My Long Overscheduley Nightmare Is Almost Over

I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm ALMOST sure that it's not an oncoming train.

I have eighteen half-finished posts. End of summer Spawn emotional train wreckage! Vast right-wing conspiracy of back to school extortion! Secret affairs and breakups! Horribly embarassing photos of myself as a child! But that will all have to wait until I finally have time to write some shit, hopefully tomorrow.

In the meantime, I had signed up to be a part of Neil Kramer's wicked cool Great Interview Experiment, which I mightily wish I had thought of in the first place. As serendipity would have it, I was matched with my ruminative friend John Dove, of Buddha on the Road fame. John and I have swapped many emails in the past. He's even motivated me to buy a book on mediation, although I have not been able to calm down enough to actually READ it yet.

So if you're bored visit John's posted interview of me. If nothing else, reading about my neuroses should make you feel that much better about yourself.

Nothing below the fold today. Special note to Bites: I PROMISE am going to fix my frigging popup window issues but I don't have the brainwidth to deal with it today. I need to find a high schooler or some other child labor to exploit to fix my technical issues.

Nothing below the fold, no need for clickage.

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The Last Supper

I've been having some funky health stuff going on lately, and my doctor says that I need to eliminate things that are causing unnecessary stress in my life.

After examining all of my commitments, I have decided that although I love Spawn as if they were my own children*, I need to stop having family dinners with them. Immediately.

Scene from a typical evening at our house:

Spawn (Upon entering): Whatsfordinner? Whatsfordinner? Whatsfordinner? CanIplayvideogames? Whatsfordinner? - Repeated for the next 20 minutes until doorbell rings, the sound of which triggers a Pavlovian response; they stumble, zombie-like, into the dining room.

Me: Sets out a freshly prepared [just delivered], nutritious ["sweet potatoes" which have been browned sugared and marshmallowed to within an inch of their lives, but are technically still of vegetable origin], festively arranged [transferred from plastic containers to Chinet] meal in front of them.

The Girl: Did YOU cook this chicken?

Me: Don't worry, it's from Boston Market.

The Girl: [Picks up chunk of meat with fingers and licks it.] Origins confirmed, begins process of "eating", during which 2/3 of her meal winds up on the floor, smeared in her hair, or stuck to the wall.

The Boy: I hate Boston Market.

Me: I refuse to acknowledge that statement. You have to eat at least FOUR pieces of chicken before you get any cornbread.

The Boy: I don't like it.

Me: How can you not like chicken? It tastes like everything.

The Boy: Because it's a DEAD CHICKEN. A farmer shot it.

Me: I have no good answer to that.

For the next forty-five minutes, Manager Dad and I make "conversation" by way of threats and ultimatums interspersed with phrases like "sit on your butt, not your feet," and "if the reason you left the table THIS time was because you took a crap in the bathroom, wash your hands and use the Glade Air Freshener Spray."

By the end of the meal The Boy will have eaten 3.4 bites (if you count both kernels of corn individually), The Girl looks like the lone survivor of the historic Faber College food fight, and I have chest pains.

So in the interest of self preservation, I am going on strike from family dinners. Yes, I'm aware that it's been scientifically proven that if we don't eat together on a regular basis, Spawn will grow up and become crack whores. Or worse, Republicans. Either way, people are going to whisper behind my back at the next Rotary Club** meeting. But at least I'll still be alive to attend it.

*Having been present at their births, I am reasonably confident that Spawn are, in fact, my own biological offspring.

**I am not actually a member of the Rotary Club.

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My Outsourced Motherhood

Thank God Mother’s Day is over.

If I had to read, listen to, or watch one more Very Special Tribute to a Very Special Mom (shot in soft focus and featuring the kind of music typically found in a douche commercial), I would have heaved a tire iron through my television screen.

While the idea of having a whole day dedicated to the celebration of me is pleasant, in actuality it just makes my shortcomings even MORE blazingly obvious. How could there possibly be so many Ultra SuperTerrific HappyMothers out there? They bake! They sew! They wipe away tears and pick chunks of snot! They flip burgers for the homeless and change bedpans for the elderly! These specimens of womanly perfection make the Dalai Lama look like Paris Hilton.

If I had a spare moment, I’d use it to feel bad for The Boy and The Girl, as they will never experience such a blissful level of idyllic parent-child codependency. And I work full time, so I’ve had to subcontract about three-quarters of my motherly duties anyway. As such, I sleep OK at night knowing if they ARE messed up, it’s technically someone else’s fault, not a direct consequence of my own parenting techniques.

With the pinkwashed torrent of sentimentality behind us, for what it’s worth (actually, $68,000 a year, according to salary.com) I’d like to thank the collection of household staff, paid caregivers, recurring services, unwitting volunteers, and other domestic helpers that have helped make me the mother I am today:

To Silvia and John, our first day care providers: Somehow, your foul-smelling goulashes succeeded in tricking my children into eating a staggering range of vegetables, the likes of which they won’t even be in the same room with now that they’re coherent. Someday I hope to get at least one of the kids to eat squash again, and if I do, I will remember you fondly.

