Keep Calm and Carry On

If I'm honest, I will say that things haven't been easy lately. Stress has abounded and relief can be hard to come by in my life. It sometimes feels like it is impossible to be happy when everything is completely miserable around me.

While I'm not above throwing myself a large pity party, it can be quite tiresome to spend your time wallowing in misery. But, how do you tell your head to do what your heart wants? As with most of my best ideas, this one occured to me in the midst of a long solo run on a rainy day in December: I was going to tap into my inner peace and put one foot in front of the other, just as I have with every race in my life.

Have you seen the "Keep Calm and Carry On" posters? They recently made a resurgance in 2000 after being created in 1939 by the British Government during the start of World War II. The poster was never used, but its original intent was to was as a "last case scenario" to be used only should the Nazis succeed in invading Great Britain, in order to stiffen resolve. You can buy prints of the poster on just about anything, from framed artwork to a baby onesie.

Despite undertones in what could be rightfully considered political propaganda, isn't it lovely? Though simple in nature, it serves as a reminder that sometimes all we can do is take a deep breath and continue to live our lives. Deep down, there isn't much in this world that we have control over but ourselves--our outlook, our attitude, our thoughts. Others can take everything away from us and work to make our lives full of misery, but they'll never take our spirit and they cannot touch our minds.

After my run was over and I headed back to home, I did so with a smile. It will be my little secret, I thought, that deep down my blood runs cool and my head will be held high despite the mania surrounding me. That is my choice, and now it's my vow to myself.

This morning I all but forgot about my little promise to myself until I started up the car and headed in to work. That promise to myself stuck and I spent the day enjoying my newfound sense of peace.

Playing favorites

Whether we care to admit it or not, it is nearly impossible not to play favorites in life. Teachers have their favorite students, mothers have their favorite children (right, mom?) and even dogs have their favorite toy. It’s just a fact of life. As for me, I have a lot of favorite things, places and people. Here’s where I grossly lack impartiality:

• Favorite drink: coffee. At home: Starbucks Breakfast Blend. On the go: Tim Horton’s Hazelnut coffee.

• Favorite candy: candy corn. It’s the only candy I eat really, but the fact that I completely gorge myself each year makes up for that very fact. It’s a good thing I can readily access this sugar and food coloring bonanza just once a year, otherwise I fear my skin might turn orange.

• Favorite day: Saturday. On no uncertain terms am I a morning person, but I really, really love Saturday mornings. My personal heaven: wearing pajamas, drinking coffee, snuggling with the dog and reading the newspaper.

• Favorite store: Target. I love the prices, the atmosphere and the general awesomeness of this mega retailer. I also love that I walk past hotdogs, popcorn and Slush Puppies on my way to the clothing section.

• Favorite artistic masterpiece: “The Singing Butler” by Jack Vettriano. If you’ve never seen it, you must. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and I have the perfect spot for it in on a blank wall in my home. Several years ago, I found an oversized reproduction of this painting at a Kirkland’s outlet store for a mere $50 and passed it up. I’ve rued that day ever since.

• Favorite flower: Blue hydrangeas. See my oversized wedding bouquet: ‘nuff said.

• Favorite wine: Blue Nun QUALITÄTSWEIN. No, I do not have any idea how to pronounce that. You’ll find it in the “German” section of the wine store in a lovely blue bottle with a nun holding a basket on the front. No, that’s not a joke. It’s sweet, refreshing and costs roughly $7.

A sucker is born...

Living "out in the country" as we do, you tend to have limited options when it comes to television and Internet access. As for our family, we're stuck with my favorite outdoor decoration, a satellite dish. Make that two satellite dishes, to be exact. Don't get me wrong, I love the modern invention and those hardworking men and women who make sure something is orbiting the earth at all times, but sometimes it drives me crazy.

I'm willing to bet that those satellite people at {Company name edited for fear of removal of services and lack of clear picture} love us. I mean, we shell out some serious dough to be contributing members of modern society. Then, we have our uncontrollable obsessions with shows like Curb Your Enthusiasm that appear only on networks that cost $15 extra each month.

Last month, my better half and I bit the bullet and ordered this premium channel, shelling out a mere (additional) $15 a month to watch the Seinfeld reunion on said beloved show. It was beautiful, it was hilarious and now it's over. 

Show's over? Well, then we don't need HBO anymore. It's all automated (I didn't even have to talk to a real person to sign up for HBO!) so I'll just give that crazy machine with the lady voice that makes me want to scream and tell her to cancel it. Right? Wrong.

Crazy machine with the lady voice: "Please tell me what you'd like to do today."

Me: "CANCEL HBO!!" (that's me screaming so she can understand me)

Crazy: "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you. Did you say you want to cancel HBO."

Me: "I did."

Crazy: "I'm sorry I didn't understand you. Please use commands like, 'Yes' and 'No' "

Me: "YES YES YES YES YES YES"

Crazy: "I understand. You want to cancel HBO. I'll transfer you to a helpful associate."

Me: "ARG."

After explaining to another lady (this one not a robot with a lady voice) that I want to cancel HBO, she reacted as though I told her my dog was just hit by a car. "OH NO! Awww, is something wrong?" said said like we were childhood pals.

Sorry, but that's misuse of the term "AWWWW" when I tell you I don't want HBO anymore, sister. She then wanted to be sure, for good measure, that I realized how many exciting boxing matches and award-winning documentaries were on HBO.

Wait, what? What am I doing? Boxing AND documentaries--I like those things. Sweaty men and informational programs are the height of my intellectual development. Then, as if she was reading from a script, she followed it up with "What can I do to make you change your mind?" I said, "Give me free HBO." That, I'm afraid was on her script and after stuttering a bit she said, "How does $5 off a month sound?"

That my dear, does not sound like free HBO. After that, her script ran out and she gave into my will. Good thing I don't fall for marketing ploys and faux sympathy.

Leaving your mark

I've posted on this topic before, but it never fails to intrigue me: scars. There's just something beautiful about the marks left on our body from truly living and experiencing life. Scars are proof that we've lived and survived, and that's something amazing. I was again reminded of this topic after reading the article below by Padma Lakshmi, host of Bravo's Top Chef and a former model. She has a very noticeable, sizeable scar running down her right arm and does not cover or hide it from the world, which is quite amazing. See her article from the April, 2001 issue of Vogue below and prepare to be amazed.

Almost flawless


by Padma Lakshmi

Can a terrible scar suddenly become a thing of beauty?

It depends, discovers Padma Lakshmi, on who's looking at it.

The accident happened on a Sunday afternoon filled with sunshine. I was fourteen years old and on my way back with my parents from a Hindu temple in Malibu. The traffic was quite heavy for a Sunday. I remember thinking how strange that was. Then there was a loud bang, and I looked out the windshield and saw nothing but the prettiest blue sky. I thought I was dreaming because I'd been nodding off, but then I realized we were part of that blue sky. Our red Ford Mercury sedan was airborne. Flying in a car felt like an exhilarating hallucination, an unbelievable ride that oddly remains one of the most beautiful images in my memory.

We were in the air for what seemed like a very long time, flying off the freeway and 40 feet down an embankment. We hit a tree dead-on and it stopped our fall. Blood, glass, dirt, and leaves were everywhere. We seemed to have been buried alive. The tree trunk had fallen directly on top of our car. I remained conscious, covered in glass, for the 40 minutes it took for the paramedics and firelighters to get through the traffic. They used the "jaws of life"—giant metal upfront cutters—to open the car roof like a sardine can. A helicopter landed in the middle of the highway to take my parents away. An ambulance carried me to the hospital. I finally passed out. When Iwoke up hours later, I had tubes coming out of several places in my body. My right arm had been shattered and my right hip had been fractured. After surgery, I regained the use of both of them but was left with a long scar on my arm. It was half an inch wide and seven inches long. I wished I’d had a conversation with the doctor and asked him to cut on the underside of the arm instead, where the scar would have been hidden. Now it was too late. But my parents and I had been fortunate. We all survived.

When I first got the scar, I was self-conscious about it. I perfected a casual pose that hid it under my left hand and thumb when my arms were crossed. But I also knew my scar was a symbol of my survival. The surgery that put it there had saved my arm. After nearly a year of physical therapy in the mornings before high school, I could once again stir pasta, dance, embrace others, throw a Frisbee or football and, in countless other ways, be a normal American teenager.

Two months before the accident, my mother and I had met a photographer who begged her to allow him to take photos of me for his book. Grudgingly, my mother had held the light reflector for him under the Santa Monica pier. But she disapproved of what was going on. After all, I was only fourteen. The photographer promised my mother not to show the pictures to any modeling agency unless she agreed. A year after the accident, we stumbled on the pictures in a drawer. Now that I had a caterpillar of scarred skin crawling down my arm, it seemed ridiculous to imagine that any agency would be interested in such an imperfect specimen. My mother, I felt, was secretly relieved.

I went to college on the East Coast. I had always stood out for my height, my skin color, my very long hair. But now, all people noticed was the scar. "It's such a shame," they would say. "She's so pretty, she could have modeled." It angered me that people saw me as a ruined beauty. Inside, I felt I was pretty. But while I loved fashion—I knew about everything from Elsa Schiaparelli and Chanel to Halston andJohn Galliano—I never thought I was pretty enough to model, even without my scar. The closest I had come to seeing someone like myself in a magazine was Yasmeen Ghauri on a Cosmopolitan cover in a pink satin dress. Still, I envied those women and kept a secret list of photographers I dreamed of working with: Steven Meisel, Irving Penn, Peter Lindbergh, and, of course, Annie Leibovitz, all the while pretending the scar didn't matter. I was concentrating on higher things.

Then I was cast in a college play. The director worried that my scar might be distracting, so someone in the theater department who was good with makeup offered to help. Night after night, she covered the scar with pancake makeup and powder. Onstage, I was liberated. I felt like another person: not just in character but as another me, who didn't have a scar. By the end of the run, I had learned to put the makeup on myself.

In the last semester of my senior year, I went to study in Spain and was "discovered." An agent spotted me in a Madrid bar (I was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt) and asked if I'd ever thought of modeling. "No," I said, "I'm in college." As if that made me superior. "We have many college girls who model part-time," he answered. The next day my friend Santiago, who was determined to meet models through me, tricked me into going into the model agency under the pretext of saying hello to a friend. At the agency, they insisted on measuring, weighing, poking, and prodding me until I couldn't stand it anymore." I have a scar," I announced. No one was listening. "A very big scar," I boomed. I pulled up the sleeve of my turtleneck and revealed my secret. Then there was an interminable silence. Then Josette, the owner of the agency, said, “Have you seen a doctor about that?”

I felt awful and hated Santiago for taking me there. The phone rang. Josette answered it, then asked Santiago something in Spanish. "We're going to Elle magazine!” he cried out. After that, I did jobs where I wore winter clothes or used makeup on my arm. In one case the client even sprang for retouching. By the end of the summer, an Italian agent paid for my ticket to Milan. My first year in Italy, I got modest work as a fitting model for Gianfranco Ferre, