When my son was 7 years old, he began to question whether some of the stories that we had been telling him about certain holidays were accurate. In the spring, he started peppering me with questions about the Easter Bunny. He looked at me with incredulous eyes and asked me whether I expected him to believe that a giant rabbit came skipping down the street with a gigantic basket full of candy. His incessant questioning didn't stop until he searched the entire house and was able to unravel the Easter Bunny mystery. The Tooth Fairy was dethroned shortly thereafter. But it took several months before he finally realized that Santa Clause was probably a charade as well.
When he finally started to doubt the existence of Santa Clause, he came to me, crying, and told me that he had figured out that Santa Clause wasn't real. I didn't confirm or deny anything. I held him in my arms and told him: "Sometimes it's fun to go along with something, even if you think it isn't real." He took a few minutes to ponder this statement. And then he smiled. He looked at me and said: "In that case, Santa should bring me an electric guitar."
Friday, December 17, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
How to Snag a Cool Handbag for Under 20 Bucks
I have never understood what would compel a woman to pay thousands of dollars for a handbag. I don't care what celebrity is toting a bag around, unless the bag somehow magically generates money at the bottom of its silky liner, there is simply no justification for spending so much money on a fashion accessory. Yes, I am familiar with the theory that social status can be maintained and/or acquired through the purchase of a specific, trendy bag. But come on people, it is just a bag. How much social standing can a bag give you? And do you really want to be associated with people that would think better of you because you somehow scraped together enough cash to buy a ridiculously expensive bag? There are other, much more effective, ways to impress people.
On the other hand, I have fallen victim to more than one flashy, uber-cute bag in my life. And I understand that getting compliments on your cool new bag can lift your spirits. I am all for stylish accessories as long as you can score them at rock-bottom prices.
In that spirit, I recommend that you hop on over to Bungalow 360's website. Bungalow 360 is a small California company that makes handmade handbags, wallets, and accessories. Their bags are made of natural canvas and feature water-based ink. They have many cute, unusual designs, and best of all, they are having a wicked holiday sale. Right now, you can get a handbag for only 10 bucks!
On the other hand, I have fallen victim to more than one flashy, uber-cute bag in my life. And I understand that getting compliments on your cool new bag can lift your spirits. I am all for stylish accessories as long as you can score them at rock-bottom prices.
In that spirit, I recommend that you hop on over to Bungalow 360's website. Bungalow 360 is a small California company that makes handmade handbags, wallets, and accessories. Their bags are made of natural canvas and feature water-based ink. They have many cute, unusual designs, and best of all, they are having a wicked holiday sale. Right now, you can get a handbag for only 10 bucks!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The "C" Word
Yesterday, as I rolled into my mother's house with the kids and their overnight bag, and prepared to make a quick escape, I could tell that my mother needed to talk. It's Christmas time. I have a gazillion things to do, but I realized that I needed to stop and sit down with my mother. Instead of dashing out the door, I sat at her dining room table and listened to what had happened to her in the past week. She has two close friends who are battling cancer. One friend has repeatedly fought back her cancer only to have it reappear. Her doctors have finally told this woman that her fight is almost done; she has only several more months to live. My mother's other friend is currently undergoing radiation therapy for his cancer. He also has a young, athletic daughter, who has never smoked a cigarette in her life but was just diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer.
I personally learned almost ten years ago that there is nothing fair about cancer. You can devote yourself to healthy living, exercise like a nut, place only organic foods in your temple-like body, and you can still end up with cancer. Cancer doesn't discriminate. It visits the old, the young, the healthy, and it can rear up as an additional challenge for people who already have enough problems without it. Ten years ago, I lost a beloved friend to cancer.
I first met my friend, Jerilyn, in a British literature class. She was irresistibly confident. She strode into class every morning with tall, black combat boots, a green army jacket, and pink streaked hair. Despite her efforts to appear tough and edgy, there was a gentleness and kindness that oozed from her and made her very approachable. She was an amazing writer and had an irrepressible curiosity that led her to devour books by astrophysicists. Jerilyn and I were both English majors and decided to participate in a study abroad program that was offered through our university. We spent a year together in Canterbury, England. While we initially were enchanted by its medieval buildings and labyrinthine streets, we quickly learned that Canterbury could produce the same type of ennui that we experienced at home. We resorted to playing poker games with skittles as our chips, taking long walks through sheep pastures in the English countryside, and occasionally escaping to London to visit the zoo and British museum. We spent countless nights listening to R.E.M. and pondering the meaning of our existence. We debated philosophy and laughed about our professors. And then, it all came to a screeching halt, when she was just 28 years old.
For about a year, Jerilyn repeatedly visited doctors and told them that something was wrong. She had this horrible indigestion that was resistant to any type of over the counter medication. Because she was so young and healthy, her doctors never suspected that she could be suffering from stomach cancer. Instead, they sent her away and told her not to worry. It wasn't until her yearly gynecological exam that a doctor finally realized that she had cancer. By that point, her cancer had spread to her ovaries and was caked throughout her stomach. There was no tumor to extract. Her only choice was chemotherapy that hopefully could be followed with radiation treatment. Less than six months after she was diagnosed with cancer, Jerilyn died.
I was completely devastated to lose my friend, but as I went through the grieving process, I realized that by dying, Jerilyn gave all of her friends an amazing gift. She made me face my own mortality and recognize that time is a finite resource that should not be squandered. Death is universal and unpredictable. But people react to this inevitable reality in very different ways. Some people choose to ignore their own mortality. They skate through life and avoid discussing unpleasant things like cancer. Other people become almost obsessed with their own mortality and are so fearful of their impending death that they limit the activities they engage in while they are alive. I have watched people follow an endless number of self-imposed rules that limit their enjoyment of life in a futile attempt to prevent their own deaths. But Jerilyn taught me that there is another way to live. Instead of denying my own mortality or becoming so fearful of death that I can't even function, I choose to greet life head on and attempt to wring as much happiness and fun as possible from each day that I am given. I constantly try to honor Jerilyn by living life to its absolute fullest and embracing the innumerable pleasures that I encounter.
I personally learned almost ten years ago that there is nothing fair about cancer. You can devote yourself to healthy living, exercise like a nut, place only organic foods in your temple-like body, and you can still end up with cancer. Cancer doesn't discriminate. It visits the old, the young, the healthy, and it can rear up as an additional challenge for people who already have enough problems without it. Ten years ago, I lost a beloved friend to cancer.
I first met my friend, Jerilyn, in a British literature class. She was irresistibly confident. She strode into class every morning with tall, black combat boots, a green army jacket, and pink streaked hair. Despite her efforts to appear tough and edgy, there was a gentleness and kindness that oozed from her and made her very approachable. She was an amazing writer and had an irrepressible curiosity that led her to devour books by astrophysicists. Jerilyn and I were both English majors and decided to participate in a study abroad program that was offered through our university. We spent a year together in Canterbury, England. While we initially were enchanted by its medieval buildings and labyrinthine streets, we quickly learned that Canterbury could produce the same type of ennui that we experienced at home. We resorted to playing poker games with skittles as our chips, taking long walks through sheep pastures in the English countryside, and occasionally escaping to London to visit the zoo and British museum. We spent countless nights listening to R.E.M. and pondering the meaning of our existence. We debated philosophy and laughed about our professors. And then, it all came to a screeching halt, when she was just 28 years old.
For about a year, Jerilyn repeatedly visited doctors and told them that something was wrong. She had this horrible indigestion that was resistant to any type of over the counter medication. Because she was so young and healthy, her doctors never suspected that she could be suffering from stomach cancer. Instead, they sent her away and told her not to worry. It wasn't until her yearly gynecological exam that a doctor finally realized that she had cancer. By that point, her cancer had spread to her ovaries and was caked throughout her stomach. There was no tumor to extract. Her only choice was chemotherapy that hopefully could be followed with radiation treatment. Less than six months after she was diagnosed with cancer, Jerilyn died.
I was completely devastated to lose my friend, but as I went through the grieving process, I realized that by dying, Jerilyn gave all of her friends an amazing gift. She made me face my own mortality and recognize that time is a finite resource that should not be squandered. Death is universal and unpredictable. But people react to this inevitable reality in very different ways. Some people choose to ignore their own mortality. They skate through life and avoid discussing unpleasant things like cancer. Other people become almost obsessed with their own mortality and are so fearful of their impending death that they limit the activities they engage in while they are alive. I have watched people follow an endless number of self-imposed rules that limit their enjoyment of life in a futile attempt to prevent their own deaths. But Jerilyn taught me that there is another way to live. Instead of denying my own mortality or becoming so fearful of death that I can't even function, I choose to greet life head on and attempt to wring as much happiness and fun as possible from each day that I am given. I constantly try to honor Jerilyn by living life to its absolute fullest and embracing the innumerable pleasures that I encounter.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Am I Entranced or in Transit?
One of my absolutely favorite things in life is music. When I'm not indulging in a piece of dark chocolate or gleefully wriggling into a pair of textured stockings that I got on sale, there's a good chance that I'm dancing to music, singing along to a beloved song, or working with the hum of a familiar tune in the background. Music is amazingly versatile; it can be motivational, comforting, or even depressing. It has the power to unite us, but it's also deeply personal. While there is nothing like standing in a sea of pulsating people who are waving their arms in the air and singing every word of a band's lyrics, there are times when sitting alone in a room with a good album can open up inner feelings that have long been forgotten.
Being a literary sort, you can imagine that I've dissected the words to many songs trying to unlock their hidden meanings. But you might not have guessed that I'm horrible at deciphering the actual lyrics to a song by just listening to it. I'm one of those people who unabashedly shouts out the wrong words without even knowing it. Several years ago, my friend and I were belting out the words to Benny and the Jets. I was more than a little surprised when we got to the middle of the song and she sang "she's got electric boots, a mohair suit." I had just finished singing: "She's got electric boobs and an attitude!" Okay, so maybe my imagination got the best of me. But you've got to admit that my lyrics are a bit more interesting.
So lately, I've been butchering the lyrics of a new band that I simply adore. The band is called the Temper Trap. They are an alternative rock group out of Australia that released their debut album, Conditions, in 2009. The band has a rich sound with simple, pounding rhythms, occasional 1980's like guitar solos, and haunting vocals. As I was listening to their song "Fader," I thought it was completely appropriate that the song began with the words "I'm En- tranc - ed," because I was entranced. It was only later that I realized after googling the song that the words are: "I'm in transit." Oh well, the point is that this band rocks! I strongly recommend that you at least check out their songs "Fader" and "Sweet Disposition." Enjoy!
Being a literary sort, you can imagine that I've dissected the words to many songs trying to unlock their hidden meanings. But you might not have guessed that I'm horrible at deciphering the actual lyrics to a song by just listening to it. I'm one of those people who unabashedly shouts out the wrong words without even knowing it. Several years ago, my friend and I were belting out the words to Benny and the Jets. I was more than a little surprised when we got to the middle of the song and she sang "she's got electric boots, a mohair suit." I had just finished singing: "She's got electric boobs and an attitude!" Okay, so maybe my imagination got the best of me. But you've got to admit that my lyrics are a bit more interesting.
So lately, I've been butchering the lyrics of a new band that I simply adore. The band is called the Temper Trap. They are an alternative rock group out of Australia that released their debut album, Conditions, in 2009. The band has a rich sound with simple, pounding rhythms, occasional 1980's like guitar solos, and haunting vocals. As I was listening to their song "Fader," I thought it was completely appropriate that the song began with the words "I'm En- tranc - ed," because I was entranced. It was only later that I realized after googling the song that the words are: "I'm in transit." Oh well, the point is that this band rocks! I strongly recommend that you at least check out their songs "Fader" and "Sweet Disposition." Enjoy!
Monday, November 22, 2010
Over the River and Through the Woods
Thanksgiving is coming and that can mean only one thing . . . time to pile into the family vehicle with my grubby little offspring for 9 hours. I've spent the last week ironing and carefully packing clothes so that we can look at least halfway presentable when we roll into my sister's yard in Baltimore. But who am I kidding? After 9 hours in the car, we always look like a desperate pack of crazed rats who have just discovered a way to escape from their filthy cage and are foraging for some food.
Of course, I've learned by now that it would be a mistake to stay at my sister's house. No matter how hard we try, when we descend on my sister's tidy townhouse, we end up leaving a path of destruction in our wake. The memories from previous Thanksgivings have been permanently seared into my grey matter. No, I've learned from experience that it is best to stay at a hotel where no one knows us and no one will ever see us again.
When the Smokin' Pirate was a toddler, we made the unwise decision to attempt to stay with my sister in her paper-thin walled apartment. My newly married sister was thrilled to be able to host us in her freshly decorated two bedroom home. Unfortunately, the psychopath who lived directly under her was less than thrilled. He proceeded to pound on the ceiling and make threatening noises whenever we even crept across the floor. Needless to say, the Smokin' Pirate was incapable of tiptoeing across a floor at that point. That boy knew only one speed . . . ramming speed. His walk was more like a full-on run that inevitably resulted in him smashing into tables, chairs, or anything else that got in his way. After watching my sister nervously recount just how psychotic her neighbor was, we chose to book a hotel room for the remainder of our stay.
The problem is, even when we stay in a hotel, we still have to survive Thanksgiving dinner itself. When we visit my sister, we usually celebrate Thanksgiving with my brother-in-law's family. His family is a well-mannered, highly educated group of professionals whose children are all college age or older. They are a well dressed bunch who like to sit quietly around the dinner table and discuss current events in civilized tones. In the past, when we've come barging into the dining room with our two boisterous children, the atmosphere has become decidedly more raucous. In between stuffing gigantic amounts of mashed potatoes and rolls into their months, my children end up flinging food on the floor, emitting at least one grossly inappropriate bodily noise, and start making observations that would be better left unsaid. (One of my daughter's favorite things to say is: "Wow, you look a lot older than the last time we saw you. I think you're balder, too.") And it is a near certainty that my children will attempt to escape from the dinner table within 10 minutes of sitting down. One year, when the Smokin' Pirate was just an infant, we actually had to flee the house and do laps around the tranquil subdivision with our screaming, inconsolable child.
I'm not setting any lofty goals this Thanksgiving. While I've already pleaded with my children to please, please, please find a way to behave decently at Thanksgiving dinner, I have almost no hope that they will find a way to comply with my request. My plan is to enjoy the hotel (and probably never return), and pray that my brother-in-law finds a way to forgive me.
Of course, I've learned by now that it would be a mistake to stay at my sister's house. No matter how hard we try, when we descend on my sister's tidy townhouse, we end up leaving a path of destruction in our wake. The memories from previous Thanksgivings have been permanently seared into my grey matter. No, I've learned from experience that it is best to stay at a hotel where no one knows us and no one will ever see us again.
When the Smokin' Pirate was a toddler, we made the unwise decision to attempt to stay with my sister in her paper-thin walled apartment. My newly married sister was thrilled to be able to host us in her freshly decorated two bedroom home. Unfortunately, the psychopath who lived directly under her was less than thrilled. He proceeded to pound on the ceiling and make threatening noises whenever we even crept across the floor. Needless to say, the Smokin' Pirate was incapable of tiptoeing across a floor at that point. That boy knew only one speed . . . ramming speed. His walk was more like a full-on run that inevitably resulted in him smashing into tables, chairs, or anything else that got in his way. After watching my sister nervously recount just how psychotic her neighbor was, we chose to book a hotel room for the remainder of our stay.
The problem is, even when we stay in a hotel, we still have to survive Thanksgiving dinner itself. When we visit my sister, we usually celebrate Thanksgiving with my brother-in-law's family. His family is a well-mannered, highly educated group of professionals whose children are all college age or older. They are a well dressed bunch who like to sit quietly around the dinner table and discuss current events in civilized tones. In the past, when we've come barging into the dining room with our two boisterous children, the atmosphere has become decidedly more raucous. In between stuffing gigantic amounts of mashed potatoes and rolls into their months, my children end up flinging food on the floor, emitting at least one grossly inappropriate bodily noise, and start making observations that would be better left unsaid. (One of my daughter's favorite things to say is: "Wow, you look a lot older than the last time we saw you. I think you're balder, too.") And it is a near certainty that my children will attempt to escape from the dinner table within 10 minutes of sitting down. One year, when the Smokin' Pirate was just an infant, we actually had to flee the house and do laps around the tranquil subdivision with our screaming, inconsolable child.
I'm not setting any lofty goals this Thanksgiving. While I've already pleaded with my children to please, please, please find a way to behave decently at Thanksgiving dinner, I have almost no hope that they will find a way to comply with my request. My plan is to enjoy the hotel (and probably never return), and pray that my brother-in-law finds a way to forgive me.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Suzuki Suffering
Last spring, my five year old daughter approached me with an idea that instantly filled me with joy. She wanted to learn how to play the violin. My maternal hubris went into overdrive. Clearly I should no longer feel guilty about all those hours I had plunked her in front of the television (in moments of sheer desperation) and let her repeatedly view that Baby Einstein video with the puppets and toys that dance to music. All those hours of classical music and bizarre puppet twirling must have inspired her to reach for the stars and channel her inner Mozart. I was absolutely giddy as I started to search for a violin teacher to help my daughter, the budding musician, learn how to make graceful music with strings.
It wasn't until about her third violin lesson that I accepted that I had been completely delusional. It turns out that playing the violin is hard. After four months, she can finally hammer out the rhythm to several variations of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on an open A string. But Mozart . . . she's not. At most of her violin lessons, she squirms around on the floor like she's been possessed by some sort of hyperactive worm. Last week she even managed to wiggle half way out of her pants and moon me before the lesson was over.
In an attempt to get things moving along, her violin teacher whipped out a chart at one of her lessons. The graph showed how long it would take to proceed through the Suzuki books, and demonstrated that the rate of growth in violin playing is directly related to the amount of practice in which you engage. According to the graph, if you practice more than 2 hours a day, you can progress at a substantial rate. Practicing everyday for 15 minutes also yields a reasonable rate of progress. However, if you practice only a few times a week, it will take you about 10 years to make significant progress. Take a guess about which group we fall into. In between constantly ferrying the kids to school, soccer practice, drama rehearsals, ballet classes, and science club meetings, and mustering at least some sort of attempt to clean my house, I have tried to squeeze in violin practice, but it isn't easy.
You see the whole concept of the Suzuki method requires parental involvement. You are supposed to attend the lesson and take diligent notes. You are supposed to oversee the child's practice and encourage them to listen to classical music. The teacher even asked whether I wanted to learn to play the violin (which many teachers require). Give me a break! I can barely remember my name on a good day, there is no way I have the mental fortitude to learn a new instrument. No, right now, I am going to do what most parents do, and just focus on getting through the day and praying that the wheels on this whole operation don't start falling off and spewing in every direction. Of course, there is part of me that will take quiet refuge in the hope that maybe . . . just maybe . . . if I keep shuttling the kids to the things that they want to do and applauding the tortured playing of musical instruments, they will eventually discover who they want to be and grow into decent human beings.
It wasn't until about her third violin lesson that I accepted that I had been completely delusional. It turns out that playing the violin is hard. After four months, she can finally hammer out the rhythm to several variations of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on an open A string. But Mozart . . . she's not. At most of her violin lessons, she squirms around on the floor like she's been possessed by some sort of hyperactive worm. Last week she even managed to wiggle half way out of her pants and moon me before the lesson was over.
In an attempt to get things moving along, her violin teacher whipped out a chart at one of her lessons. The graph showed how long it would take to proceed through the Suzuki books, and demonstrated that the rate of growth in violin playing is directly related to the amount of practice in which you engage. According to the graph, if you practice more than 2 hours a day, you can progress at a substantial rate. Practicing everyday for 15 minutes also yields a reasonable rate of progress. However, if you practice only a few times a week, it will take you about 10 years to make significant progress. Take a guess about which group we fall into. In between constantly ferrying the kids to school, soccer practice, drama rehearsals, ballet classes, and science club meetings, and mustering at least some sort of attempt to clean my house, I have tried to squeeze in violin practice, but it isn't easy.
You see the whole concept of the Suzuki method requires parental involvement. You are supposed to attend the lesson and take diligent notes. You are supposed to oversee the child's practice and encourage them to listen to classical music. The teacher even asked whether I wanted to learn to play the violin (which many teachers require). Give me a break! I can barely remember my name on a good day, there is no way I have the mental fortitude to learn a new instrument. No, right now, I am going to do what most parents do, and just focus on getting through the day and praying that the wheels on this whole operation don't start falling off and spewing in every direction. Of course, there is part of me that will take quiet refuge in the hope that maybe . . . just maybe . . . if I keep shuttling the kids to the things that they want to do and applauding the tortured playing of musical instruments, they will eventually discover who they want to be and grow into decent human beings.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Best Places to Stay in Montreal
Montreal is one of my favorite places for a romantic weekend escape. Somehow when I am ensconced in the narrow cobblestone streets of old Montreal, I'm able to forget that I am still on the North American continent. I feel like I have been whisked away to a European city with tantalizing, unknown secret shops hiding around every corner. While I recognize that the horse drawn carriages that dot the streets may be a bit cliche, when you're a tourist, it's not always a bad thing to embrace a little kitsch.
There is, of course, nothing kitschy at all about my first hotel selection. Hotel Le Germain is a chic boutique hotel on Rue Mansfield in between Sainte-Catherine Ouest and Rue Sherbooke. With fresh floral displays in the lobby and complimentary hot chocolate and coffee, I found the entrance to be very welcoming. The urbane selection of magazines laid out on the lobby coffee table immediately signaled that this hotel is trying to be a hip oasis. And, after my stay there, I can assure you that it achieves this goal.
We were able to snag a superior room with a queen size bed for $209 Canadian. This rate included a buffet breakfast that featured cold cereals, breads, eggs, fruit, stuffed french toast, and the obligatory croissants. The breakfast buffet was certainly adequate, but not anywhere near the four star standards of the hotel's restaurant, Laurie Raphael. But hey, it was free (or at least included in the room rate), so we chowed down.
The room itself was wonderful. With a crisp white duvet and fashionable pale blue pillows, the bed was very inviting and comfortable. The room was not very large, but it was well appointed and had a series of sleek, modern closets that provided room for luggage and useful hidden amenities, including an umbrella. There were plush white robes and an ipod dock.
The bathrooms are also worth mentioning. Stocked with Aveda bath products, the bathrooms have a contemporary feel with classy dark wood and earth tone tiles. The most interesting feature is the glass-walled shower that permits occupants to see through into the main living space or lets an occupant see into the shower. While there is a privacy shutter that can be pulled, this shower can definitely provide some romantic entertainment all by itself.
Overall, we were perfectly content while we stayed at this hotel. The staff was friendly, but unobtrusive, and the valet parking ran very smoothly. The hotel is conveniently located right next to Sainte-Catherine, so there are numerous shopping opportunities within walking distance. It is not, and is not trying to be, a child-friendly hotel. But for a romantic getaway, this hotel certainly lived up to my exacting standards.
The other hotel that I would recommend for a romantic weekend is Le Place d'Armes. This is another small, boutique hotel. Located in a beautiful building that was designed by Hopkins and Wily in 1870, the hotel has succeeded at melding its gracious old exterior with its modern, elegant interior. The large rooms have exposed brick walls and exude a loft style vibe. We have stayed several times in a deluxe king room. With its alluring faux fur throw, fireplace, and modern furniture, the whole room creates a seductive setting for a relaxing weekend. The large bathrooms have trendy blue tiles and feature a large glass-walled shower with a comforting, large rain showerhead. The bath products are from the spa that is located in the hotel and have an unusual, aromatherapeutic smell.
When I stay at this hotel, I insist upon finding a reasonable rate that includes the buffet breakfast. The breakfast, which is located in the stylish Suite 701 bar, includes fresh fruit, yogurt, granola, eggs, assorted pastries and croissants, cereals, cheeses, and fresh-squeezed juices. You can also find packages that include a nightly wine reception in Suite 701. While the free wine is barely drinkable, there is a large selection of fresh cheeses and the bar provides a sophisticated backdrop for the beginning of a night out on the town.
The hotel's rooftop deck, which overlooks the city, is yet another reason why Le Place D'Armes is one of my preferred Montreal hotels.
There is, of course, nothing kitschy at all about my first hotel selection. Hotel Le Germain is a chic boutique hotel on Rue Mansfield in between Sainte-Catherine Ouest and Rue Sherbooke. With fresh floral displays in the lobby and complimentary hot chocolate and coffee, I found the entrance to be very welcoming. The urbane selection of magazines laid out on the lobby coffee table immediately signaled that this hotel is trying to be a hip oasis. And, after my stay there, I can assure you that it achieves this goal.
We were able to snag a superior room with a queen size bed for $209 Canadian. This rate included a buffet breakfast that featured cold cereals, breads, eggs, fruit, stuffed french toast, and the obligatory croissants. The breakfast buffet was certainly adequate, but not anywhere near the four star standards of the hotel's restaurant, Laurie Raphael. But hey, it was free (or at least included in the room rate), so we chowed down.
The room itself was wonderful. With a crisp white duvet and fashionable pale blue pillows, the bed was very inviting and comfortable. The room was not very large, but it was well appointed and had a series of sleek, modern closets that provided room for luggage and useful hidden amenities, including an umbrella. There were plush white robes and an ipod dock.
The bathrooms are also worth mentioning. Stocked with Aveda bath products, the bathrooms have a contemporary feel with classy dark wood and earth tone tiles. The most interesting feature is the glass-walled shower that permits occupants to see through into the main living space or lets an occupant see into the shower. While there is a privacy shutter that can be pulled, this shower can definitely provide some romantic entertainment all by itself.
Overall, we were perfectly content while we stayed at this hotel. The staff was friendly, but unobtrusive, and the valet parking ran very smoothly. The hotel is conveniently located right next to Sainte-Catherine, so there are numerous shopping opportunities within walking distance. It is not, and is not trying to be, a child-friendly hotel. But for a romantic getaway, this hotel certainly lived up to my exacting standards.
The other hotel that I would recommend for a romantic weekend is Le Place d'Armes. This is another small, boutique hotel. Located in a beautiful building that was designed by Hopkins and Wily in 1870, the hotel has succeeded at melding its gracious old exterior with its modern, elegant interior. The large rooms have exposed brick walls and exude a loft style vibe. We have stayed several times in a deluxe king room. With its alluring faux fur throw, fireplace, and modern furniture, the whole room creates a seductive setting for a relaxing weekend. The large bathrooms have trendy blue tiles and feature a large glass-walled shower with a comforting, large rain showerhead. The bath products are from the spa that is located in the hotel and have an unusual, aromatherapeutic smell.
When I stay at this hotel, I insist upon finding a reasonable rate that includes the buffet breakfast. The breakfast, which is located in the stylish Suite 701 bar, includes fresh fruit, yogurt, granola, eggs, assorted pastries and croissants, cereals, cheeses, and fresh-squeezed juices. You can also find packages that include a nightly wine reception in Suite 701. While the free wine is barely drinkable, there is a large selection of fresh cheeses and the bar provides a sophisticated backdrop for the beginning of a night out on the town.
The hotel's rooftop deck, which overlooks the city, is yet another reason why Le Place D'Armes is one of my preferred Montreal hotels.
Friday, October 29, 2010
"Like a Go-Go Girl Who Dance Like Lady Gaga"
Every once in awhile I get a stirring in my soul that can only be quenched by a trip to the dance floor. Two weekends ago, I reached into the back of my bottom dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of fishnet stockings and my black, high-heeled boots. I squeezed into my Killers' t-shirt and threw on a flirty, little black skirt. After dousing myself in glitter from head to toe, I was ready to leap onto the illuminated white tiles of my favorite club.
While I've noticed that most people require a substantial amount of alcohol before they can lose their inhibitions enough to dance in front of a crowd, I am not burdened by such limitations. Without a hint of intoxication, I'm able to throw my hands in the air and let my body intuitively flow to the thumping rhythm of the music. A few hours of this undulating workout inevitably cleanses my spirit and fills me with gratification. A five dollar cover charge is a small price to pay for such a voluptuous experience.
Two weeks ago, at the end of my dancing foray, a polite, young gentleman approached me and simply said: "That outfit you're wearing is perfection." He circled his fingers and brought them up to his lips and made one of those carefree Italian kissing gestures. He said: "Tell the man that you are going home to tonight that he is very, very lucky" and then he walked away. In less than a minute, this complete stranger restored my swagger and reminded me exactly why I go dancing . . . so I can feel alive and vibrant.
While I've noticed that most people require a substantial amount of alcohol before they can lose their inhibitions enough to dance in front of a crowd, I am not burdened by such limitations. Without a hint of intoxication, I'm able to throw my hands in the air and let my body intuitively flow to the thumping rhythm of the music. A few hours of this undulating workout inevitably cleanses my spirit and fills me with gratification. A five dollar cover charge is a small price to pay for such a voluptuous experience.
Two weeks ago, at the end of my dancing foray, a polite, young gentleman approached me and simply said: "That outfit you're wearing is perfection." He circled his fingers and brought them up to his lips and made one of those carefree Italian kissing gestures. He said: "Tell the man that you are going home to tonight that he is very, very lucky" and then he walked away. In less than a minute, this complete stranger restored my swagger and reminded me exactly why I go dancing . . . so I can feel alive and vibrant.
Monday, October 18, 2010
No More "Guilty" Pleasures
What is it with Americans that we associate all pleasurable things with "guilt"? As a sort of misguided tribute to the puritanical foundations of our country, we insist on referring to enjoyable things as our "guilty little pleasures." You don't see the French admonishing themselves for indulging in sumptuous treats. They drink wine, eat full fat cheese, and never shy away from dumping gobs of heavy cream into their cooking. They fry potatoes in duck fat, for crying out loud!
I'm not advocating that we all embrace a hedonistic lifestyle, but I don't think it would kill us to lighten up a bit. As a first step in learning to approach pleasure with a proper amount of insouciance, I encourage all of you to try one of the most amazing chocolate bars that I have ever eaten. Green & Black's 70% Dark Chocolate Bar is a velvety smooth indulgence, which is unsullied by fruit or nuts. Every bite begins with a full-bodied, bold bitterness that gives way to a creamy, satisfyingly smooth finish. This is pure, unadulterated chocolate at its very best. And for those of you who still feel compelled to reprove yourselves for even considering such a luxury, I will assure you that you shouldn't feel too guilty. The small bar is only 190 calories, is allegedly packed with anti-oxidants, and is an absolute steal at $1.99. Where else can you find total contentment for under 2 bucks? I, for one, devoured my bar today without a single moment of shame.
I'm not advocating that we all embrace a hedonistic lifestyle, but I don't think it would kill us to lighten up a bit. As a first step in learning to approach pleasure with a proper amount of insouciance, I encourage all of you to try one of the most amazing chocolate bars that I have ever eaten. Green & Black's 70% Dark Chocolate Bar is a velvety smooth indulgence, which is unsullied by fruit or nuts. Every bite begins with a full-bodied, bold bitterness that gives way to a creamy, satisfyingly smooth finish. This is pure, unadulterated chocolate at its very best. And for those of you who still feel compelled to reprove yourselves for even considering such a luxury, I will assure you that you shouldn't feel too guilty. The small bar is only 190 calories, is allegedly packed with anti-oxidants, and is an absolute steal at $1.99. Where else can you find total contentment for under 2 bucks? I, for one, devoured my bar today without a single moment of shame.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Smokin' Pirate's Rendezvous
It's that time of year when my palms get sweaty and my heart starts racing. It's time once again for the Smokin' Pirate's rendezvous. I wish I were talking about an encounter with a lightly bearded Orlando Bloom look-a-like on a tropical island . . . but I'm not. The Smokin' Pirate? He's my son. And the rendezvous? That's what most of you would call a parent/teacher conference. My renaming is a futile attempt to inject a bit of humor into a somewhat painful process. I'm sure there are parents who salivate at the mere mention of this meeting and who eagerly look forward to hearing just how wonderfully little Susie is blossoming in the classroom. But for me? Well, let's just say the meeting usually presents a challenge.
My son attends a fairly traditional, small catholic school. Last year, when the school held its annual curriculum night, I waltzed into his second grade classroom hoping that somehow he had learned to blend in. The teacher had prepared the classroom for the night and had carefully hung a row of self-portraits over the blackboard at the back of the room. There was an unusually large number of girls in the class, so most of the portraits featured pigtails and brightly colored rainbows. All of the girls were smiling in their pictures and they occasionally threw in some flowers or a fanciful unicorn. As my eyes meandered down this line of genial portraits, I eventually came to a bandanna clad figure with jagged teeth and beady little eyes. I instinctively started my internal pleading: "Oh please God, no. It isn't . . . ." But, oh yes . . . it was. The portrait of a pirate was my own child's handiwork. And there was more. As I examined the rough looking figure that my son had drawn, I couldn't help but notice the slender rolled tube that was protruding from the pirate's mouth. Green smoke billowed up from the tube and encircled the pirate's head at the top of the page. Sure enough . . . for his second grade self-portrait . . . my son had created a smokin' pirate.
Please don't think that I'm suggesting that my third grader is already a prepubescent juvenile delinquent. He's not . . . yet . . . and I still harbor hope that he never will be. What is undebatable however, is the fact that he is certainly not your average 8 year old. On the same night that I cringed at the Smokin' Pirate's portrait, I was asked to peruse a book that the class had put together for the special night. The book was called "A House Is a Home." The students were supposed to create statements that were analogous to "a house is a home for a family." As I started flipping through the book, I once again was treated to a plethora of unicorns and rainbows. One of the girls drew a picture of a doghouse with a peppy looking puppy and the neatly printed words: "A doghouse is a home for my puppy." One drew a picture of a friendly horse with the immaculately written caption: "A barn is a home for a horse." Another student drew a picture of a cuddly tiger-stripped cat and wrote that "a pet carrier is a home for my kitty." As I flipped further through the brightly colored pages, I eventually came to a picture of a clock that was drawn entirely in pencil. Scrawled across the page, in what amounted to no more than chicken scratches, were the words: "A clock is a house for time." Yup, you guessed it; it was penned by none other than the Smokin' Pirate. I thought to myself . . . okay, that is fairly profound; I guess there's hope.
So this week when I meet with the Smokin' Pirate's teacher, I am clinging to the belief that creativity will triumph in the end. At least I can guarantee that the conference won't be boring.
My son attends a fairly traditional, small catholic school. Last year, when the school held its annual curriculum night, I waltzed into his second grade classroom hoping that somehow he had learned to blend in. The teacher had prepared the classroom for the night and had carefully hung a row of self-portraits over the blackboard at the back of the room. There was an unusually large number of girls in the class, so most of the portraits featured pigtails and brightly colored rainbows. All of the girls were smiling in their pictures and they occasionally threw in some flowers or a fanciful unicorn. As my eyes meandered down this line of genial portraits, I eventually came to a bandanna clad figure with jagged teeth and beady little eyes. I instinctively started my internal pleading: "Oh please God, no. It isn't . . . ." But, oh yes . . . it was. The portrait of a pirate was my own child's handiwork. And there was more. As I examined the rough looking figure that my son had drawn, I couldn't help but notice the slender rolled tube that was protruding from the pirate's mouth. Green smoke billowed up from the tube and encircled the pirate's head at the top of the page. Sure enough . . . for his second grade self-portrait . . . my son had created a smokin' pirate.
Please don't think that I'm suggesting that my third grader is already a prepubescent juvenile delinquent. He's not . . . yet . . . and I still harbor hope that he never will be. What is undebatable however, is the fact that he is certainly not your average 8 year old. On the same night that I cringed at the Smokin' Pirate's portrait, I was asked to peruse a book that the class had put together for the special night. The book was called "A House Is a Home." The students were supposed to create statements that were analogous to "a house is a home for a family." As I started flipping through the book, I once again was treated to a plethora of unicorns and rainbows. One of the girls drew a picture of a doghouse with a peppy looking puppy and the neatly printed words: "A doghouse is a home for my puppy." One drew a picture of a friendly horse with the immaculately written caption: "A barn is a home for a horse." Another student drew a picture of a cuddly tiger-stripped cat and wrote that "a pet carrier is a home for my kitty." As I flipped further through the brightly colored pages, I eventually came to a picture of a clock that was drawn entirely in pencil. Scrawled across the page, in what amounted to no more than chicken scratches, were the words: "A clock is a house for time." Yup, you guessed it; it was penned by none other than the Smokin' Pirate. I thought to myself . . . okay, that is fairly profound; I guess there's hope.
So this week when I meet with the Smokin' Pirate's teacher, I am clinging to the belief that creativity will triumph in the end. At least I can guarantee that the conference won't be boring.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Why Rihanna Needs to Get a Girlfriend
I was out on my long run today listening to Rihanna's new song, the "Only Girl in the World." I love its relentless, infectious beat and Rihanna's sassy vocals. I have repeatedly turned this tune up and danced around my living room like a madwoman. There's no question that Rihanna is extraordinarily talented, but as I started to focus on the words, I begin to wonder just what is wrong with Rihanna. We all know that her haunting vocals on Eminem's song probably reflect more than just an artistic statement. Here is a woman who has been battered in the past singing about how she doesn't mind being abused because she "like[s] the way it hurts" and "love[s] the way [her abuser] lies." And now she is pleading with a lover to treat her like she is "the only girl in the world." While these lyrics might only be a form of artistic expression, my hunch is that they mirror Rihanna's own personal search for love and attention.
As a woman, I can certainly understand how amazing it feels when another person gives you all of their attention and treats you like you are the only thing that matters in the world. Obsessive, all-encompassing love is passionate and fun, but it is far from healthy. I don't want to be in a relationship with someone who literally treats me like I am the only thing that matters in the world. As I really started to think about what Rihanna was asking for, I realized that being "the only girl in the world" would be a frightening proposition.
One of the biggest sources of love and fulfillment in my life is the amazing group of women that I am honored to call my friends. They are strong, capable people who are all very different and have unique talents and passions. One of my friends is a powerful triathlete who has a crusty exterior but an inner heart of gold; she generously devotes an enormous amount of her life to helping dysfunctional families on a volunteer basis. Another friend is a passionate artist who has amazed me not only with the beauty of her paintings and jewelry, but with the beauty of her own soul. She is a fiery woman who is not afraid to dance with me in front of a crowd and never shies away from a challenge. Another friend is an intelligent, successful businesswoman who constantly enters into complicated political and philosophical debates with me, but still enjoys dancing, belting out tunes in front of an audience, and scanning sales racks for the latest fashionable clothes. Yet another friend is a social media genius who I am convinced will not stop networking until she has connected herself to every person on the planet. And then there is the beautiful singer with flowing long hair, who literally makes her friends break out in goosebumps whenever she graces us with a song. These are just examples, but all of the women that I count as my friends have several things in common. They are confident, self-assured women who know who they are and are not afraid to be themselves. They have discovered their talents and nurtured them. They are truly beautiful people and I feel privileged to have them in my life. Time with them nourishes my soul and makes me a stronger, healthier person. I look forward to many more years of laughing until we cry, dancing defiantly with people half our age, and singing at the top of our lungs. At the beginning of breast cancer awareness month, I am deeply grateful that I am not the only girl in the world.
As a woman, I can certainly understand how amazing it feels when another person gives you all of their attention and treats you like you are the only thing that matters in the world. Obsessive, all-encompassing love is passionate and fun, but it is far from healthy. I don't want to be in a relationship with someone who literally treats me like I am the only thing that matters in the world. As I really started to think about what Rihanna was asking for, I realized that being "the only girl in the world" would be a frightening proposition.
One of the biggest sources of love and fulfillment in my life is the amazing group of women that I am honored to call my friends. They are strong, capable people who are all very different and have unique talents and passions. One of my friends is a powerful triathlete who has a crusty exterior but an inner heart of gold; she generously devotes an enormous amount of her life to helping dysfunctional families on a volunteer basis. Another friend is a passionate artist who has amazed me not only with the beauty of her paintings and jewelry, but with the beauty of her own soul. She is a fiery woman who is not afraid to dance with me in front of a crowd and never shies away from a challenge. Another friend is an intelligent, successful businesswoman who constantly enters into complicated political and philosophical debates with me, but still enjoys dancing, belting out tunes in front of an audience, and scanning sales racks for the latest fashionable clothes. Yet another friend is a social media genius who I am convinced will not stop networking until she has connected herself to every person on the planet. And then there is the beautiful singer with flowing long hair, who literally makes her friends break out in goosebumps whenever she graces us with a song. These are just examples, but all of the women that I count as my friends have several things in common. They are confident, self-assured women who know who they are and are not afraid to be themselves. They have discovered their talents and nurtured them. They are truly beautiful people and I feel privileged to have them in my life. Time with them nourishes my soul and makes me a stronger, healthier person. I look forward to many more years of laughing until we cry, dancing defiantly with people half our age, and singing at the top of our lungs. At the beginning of breast cancer awareness month, I am deeply grateful that I am not the only girl in the world.
Monday, September 27, 2010
And Sometimes Extended Warranties Are Worth It!
Being the extraordinarily frugal person that I am, you will understand why I routinely say no to extended warranties for appliances. These warranties are basically a bet by a company that you will never encounter a problem with their product or you will be too lazy to call and deal with the hassle of enforcing your warranty. These companies charge a ridiculous amount to extend the basic warranty that comes with the product and they clearly must be making some serious dough from marketing these contracts based on how enthusiastically their sales staff recommend them.
But, about four years ago, when we finally replaced the television that we inherited from my Mom and Dad back in the day when Will Smith was still "fresh," we actually made the decision to buy an extended warranty for our new television. When I say that we made a "decision" . . . that is not entirely accurate. It was more like after chasing our two hyperactive preschool children all over Best Buy and enduring fifteen minutes of nonstop squirming and screaming while we waited in line, we acquiesced to the sales associate's tactics. This twenty-five year old, childless salesman could sense our weakness. Over-tired parents who are standing in line with their sugared-up children are like shark chum to sales people. At that point, we would have agreed to just about anything to get out of the store with a functioning t.v.
Now this "new" television was nothing fancy and there certainly wasn't anything flat about it. It weighed an absolute ton. It took my husband, myself, and a random sales guy about thirty minutes to lift it out of the store and figure out how to jam it into the front passenger seat of our Passat. We had to take it out the box and unwrap it so that we could squeeze it in.
For the next four years, our television performed admirably. It played host to the occasional red box video, diligently hooked me up with Dr. Derek Shepherd on Thursday nights, and fed my children a constant diet of PBS shows and Caillou videos. It was also good for a few laughs. We have a relatively nice house; from the outside and in most rooms, it even looks fairly modern. Most people seem to like our tan, Pottery Barnish paint and simple Shaker style furniture. But after people leave the foyer and enter our family room, most people have trouble concealing the smirks that creep across their faces when they eye the giant silver box with rabbit ears attached. For those of you who have forgotten what "rabbit ears" are, they are a portable antenna that connects to the television set. I am not about to pay Comcast a preposterous amount of money every month just so that they can feed my television addiction and rot my children's brains in the process. This house is cable-free, baby! (Never mind that we have a high speed internet connection and my eight year old son can type the words "Clone Wars" into a keypad faster than you can say cable.) The point is I have my principles and I stick to them.
Oh sure, there have been times when I have wavered on my no cable stance. I have to admit I was a tad embarrassed the day that my friend came over for a playdate and wanted to watch an acquaintance of hers that was appearing on Oprah. She asked me to turn on Oprah and I said: "Oooookay. Please stand where you are and try not to move." She looked at me like I had three heads while I spent the next ten minutes tussling with the rabbit ears and contorting my body into bizarre ballet like poses while I tried to optimize the reception of the t.v. You see sometimes tin foil can enhance your reception, but when you don't want to head to the drawer for Reynold's wrap, sometimes your body can act like an extension of the antenna and improve reception. Needless to say, we didn't get Oprah in very well that day because my friend wasn't really interested in standing still like a statue and squinting to make out Oprah's face through the fuzz on the t.v.
Well it turns out . . . that whole Oprah fiasco will probably never happen again. A few weeks ago, our t.v. started making this weird high-pitched noise from time to time. And then it refused to show my husband's video games. That was all it took to prod him into action. He was on the phone with Best Buy. And guess what? They couldn't fix our t.v. because they don't make televisions like that anymore. But they happily agreed to give my husband full credit for the original purchase price. Yesterday, my husband cruised into Best Buy with our old t.v. and a $100 gift certificate that he had won in a raffle. He emerged with a brand spanking new television and a new digital receiver (which is really nothing more than another set of "rabbit ears," but it looks much cooler than our old antenna). It only cost him eleven bucks to get a 32" LCD HDTV!!!! He went for the 720 pixel instead of the 1080 after discussing the nuances with a salesman. The sales guy admitted that unless you were going to spring for HD cable, it makes no sense to get the finer resolution. HD cable? Puhhhlleeese. We aren't even springing for basic. But I have to admit, as we nestled into the couch last night and flipped on the new t.v., we were astounded by the unbelievable picture quality. We even stayed in front of the t.v. and watched the Amazing Race, which we never do. Sometimes technology can be a beautiful thing and extended warranties can be too!
But, about four years ago, when we finally replaced the television that we inherited from my Mom and Dad back in the day when Will Smith was still "fresh," we actually made the decision to buy an extended warranty for our new television. When I say that we made a "decision" . . . that is not entirely accurate. It was more like after chasing our two hyperactive preschool children all over Best Buy and enduring fifteen minutes of nonstop squirming and screaming while we waited in line, we acquiesced to the sales associate's tactics. This twenty-five year old, childless salesman could sense our weakness. Over-tired parents who are standing in line with their sugared-up children are like shark chum to sales people. At that point, we would have agreed to just about anything to get out of the store with a functioning t.v.
Now this "new" television was nothing fancy and there certainly wasn't anything flat about it. It weighed an absolute ton. It took my husband, myself, and a random sales guy about thirty minutes to lift it out of the store and figure out how to jam it into the front passenger seat of our Passat. We had to take it out the box and unwrap it so that we could squeeze it in.
For the next four years, our television performed admirably. It played host to the occasional red box video, diligently hooked me up with Dr. Derek Shepherd on Thursday nights, and fed my children a constant diet of PBS shows and Caillou videos. It was also good for a few laughs. We have a relatively nice house; from the outside and in most rooms, it even looks fairly modern. Most people seem to like our tan, Pottery Barnish paint and simple Shaker style furniture. But after people leave the foyer and enter our family room, most people have trouble concealing the smirks that creep across their faces when they eye the giant silver box with rabbit ears attached. For those of you who have forgotten what "rabbit ears" are, they are a portable antenna that connects to the television set. I am not about to pay Comcast a preposterous amount of money every month just so that they can feed my television addiction and rot my children's brains in the process. This house is cable-free, baby! (Never mind that we have a high speed internet connection and my eight year old son can type the words "Clone Wars" into a keypad faster than you can say cable.) The point is I have my principles and I stick to them.
Oh sure, there have been times when I have wavered on my no cable stance. I have to admit I was a tad embarrassed the day that my friend came over for a playdate and wanted to watch an acquaintance of hers that was appearing on Oprah. She asked me to turn on Oprah and I said: "Oooookay. Please stand where you are and try not to move." She looked at me like I had three heads while I spent the next ten minutes tussling with the rabbit ears and contorting my body into bizarre ballet like poses while I tried to optimize the reception of the t.v. You see sometimes tin foil can enhance your reception, but when you don't want to head to the drawer for Reynold's wrap, sometimes your body can act like an extension of the antenna and improve reception. Needless to say, we didn't get Oprah in very well that day because my friend wasn't really interested in standing still like a statue and squinting to make out Oprah's face through the fuzz on the t.v.
Well it turns out . . . that whole Oprah fiasco will probably never happen again. A few weeks ago, our t.v. started making this weird high-pitched noise from time to time. And then it refused to show my husband's video games. That was all it took to prod him into action. He was on the phone with Best Buy. And guess what? They couldn't fix our t.v. because they don't make televisions like that anymore. But they happily agreed to give my husband full credit for the original purchase price. Yesterday, my husband cruised into Best Buy with our old t.v. and a $100 gift certificate that he had won in a raffle. He emerged with a brand spanking new television and a new digital receiver (which is really nothing more than another set of "rabbit ears," but it looks much cooler than our old antenna). It only cost him eleven bucks to get a 32" LCD HDTV!!!! He went for the 720 pixel instead of the 1080 after discussing the nuances with a salesman. The sales guy admitted that unless you were going to spring for HD cable, it makes no sense to get the finer resolution. HD cable? Puhhhlleeese. We aren't even springing for basic. But I have to admit, as we nestled into the couch last night and flipped on the new t.v., we were astounded by the unbelievable picture quality. We even stayed in front of the t.v. and watched the Amazing Race, which we never do. Sometimes technology can be a beautiful thing and extended warranties can be too!
Monday, September 20, 2010
We May Not Be Olympians . . . But We Are Still "Runners"
The alarm went off at 6 a.m. this morning so that my husband could stumble down the stairs and prepare himself to race in the annual 5k that winds its way through our neighborhood. He's been training for weeks, somehow finding the strength to pull on his sneakers every night after the kids have finally gone to sleep. Most nights he runs in the dark at about 9 o'clock at night. While he grumbles from time to time, there can be no doubt that this man is committed and maybe just a tad obsessed.
Today, the kids and I waited anxiously on our front yard. It was a beautiful September morning. The layer of fog that had blanketed our neighborhood had just lifted and the sun was shining. It was a bit chilly and there was no wind. As the flashing blue lights of the police car made their way down our street, we drew closer to the road. The first runner was a tall man who effortlessly glided over the pavement in long, confident strides. He was probably in his thirties and was wearing a shirt from a marathon. By the time he passed our house, about a mile and a quarter into the race, he was about a quarter of a mile ahead of the second runner. I just watched him in awe. I didn't feel the need to clap; this guy didn't need my encouragement. He clearly had some serious genetic help.
The second runner was more frenzied than the first. He was trying to keep up with the gazelle that kept pulling further and further away from him. But he still was a very strong runner, who also didn't need my applause. He didn't look particularly friendly . . . just focused.
Then we spotted the red jersey that my husband was wearing and we erupted into cheers. This was someone who definitely needed our support. Nothing is effortless about my husband's running stride. You can tell that he is pushing himself to an uncomfortable point. But that man is nothing if not persistent. While he may not be genetically gifted, he trains hard and he's not afraid to push himself to the point of pain. He has overcome some unbelievable obstacles in his life and he's not someone who will ever quit and just start walking.
After he had passed, a large mass of runners went by who represented the middle of the pack. These were mostly dedicated runners who train pretty regularly. A lot of them were smiling and enjoying the race. Their infectious positive energy pulled us into the race and made us cheer louder. These runners knew that they were not going to win the race, but they didn't care. They were running for fun, because it feels good while you're doing it and feels even better when you're done.
As this group dwindled, there was a pause in the race and then came the last group. This final group was comprised of people who were struggling just to finish the race. Most of these people had looks of determination on their sweat-streaked, red faces. They were not smiling. They were not having fun. They were struggling to find a rhythm even as their lungs burned and their legs ached. We reserved our loudest cheers for this group. Although they were facing inevitable defeat and would still be running long after the first runner had finished, these people kept going . . . trying not to walk too often. My daughter and her friend launched into a cheer for this group of: "Go, runners, go! Go, runners, go!" This caused almost all of the people in this group to instantaneously break out into smiles and thank us for the encouragement. These people felt good about their accomplishment and we all felt proud that they had earned the right to be called "runners."
Today, the kids and I waited anxiously on our front yard. It was a beautiful September morning. The layer of fog that had blanketed our neighborhood had just lifted and the sun was shining. It was a bit chilly and there was no wind. As the flashing blue lights of the police car made their way down our street, we drew closer to the road. The first runner was a tall man who effortlessly glided over the pavement in long, confident strides. He was probably in his thirties and was wearing a shirt from a marathon. By the time he passed our house, about a mile and a quarter into the race, he was about a quarter of a mile ahead of the second runner. I just watched him in awe. I didn't feel the need to clap; this guy didn't need my encouragement. He clearly had some serious genetic help.
The second runner was more frenzied than the first. He was trying to keep up with the gazelle that kept pulling further and further away from him. But he still was a very strong runner, who also didn't need my applause. He didn't look particularly friendly . . . just focused.
Then we spotted the red jersey that my husband was wearing and we erupted into cheers. This was someone who definitely needed our support. Nothing is effortless about my husband's running stride. You can tell that he is pushing himself to an uncomfortable point. But that man is nothing if not persistent. While he may not be genetically gifted, he trains hard and he's not afraid to push himself to the point of pain. He has overcome some unbelievable obstacles in his life and he's not someone who will ever quit and just start walking.
After he had passed, a large mass of runners went by who represented the middle of the pack. These were mostly dedicated runners who train pretty regularly. A lot of them were smiling and enjoying the race. Their infectious positive energy pulled us into the race and made us cheer louder. These runners knew that they were not going to win the race, but they didn't care. They were running for fun, because it feels good while you're doing it and feels even better when you're done.
As this group dwindled, there was a pause in the race and then came the last group. This final group was comprised of people who were struggling just to finish the race. Most of these people had looks of determination on their sweat-streaked, red faces. They were not smiling. They were not having fun. They were struggling to find a rhythm even as their lungs burned and their legs ached. We reserved our loudest cheers for this group. Although they were facing inevitable defeat and would still be running long after the first runner had finished, these people kept going . . . trying not to walk too often. My daughter and her friend launched into a cheer for this group of: "Go, runners, go! Go, runners, go!" This caused almost all of the people in this group to instantaneously break out into smiles and thank us for the encouragement. These people felt good about their accomplishment and we all felt proud that they had earned the right to be called "runners."
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Newest Gender Bending Fall Fashion Statement
Last week, when I was freshly inspired by the movie, I raided my husband's closet and found a gold mine of brand-new, unopened bow ties. I taught myself how to tie them and I trotted out my new look at a school picnic and a Saturday night fundraiser. That's right, ladies, this look is versatile. Now . . . I'm not advocating the wearing of bow ties on a daily basis. Gender bending can definitely be overdone. For example, Diane Keaton's constant reliance on white collared shirts, ties, and gloves, not only became boring, but also a little creepy. On the other hand, I personally think that there is nothing more alluring than occasionally wearing an oversized men's dress shirt.
The point is everyone should use fall as a time to experiment with their appearance. Whether you're a man or a woman, and whether you want to wear a different hairstyle, try some new make-up, or debut an unusual accessory, now is the time to be adventurous. People often let fear and potential embarrassment hold them back. I truly believe that you can only find real happiness when you abandon your fears.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
What Is a Virtuous Voluptuary?
For the past few weeks, I have been moping around the house, trying to figure out what I should be doing with my life. I felt like something was missing. Don't get me wrong . . . there are of plenty of things that I should be doing, but I just didn't feel like I wanted to do them. You see, Barbie and I have been having this major problem. Every day I tuck her away into the cabinet in the family room that is supposed to be her home and then somehow . . . she sneaks out. Not only does she sneak out, but she brings her friends and their clothes too. And she inevitably throws this raging party all over my family room floor. Well, last night, as I was wading through the rubble of shoes and dresses that Barbie and her posse had thrown onto every square inch of the rug, I knew that I needed to make a change. I want the opportunity to create something that will not be immediately erased by Barbie and her demolition crew.
This blog is going to be my new little indulgence. I invite you to come along and share my adventures. In the next few days, we are going to be talking about the newest fall fashion trend that I have decided to embrace, my favorite fall pleasures, and anything else that inspires me. It should be fun and probably just a little manic.
Before I end this inaugural post, I wanted to explain what a "virtuous voluptuary" is. Before you get too excited and start thinking that I look like Christina Hendricks or something, I want to assure you that there is more than one meaning of "voluptuous." I am a voluptuary because I am someone who is committed to the enjoyment of luxurious and pleasurable things. As my friends all know, I am a dedicated hotel snob and absolutely demand clean, well-decorated accommodations. But at the same time, I am a committed minimalist (who detests clutter) and always looks for a bargain. That is where the virtuous part comes in. I aspire to the virtues of frugality, minimalism, and pragmatism. Okay, I'll admit that I don't always follow these principles, but I certainly try and if you read this blog, you will definitely see me enthusiastically proselytizing these virtues.
This blog is going to be my new little indulgence. I invite you to come along and share my adventures. In the next few days, we are going to be talking about the newest fall fashion trend that I have decided to embrace, my favorite fall pleasures, and anything else that inspires me. It should be fun and probably just a little manic.
Before I end this inaugural post, I wanted to explain what a "virtuous voluptuary" is. Before you get too excited and start thinking that I look like Christina Hendricks or something, I want to assure you that there is more than one meaning of "voluptuous." I am a voluptuary because I am someone who is committed to the enjoyment of luxurious and pleasurable things. As my friends all know, I am a dedicated hotel snob and absolutely demand clean, well-decorated accommodations. But at the same time, I am a committed minimalist (who detests clutter) and always looks for a bargain. That is where the virtuous part comes in. I aspire to the virtues of frugality, minimalism, and pragmatism. Okay, I'll admit that I don't always follow these principles, but I certainly try and if you read this blog, you will definitely see me enthusiastically proselytizing these virtues.
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