To Martha, our cleaning lady: Thank you for your bi-weekly attempts to transform our house from a Scottish pay toilet to a reasonably hygienic place to live. I especially appreciate that you manage to get rid of the gobs of SpongeBob toothpaste that wind up caked all over the bathroom vanity. I can’t afford to pay you any more than I do, but if I ever win the lottery, I’m giving you a fat bonus AND buying you a gold-plated Dyson DC-15.

To Kenny at Sea Breeze Dry Cleaners: Your reasonable prices and convenient location have allowed me to keep my strict no-iron streak intact (going on 13 years now). And whatever it is you do to my barfed, boogered, and bloodied items of clothing, I bow to your prowess as the Stain Whisperer.

To Karen and Allisha at Arena Gymnastics: Thank you for the second straight year of patiently trying to teach The Girl how to do a cartwheel, even though I can sense from the looks in your eyes that it might be a lost cause. And thanks to all of the Stamford Youth Soccer coaches that help keep The Boy motivated by pretending that winning isn’t everything, especially because his team gets slaughtered on a weekly basis.

To our Holy Trinity of Takeout (aka Boston Market, Kit’s Thai Kitchen, and Domino’s Pizza): Thank you for your continued existence. Without you, my family would be subsisting on a weekly diet of rice cakes, frozen turkey sausage, and rotting bananas.

And last but certainly not least,To Megan, our ex-so-much-more-than-a-babysitter: I have always marveled at how you could be so patient, loving, and kind. Possibly you are not very bright, or perhaps you are hard of hearing. But regardless, the kids STILL ask for you all of the time, even though you left for California more than six months ago. Will you PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE move back to the East Coast? I forgive you for drinking competitive product in the house, and I'll even apologize for teaching the kids to tell you that only mean people drink Diet Coke. Come back. Please. Seriously.

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A MILF No More?

When I was a kid, my parents forced me wear my hair short. And since the hair was also frizzy and bright red, I spent most of my pre-teen years looking like the love child of Carrot Top and a '70's-era Dr. J. No matter what hideous shade of seizure-inducing pink my mother dressed me in, people invariably gushed, "Oh, what a cute little boy!"

So when they finally let me take control of my own style (high school), I overcompensated. I farmed some major ‘80’s hair. I never met a perm (I needed big hair to balance my Fame-inspired off-the shoulder ripped sweatshirts) or a highlighting technique (which complemented my orangesque tanning-bed glow) that I wouldn’t try.

But I absolutely refused to get it cut until the day after my college graduation, and then only because I downed half a dozen shots of Jagermeister at the now-defunct Gully's Riverview Inn and passed out facedown in a wad of someone else's gum.

In my late twenties, I grudgingly came to accept that I couldn’t pull off do-me butt-length blonde streaks anymore. So I got the rite-of-passage female corporate drone haircut, and my hair has remained meekly at shoulder length ever since. My one other major change was when I got bangs in ‘98, a concession to the folly of the aforementioned ‘80s "All-You-Can-Tan" package. Being a tightwad who is squeamish about needles, I figured that bangs are cheaper than Botox. But aside from those two events, all’s been quiet on the hair front.

So last week, when I went in for regularly scheduled maintenance, I was most surprised to emerge from the salon with a short new ‘do. I don’t really recall how it all went down (something to do with an anniversary celebration and free champagne punch) but the end result was a new style that I can best describe as Carly Fiorina meets The Monkees.

I am upset with this turn of events for an utterly shallow reason: with short hair, I feel like I no longer qualify to be a MILF.

Whether or not I’m actually a MILF right now is up for debate. I have only one source of MILFinformation – Manager Dad. Since he is not a stupid man, I cannot say with 100% certainty if he truly believes that I am, or if he just wants me to keep doing his laundry.

And while I know I shouldn’t care about MILFdom (I’m one of those keep-your-own-last-name semi-feminist types), I do anyway. I'm not trying to be a Springerian train wreck, wearing microminis at 57 and sleeping with my teenage kid's boyfriend. Nor do I want to turn into a dog-frightening Joan Rivers freak show, desperately sculpting my last shreds of remaining natural skin into an eternally frozen expression of surprise.

No - I simply want to maintain a reasonably age-appropriate level of good-lookingness so that I can enjoy the occasional catcall from construction sites, and continue to earn more money than my less attractive counterparts. (Don't shoot the messenger on that one - this has been statistically proven).

Response from the family is split - thumbs up from The Girl, thumbs down from The Boy. Manager Dad wisely broke the tie with a "you look great, honey."

Reaction from friends and coworkers was generally positive, although the “You look very professional” that I got from Steve in Information Management doesn’t quite have the same ego-stroking impact of a "Hey there, hottie." On the other hand, I guess it also doesn’t have the same potential for a sexual harassment claim, so I respect where Steve is coming from on that one.

I think I like the haircut. And if I decide I don’t, I have an ace in the hole - a young, defenseless daughter with no disposable income who cannot drive. I can project all of my hairy desires on her. I feel that it is my motherly duty to instill at least a few childhood hangups; all things considered, a hair fixation isn't the worst thing she could wind up with. Shouldn't take too much therapy to cure.

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And "Mother Of The Year" Goes To...

Today, I faced one of those no-win dilemmas that only a working mother can appreciate: what do you do with a child that’s slightly off, but not really sick? Do you miss yet another day of work, or Motrin him up and send him to day care?

I had inklings of trouble last night when the boy refused to eat more dinner than he normally does. Usually he'll grudgingly consume about 3/4 of a meal, but last night, after a few bites of home-cooked (actually, Boston Market-purchased) chicken, he threw in the fork. Not even the usual bribes of cornbread or sliced apples on the couch could entice him to eat more.

Much later, I was awakened from a dead sleep at 4am with the same child looming over me in the dark.

"Mommy," he said, "I'm either hungry, or I'm going to throw up."

Ever optimistic, I went with "hungry." Gave the kid two slices of toast and stuffed him back into bed. Tried to nap between his subsequent intermittent wanderings back into our room. So when it was time to actually get up, I was tired and short-tempered. I knew the kid wasn't quite right, but I had a lot of work to get done. And he seemed OK - no fever or other outward signs of illness, and when he started asking for chocolate milk and Munchkins I chalked up his droopy demeanor up to being tired. So Manager Dad and I made the executive decision to soldier on and take him to day care.

I telecommute on Fridays, and as I conducted my morning business, I kept a nervous surveillance eye on my cell phone. My paranoia was not unfounded as I received The Call at approximately 10am. I was most displeased to hear the voice of Nice Day Care Lady #1, aka The One Who Usually Calls If Your Child Is Sick Or Injured.

'Hello,' said NDCL#1, 'I am just calling you to let you know The Boy is not quite himself today.' 'What's wrong with said boy?' I asked. 'Well, he's kind of mopey,' was the answer. 'He's not participating in activities.'

Now, she didn't directly ASK me to come pick him up, but the sentiment was clearly there. I could feel a warm cloud of expectation wafting through the wireless spectrum as I questioned the situation more closely. 'Does The Boy have a fever? Is there coughing, sneezing, or sniffling? Is he expelling bodily fluids from any orifice at a more alarming velocity than normal?'

'No, he's just very quiet today,' she said. (Perceived subtext: ‘I can’t believe she’s not already on her way here.’)

Upon this confirmation, Mother of the Year (that's me, if you hadn't guessed) quickly said, 'OK then, call me back if any of those things happen.' And I unceremoniously hung up.

I am VERY protective of my telecommuting arrangement and don’t want to lose the privilege. I don't ever want people to think I'm not pulling my weight on my days from home. I am many things on my days from the home office (poorly groomed, a Peapodder, folder of laundry on conference calls, silent hostess of various repairpersons or cleaning ladies), but I am NOT a slacker.

So while on occasion I'll make quick stop at the horrible Grade A on Newfield (motto: We're Not Afraid To Sell You Rotten Produce") after kid dropoffs, my main indulgence is my hourlong lunchtime workout. For one glorious hour, I turn off the cell phone and squeeze in a good, hard run. I come back re-energized and smelly, and proceed to work furiously in a pool of my own sweat for the rest of the day. (I pray to the Cubicle Gods that cheap videoconferencing remains an elusive invention.)

If it's a nice day, I run outside - no problem. If it's a rainy or cold day, I have to go to the track at my gym. And my gym is where The Boy goes to day care. And I have to walk right by his classroom to get to the track.

Problem.

So I get dressed for my run and make the 2-minute drive over to the gym. I walk slowly into the building, willing myself to be invisible. I peer cautiously down the hallway - looks clear. I walk quickly through the Hot Zone - that bare stretch of hallway where there are no doorways or large plants under which to take cover.

I was just about home free, standing at the doorway to the gym, when I heard the cheery voice of Nice Day Care Lady #2, aka The One Who Usually Calls About Unpaid Bills and Unfilled-Out-Forms.

'Mother of The Boy!' she chirped.

Daaaaaaammmmmmmn.

I lifted my hand off the doorknob and took a deep breath. 'How is the boy in question?' I asked.

'Oh, he is really miserable. He's been lying on the couch all morning. I'm glad you came to get him.'

Guilt began to breech the Great Wall between my unconscious and conscious minds, because, well, I really hadn’t come for that particular reason. But as Mother of the Year, I gave it my best college try. 'Oh, yes, of course!' I said. ‘That is exactly why I’m here! Ahem, by the way, has he actually thrown up or gotten a fever yet?'

Puzzled, NDCL#2 said, 'No...but he's just really not himself.'

As an only child of divorced parents, I can be nothing if not self-centered. So I quickly came back with- 'OK – I’ll just do a quick workout, and I'll take him with me on the way home.'

Looking me straight in the eye, NDCL#2 said, (and honestly, it was without malice) 'Ok, I'll tell The Boy that you're in the building but won't be picking him up for another hour or so.'

Checkmate. Well played, NDCL.

And so, sufficiently infused with guilt, I begrudgingly slunk into the classroom to get The Boy. Who, by the way was napping peacefully.

So I woke him up, brought him home, and parked him on the couch, draping an array of towels in his immediate projectile area. (I have found this to be a primitive, yet effective, barf defense mechanism.) He then proceeded to watch two full-length movies (Ice Age and The Empire Strikes Back, if you are keeping score) consume one bagel, eight ounces of Fruit Punch Gatorade, and two bananas.

Nary a chunk was blown.

I, on the other hand, wound up tired, guilt-laden, unexercised, unshowered, with laundry unfolded, and I didn’t get any work done until the kids went to bed, so of course, I had to stay up late and will feel even worse tomorrow.

Of course, I don't want The Boy to REALLY be sick, but the fact that I brought him home when he was fine to stay at day care just makes me feel like a complete, 360-degree failure. Because I knew he wasn’t running at 100% and I made him go to day care anyway. And after all that, I STILL short-changed my work, and despite the fact that there was no malice in my interactions with the NDCLs today, I still feel like a complete dink.

Oh well. I might not be Mother of the Year, but luckily, The Boy has no other frame of reference. I’m the only mother that he has. And if nothing else, I got some Grade A snuggles and kisses. And I’m all caught up on on my Spongebob episodes.

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Revolting Excretions At A Low Low Price

I'm a classic Type A personality with a demanding job. I'm also the also mother of two children who think nothing of wandering into our bedroom at various times of the night, just to tell me that they're thirsty. No suprise then that I often have trouble sleeping. But one upside of the insomnia is my exposure to dozens of infomercials for a whole world of new, exciting products that are only available if you CALL NOW!!!

I've always had a weakness for the tempting promises of these miraculous products. At the least, they promise to streamline my life. Why have a colander AND a spaghetti pot if they can be combined into one? They also provide infantile self-entertainment (if you've ever seen a dog vacuumed with a Flo-Bee haircutting system, you'd know what I mean).

Sometimes they can even be life-altering. Why, if it wasn't for my Jack Lalanne Power Juicer, Manager Dad and I might not be married today. Back in the early 90's when we met (I was a DJ, he was a doorman at the cheesiest bar in all of Chicago), I lured him to my apartment with the promise of freshly made apple juice. I must have ground up at least three pounds of apples to get about two ounces of liquid, but he proved worth the investment.

But nothing can compare to the sheer, morbidly fascinating grossness of the Kinoki Foot Pad.

Not since they first introduced the Biore Pore Perfect blackhead strips have I ever coveted something so completely on first sight.

I don't feel toxic, mind you, but the idea of putting a nice clean white sheath on my foot at night and waking up to a mottled, greenish-black pad filled with micrometals and poisons from my body just sounded too good to pass up. And the prospect of having the fascinatingly repulsive visual evidence made it even better! All for only $19.95 plus shipping and handling! It's amazing how the receipt of one's annual bonus, coupled with a few glasses of wine, can help you rationalize that giving your credit card information to people who sell giant, charcoal-filled foot bandaids is a good idea.

I did my first set of pads last night. I could take a digital photo and show you, but I'm sure you'd rather trust me on how nasty they look. WOW. The way those pads looked, I am suprised that I have not been walking around emitting a constant nuclear glow. Do they really detoxify people? Who cares. What I know is, they are spectacularly yucky to look at.

I have to wait 48 hours before doing my next set of pads. I'll be looking for ways to continue detoxing. No Diet Wild Cherry Pepsis for me today - I'm all about the clean living.

Why, I might even slice up some fresh veggies with my Ginsu knives.

Read more about these ancient mystic Eastern herbal miracles for yourself at the kinoki website.

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Sub-Literate Guilt

Before I birthed the littles, I used to read books. And then came love, marriage, and an InStep 300 Ultra Runner stroller, later upgraded to the two-child model after Manager Boy was born. Now, I read approximately one book every other year, and it usually has "Harry Potter" in the title.

I can, however, always find time for a magazine. I have about twenty magazine subscriptions. I am a conflicted magazineaholic. I love 'em because they're bite-sized chunks of portable, disposable fun that requires very little mental investment. I hate 'em because they are meaningless, repetetive, catty, and written for the sensibility of a 13 year old.

They waste paper, clog landfills, make me feel alternately inadequate/fat/uninteresting/incharitable/unstylish, and are about as intellectually satisfying as eating a bag of Cheetos. As such, they are the perfect brain candy to offset the boredom of riding the stationary bike.

So in the spirit of shallowness, here are the mags I read, despise, and then despise myself for reading them:

In Style - I think this is secretly funded by an association of B-list celebrities in order to have a vehicle for free, fawning publicity. NOBODY really belives that Formerly Washed Up Middle Age Actor Who Lucked Onto A Hot TV Show regularly serves chowder to the homeless, do they? Plus, I have it on good authority that they make up their letters to the editor. Think about it. What normal human being really has the time to write a letter about how much they love Drew Barrymore's eye shadow?

People - More of the above. It also has the added downside of too many inspirational stories of hope featuring regular people. If I really cared about regular people and their problems, I'd pay more attention to the random bitching of my coworkers, which I can now hear in abundance now that they have remodeled our office to be a 'collaborative workspace' (read, 'no privacy').

Cookie - Dedicated to the idea of celebrating your children as a lifestyle accesories. Filled with ridiculously overpriced clothing and labor-intensive, time consuming quote-unquote kid-friendly yet healthy' recipes which have doubtless tortured many a Greenwich nanny. I mean, $200 Baby Phat sweaters for a toddler?

Better Homes & Gardens, Ladies Home Journal - If YOU want to use a doily to stencil a festive spring pattern on your wall, cheers to you. I hate the cheesy, cheery, cabbage-rose chintz aesthetic of their projects. I especially hate their ridiculously deliciously looking, hugely fattening recipes that make me even hungrier as I'm dripping sweat on the elliptical trainer. I read these with the knowledge that I am a complete and utter failure in the domestic arts.

Lucky- A magazine about shopping. Can't we figure that out for ourselves without supplemental research aids? Do I even need to rant further?

Vanity Fair - Presumptious, elitist, pretentious, America-bashing. And the articles are WAY too long - editorial self-indulgence masquerading under the guise of intellectism. Does anyone find Dominick Dunne to be relevant anymore? Or even interesting? I do like Annie Leibowitz' photo spreads though.

More- My hatred of this is complicated. I actually find the magazine to be intelligent, interesting, relevant to me, and well written. Why do I hate it the? Because their target audience is a "mature" (read, late 40's) woman. In this case I don't hate the magazine, I hate having to admit to myself that I am aging into this demographic cohort. No offense to my mature women friends...but I'm still only 37.

Time - the exact same news stories as Newsweek and US News & World Report. But they charge double the subscription price because they consider themselves a "brand name".

Runner's World, Health, and Self- I read, absorb, and then soundly ignore all of the fitness, nutrition, and training advice that I pretend to care so much about.

What do I actually LIKE reading? Mostly newspapers - the Wall Street Journal, our city Advocate for local news, the crossword in the USA today. For periodicals, there is only one magazine that I wholeheartedly love, and that is US Weekly.

They seem to write the magazine embracing the principle that they are not trying to stand for anything other than complete, unabashed fame-whoring. They seem to have just enough clout that they have access to actual celebrities to get the inside dirt. And I have a sneaking suspicion that they put this magazine together every week with tongue firmly in cheek. In Touch, Life & Style, OK, Star, and the rest are just left behind in their sparkly, celebrity-laden dust.

Ahhh... my new issue came. I can't wait to get back on the stationary bike.

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Another One Bites The Dust

I recently learned that yet another of my friends got divorced after nearly 14 years of marriage. This makes the success rate of my best friends' marriages about 50% - I guess this makes our group average. Some of them got divorced within a few years of marrying their college sweethearts; others lasted for a few years and are now toppling during the mythic 7-year itch window. I had one of my friends who just got re-married refer to her "starter marriage" with the same kind of fuzzy nostalgia some reserve for a beloved childhood pet.

Divorce is no big deal nowadays, right? Some fun facts:

- 41% of all first marriages bite dust after a median length of 8 years. 60% of second marriages end after about 7 years. Don't even bother with a third unless you have a good lawyer - 75% of those are destined to fail. (To quote Kanye in 'Golddigger' - "We want pre-nup! We want pre-nup!")

- Connecticut has the second lowest divorce rate of all U.S. states - 2.8% end in divorce in any given year. Must be our puritan heritage. Or the fact that people in Fairfield County don't want to dilute their assets through divorce - extramarital affairs are much cheaper. Unless you get caught.

- Sweden has the highest average divorce rate (over 50%); India, the lowest (1%). Is that because Sweden seems to have a high concentration of young, blonde, gorgeous, nubile, home-wrecking au pairs?

- The marriage of Scott Mckie and Victoria Anderson may not officially be the shortest on record (90 minutes), but the circumstances of their demise (click here to read about them) is certainly one of the most entertaining.

I'm not trying to be high and mighty or melodramatic, but as an only child from a 'broken home' herself - divorce sucks. I think people are trying to make some lemonade out of the lemons - throwing Divorce Parties, buying whimsical favors for post-divorce cleansing rituals (check out Penis Pinatas from the Divorce Party Supply Website) But that doesn't change the fact that it's a sad, lonely, emotionally damaging, and expensive time of people's lives. I am determined to NEVER put my own kids through that unless it is the absolute point of last resort. You will pry my husband from my cold, dead hands. (Or, you will pry his cold, dead hands from me. Yes Will, this means you.)

To my friends who got, are getting, or will eventually get divorced, I'm sorry you have to go through that. Especially those of you with kids - I salute you and am in awe of how you keep it all together as single moms or dads. I hope for each of you that someday you do find love again and buck the odds to make it last.

Or, at the very least, that you find your bliss in a lifestyle similar to my friend Karl the Perpetual Bachelor - lounging by the pool at the Hard Rock Hotel Las Vegas on Rehab Sunday, buying drinks for random, large-breasted local skanks. Rock on, Karl!

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One Thousand Miles

I started running in the summer of 2001 after my daughter was born. I took a break to balloon up and birth my second child in the spring of 2003. As soon as my son could safely be strapped in, I'd stuff the kids into my trusty double jogger and take 'em along. Some days it was the only place the kids would sleep.

I've never been really sure how far or how fast I've run, aside from a few scattered 5 & 10K races (best time: 46:10 for a 10K) - until I got the Nike+ kit about a year ago. Since then, I've tracked my runs by time, mileage, calories...and enjoyed the rah-rah encouragement of Lance Armstrong and Paula Radcliffe when I'd achieve a personal best time or distance. And now, I've passed a major mileage milestone. (Nice piece of alliteration, huh?)


One thousand miles; 126 runs. Average pace: 8:30 per mile, which translates to 8,513 minutes or the equivalent of nearly 6 full days. During those miles, I've wandered, worried, suffered, dreamed, schemed, observed the world around me, and incurred sunburns and chafing in unpleasantly unmentionable places. I've done about a third of those miles on the indoor track at the JCC, so I've run the equivalent of nearly 6,000 laps around that tiny track. No wonder I spend so much time staring at the pickup basketball games.

Since the milestone came on Academy Awards Sunday, I'd like to take a moment to thank all of those people, places and things that have empowered my running:

1) My husband Will, who watches the kids so I can hit the road (weather depending) and for whom I am trying to stay fit and remain (become?) a MILF into our golden years.

2) My job - for being stressful enough to force me to engage in regular strenuous physical activity to burn off frustration (the alternatives being alcoholism, Scientology, kicking dogs, or tearing up hotel rooms.

3) My kids - of course, they are the little loves of my lives. But like all kids, they can be such a pain in the ass at times. I am determined to stay healthy in order to live long enough to be a pain in THEIR ass someday.

4) My father in law, Jim - you've inspired the belief that bad knees be damned, I have still many miles in front of me.

5) My ass...I'm no Heidi Klum but after two pregnancies, I'm not displeased with its current shape, size, and elevation.

Running has become a part of my life, my identity, and my blood in a way that I never could have imagined. It's taught me to be proud of what my body is and what it can do, instead of worried about what it looks like and what other people think of it.

Maybe someday my kids will be running next to me. That would be welcome. But alone or with company, I hope I'll always have my runs...the sun on my back, the crisp air in my lungs. The knowledge that the faster I run, the cooler the breeze.

Thanks again, everyone.

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To Freeze An Egg

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak on a marketing innovation panel at the Harvard Business School's annual "Dynamic Women In Business" conference. (I was invited after most of the other more interesting and important women in my company had to decline.) Nonetheless, the prospect of a free trip to Boston was too good to pass up.

So I prepared my remarks and Q&A, booked my hotel, and piled the family in the minivan. (The kids love to travel- something about movies on Pay-Per-View and hotel room service mac-and-cheese makes them really, really happy).

The conference was great. Kick ass women speakers who delivered just the right mix of business savvy and personal anecdotes with wit and warmth. My panel went well - we got lots of questions from the audience, and the panel moderator invited me to speak again next year. On the family front, the kids and my husband spent the day at the New England aquarium and children's museum. So all good, right?

So what happened that is causing this rant? Well, nothing MAJOR. But I was given a gift bag after my panel. It contained various "women's interest" items such as a Tiffany silver pen (nice!) a new women's business magazine called Pink (good) some smelly hand lotion (meh) and a small mesh bag with an egg shaped piece of soap from "Extend Fertility" with a flyer inviting me to freeze my eggs for future reproductive usage (huh?)

I appreciate that this company thinks they've got the right target market...but how fracking PRESUMPTIOUS and in a way, condescending can you get? I'm also highly irritated that the conference organizers would allow those in there - it sends a work/life message completely opposite of what many of the speakers were trying to illustrate. Is it STILL expected that a 'dynamic woman in business' has to sacrifice a meaningful relationship or having children (or both) in order to get ahead?

I bet the gift bag at the "Macho Men Hedge Fund Managers Convention" has stuff like a Maxim, golf balls, some Cialis, Slim Jims, and a GPS watch or something like that. I guess in a world where Tony Randall can father kids at the ripe age of one hundred and twelve or however old he was, there's not much money to be made by guilting male CEOs into freezing their little swimmers.

By the way, Harvard Conference Organizers, if you happen to be reading this, I really want to be invited back next year. So I am TOTALLY JOKING. You know that, right?

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Activities I hope my kids don't want to participate in

As a mom I want my kids to be well rounded, and I try to be supportive of their interests. But there things that I just cross my fingers and hope that they don't want to do, just because I don't want to deal with the personal consequences of the activity.

For example: I hope my kids never want do hockey or figure skating - because I don't want to get up at the crack of dawn to take them to the ice rinks. And there are some sports (like football) that I just find brutal and boring and I don't relish the thought of having to spend my scarce free time sitting through the practices and games.

So in the spirit of complete selfishness, here's a list of activities that I am hoping mightily that my kids will not become interested in:




Cosmetology
Girl/Boy Scouts
Civil War re-enactments
Tuba lessons
Synchronized swimming
Wrestling
Flag corps/Baton twirling
Irish dancing
Anything related to Star Trek
Boggle tournaments
Young Republicans club
Curling

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The Unsung Glory of Middle Age Sports

I'm a serious runner. Been doing it since The Girl was born, took break when the boy came along, and since then, I've been running about 30 miles a week. But I'm also a complete weather wuss who won't run outside when the temperature drops below 40 and yet hates running on a treadmill. This leaves the track above the gymnasium at my local JCC as my only option. Only issue is that the track is 1/18th of mile. I run 8-10 miles per run... you do the math. It's about as close as I've ever come to understanding what a hamster must feel like.

So the other day my iPod had a bad shuffle (I think it got recently dumped, it was all quasi-alternative emo The OC kind of soundtracky stuff, big fat downer), but luckily, there was a pick-up game basketball game of middle-aged men in the lower gym. Now, even better would have been a pick up game of hot young male off-duty strippers, but you take what you get.

So I'm watching the guys, and finally a decent song kicks in. (I define a decent running song as anything with a driving hip-hop or techno beat, with lyrics that generally contain boasting and copious swearing). Thanks to my trusty Nike+ sensor, and the music, I blast out my next mile in 7:44, and am feeling pretty good about myself.

At that moment one of the guys (we'll call him Sheldon) catches my eye. I'm not sure if it was the t-shirt (Red Bull logo, completely soaked with sweat) his head (baldly glistening in the harsh gym lights) or his hair (that was primarily located on his back and bristling out from under the aforementioned t-shirt) that did it. But I'm watching him, and some other guy passes him the ball. The guy guarding him hustles up and gets all up in Sheldon's grill, and Shel kind of stumbles, fades away, and tosses the ball in a hope-for-the-heavens hook over his shoulder. And wouldn't you know? SWISH.

I think he got an ass-pat or two from his buddies for his prowess. But what really struck me was the momentary look of pure joy on his face. For that one shot, Sheldon wasn't thinking about the mis-labeled transactions he had to organize on his spreadsheet back at the office. He was thinking, 'Damn...I'm Michael Jordan.' And at the same time, I was thinking, 'maybe I'm not too old to run the marathon.'

So...not to get too "real men of genius" on you all, but to Sheldon: Master of the Misintentioned Basket: I salute you.

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My Not-Really-Near-Death Near Death Experience

OK - so a Thursday supposed-to-be-day trip to Chicago took a left turn into an unplanned overnight stay, thanks to a foot-of-snow-dump blizzard that was the actualization of the "light snow showers" on Yahoo weather.

So after a gut-busting expense account meal,the purchase of overpriced sundries from the Hotel Sofitel gift shop, and a sweaty nap, I arose at 4:30 a.m. to get the six o'clock flight. I had some naive idea that I would get home by 9am with enough time to do a quick workout and grab a shower before heading to the office at lunchtime.

Two hours, one 24oz Dunkin Donuts coffee, three de-icings, and one People Magazine later, we actually took off, heavy snow be damned.

So not long after takeoff we heard the typical ding...but then it continued to ding...ding...ding...and ding... On the ground, continuous dinging is annoying, on a plane, unsettling. Nonetheless I was pretty absorbed in the latest issue of US Weekly. Being so focused on Britney's latest antics, I didn't really notice anything amiss until the following sequence of events:


1) The running lights on the cabin floor and the lights over the emergency exits lit up and started blinking, accompanied by alternating dings and piercing beeps.

2) The flight attendant came RUNNING down the aisle from the back of the plane with a worried look on her face and a screwdriver (the tool, not the morning beverage) in her hand.

3) An acrid smell filled the plane, as the back of the main cabin filled up with smoke.


Then the captain, displaying a remarkable talent for understatement, came on the loudspeaker and with a Lumbergian cadence said, "Ummm...yeah, hello folks, the activity with the alarm system you're seeing is a little, yeah...unusual. We're gonna go ahead and and make an unscheduled landing in Detroit. Please finish your TPS reports and put away your electronic devices."

Well, panic panic panic blah blah blah, we did land safely. They checked out the plane and said that de-icing fluid had gotten into the vents and was what caused all of the problems. After two hours of inspection and maintenance, they herded us back on the SAME plane...and 20 minutes into the next leg of the flight, the SAME damn things - the smoke, the dinging, the worried flight attendants, the panic panic panic blah blah blah - all happened again. The last straw was their refusal to come around with the beverage cart, meaning we had to endure the noise and nervousness without benefit of self-medicating cocktails.

On the bright side: since we had to make a second 'unscheduled landing' at LaGuardia (our final destination) they allowed us to land right away instead of going into the holding pattern that all the other planes were in. I left my hotel room at 4:30 am, and arrived at Laguardia 4:30 pm, several pounds lighter thanks to all of the nervous sweat that I excreted on the flights.

But my story has a heartwarming end - after a nastily worded email to the complaints department (they don't seem to give out phone numbers on the American website any more) - I was awarded 10,000 'bonus miles' (their term) for my 'inconvenience' (also theirs). That's like 1 mile for each beep and ding I had to listen to on the flights.

Now THAT's customer service.

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Musings from Sundance

So I went to the Sundance film festival for a work event thing (Tava launch). Did a little snowboarding at the Canyons, but did not actually attend any screenings as I did not possess the requisite clout or connections get a ticket to anything that any non-movie industry human would actually want to watch.

I was offered a ticket to the “Trash: Earth in Crisis” documentary (which, ironically, the organizers promoted by handing out flyers and plastic buttons on street corners). I chose to skip it – I hate vegetable movies (you know, the kind that you feel obligated to watch because they’re “good for you” and you’ll “learn something”. I went shopping instead. I bought this tan strappy trapeze-style shirt that seemed very cute and trendy and flattering when the salesperson in the ultra-exclusive boutique was egging me on. I have since come to realize that it makes me look about six months pregnant and utterly stupid to boot. I’m sure it will fetch top dollar at the Salvation Army shop, so all is not lost.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed peeping the celebs on the streets of Park City. My first sighting was MashleyKate Olsen (I think it was the Mary Kate version but I’m not entirely sure). I got all excited because I saw her in a café and I thought for a minute that I might actually see her eat something. It was kind of like the feeling an anthropologist must have when they find out a bird they thought was extinct was building a nest in their chimney. But my hopes were dashed when she ordered a soy latte, lit up a smoke, and tottered off through the snowbanks in her ridiculously exaggerated skyh-high thick black platforms, looking like some sort of deranged blonde European garden gnome.

I also saw Matthew Perry, Jack Black, Perez Hilton (the ugly blogger guy) Matthew Broderick, Danny Glover, Mischa Barton, John Stamos, and Ian Ziering (the elders among us will remember him from 90210, the youngsters (and those with poor taste in reaity shows) from one of the myriad versions of Dancing with the quote unquote stars. I was also just a few people away from getting into the Fifty Cent party when the Park City fire marshall shut the place down. I hope Fiddy was still able to enjoy his evening without me.

We had some cool concert stuff – we hosted a Sara Barielles (of one-hit ‘Love Song’ fame) show, and another concert with One Repulic (your typical emo/alternative/rocky sort of deal) and Keri Hilson (whose biggest claim to fame to date was writing ‘gimmie more’ for Britney). The shows were good, I liked Sara quite a bit but since we already have a Fiona Apple, a Tori Amos, an Alicia Keys, and about a hundred other indie-folky-piano playing songstresses running amok, I’m not sure about her longevity potential past this one hit song that she currently has.

Keri Hilson – wow. She just looked like a fierce Amazon. Just huge, aggressive breasts (that appeared to be real), and legs like bam stuffed into some sort of latex black catsuit getup. I can’t recall a note of what she actually sang because I was so busy being fascinated/repulsed by her appearance. The men in my group agreed she was hot in a scary kind of “find me attractive or I’ll f&%$ you up” kind of way. Again, the singing, don’t remember so much, so good luck with that, Keri Hilson!

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My Wine Label

Manager Dad and I were in Vegas a few months ago. We went there to renew our wedding vows in because we had been married 7 years and have not cheated on each other yet. The ceremony at the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel. Their Elvis looks NOTHING like the king but I highly recommend the "One Song Package" where for only $275, you get Elvis doing the ceremony PLUS one song at the "reception", with a photographer and free live webcam streaming thrown in. Klassy! (Ironic use of the "K" intended).

So we were celebrating after the event (which a bunch of our friends came to, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation, I got all cheesed out and emotional when we were in the middle of the vow renewal.) We ordered a bottle of wine, which was out of stock, so our waiter substituted this one instead at the same price. It was from Lamborn Family Vineyards and it was a zinfandel and it was delicious. It might have been the company (the man I LOOOOVE) the location ( Foundation room at the House of Blues on top of Mandalay Bay, looking out at the whole twinkly strip) or the fact that the wine we'd had prior was from Jerry Garcia vineyards, and it tasted about as good as his lungs and liver probably looked around the time of his death.

At any rate, I enterprisingly went online to get some more, and found that they were only sold in 7 stores around the country. One of them was in San Francisco, where I had to go on business trip. Being 1) extremely cheap and b) a master time-waster, I decided to take a walk from my meeting to the wine shop and pick it up instead of having it shipped to me at home. I wound up passing the office for a cool marketing agency and I wound up hiring them and falling head over heels in friend love with their whole staff, and all kinds of nice things came into my life as a result of this bottle.

And then I found out that they were having a contest to name their next vintage of Zinfandel. I cranked out this little ditty, which made the top 5 submissions. So the Lamborns put this to a vote within the online community. I put out the call to my evil minions (many) and my friends and relatives (few) to go and vote for my story... and viola, darn it if I didn't win!!!

On day I left for Sundance, I got a note from Brian Lamborn (the son of the owner) with one of the labels. I attached it for your viewing pleasure. They'd just bottled it (not yet released) but here is the first preview of the new Zinfandel - the 2006 Lamborn "Serendipity" Zinfandel.

Buy lots of freakin' bottles. (They're only making a few thousand cases and when they're gone, they're gone). And oh by the way, can you send me a bottle when you do? because the Lamborns don't ship to Connecticut. Nice people, but tey need to stop paying attention to details like "federal law."

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