’t posted for two weeks is that last week I was on vacation, and I have spent the better part of this week in some sort of PTSD recovery from flying with my children. The vacation was wonderful; we went skiing, which in this day and age feels like a real luxury. In fact, we went skiing in Utah , which these days feels almost as incredible as a trip to the moon. There were several downsides to the trip: my father broke his wrist, three of our group of...
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A few "helpful" things that I'd rather just skip, actually: --lowfat muffins --telephone solicitations --people who break bad news gently --online surveys --ATM receipts --packing peanuts --department store credit cards --emails from PR people who clearly have never read a single issue of Real Simple and are promoting things we would never cover, like sex toys and American Idol winners --short escalators --frozen yogurt
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A few "helpful" things that I'd rather just skip, actually: --lowfat muffins --telephone solicitations --people who break bad news gently --online surveys --ATM receipts --packing peanuts --department store credit cards --emails from PR people who clearly have never read a single issue of Real Simple and are promoting things we would never cover, like sex toys and American Idol winners --short escalators --frozen yogurt
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I work in a nice office on a nice floor of a nice building in midtown Manhattan (which is mostly nice except at Christmas when it is overrun by tourists who walk in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up, and preventing ordinary citizens like me from making it to the train on time). When it comes to my office there is very little I can find to complain about, and the fact that I even have an office to go to in this day and age is certainly a blessing. But there is one little issue that really sticks...
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So, like much of America I was glued to the tv on Tuesday. I was in my office so I suppose I was "working," but what I was really doing was: --trying to figure out why both senior Bushes wore purple, and was George really wearing a turtleneck? --wondering when Hillary will ever stop wearing that color --trying to figure out the mechanics of Michelle's outfit, specifically the ties and the thing that appeared to be a scarf --and was she wearing stockings? --and could Jill Biden be any cuter? --and why was Jill's Oprah outfit so much more wonderful...
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Over the weekend I got together with my book group for a special session. We had planned a book group sleepover at the beach house of one of our members, but because of the snow we instead went to her house in town, lit a giant fire and spent the evening: --watching Valley of the Dolls --drinking wine --eating cheese --watching this hilarious Joe Cocker video on YouTube --looking at the photos of that naked skier Of course, there was much discussion. The major topics: --the naked skier: is that his kid on the lift with him? --parents who allow...
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Like many of you, I spent most of the past two weeks in the kitchen, which was both delightful and maddening. Delightful in that I made some wonderful meals (highlights: coconut cake from December issue of Real Simple; chicken chili from epicurious.com; quiche Lorraine from Joy of Cooking; flounder baked with tomatoes, garlic and capers from a fish cookbook I have at home, the title of which I cannot remember; not to mention chocolate fondue, which I could eat any day of the week) and maddening in that there are certain things about food and cooking that are either illogical...
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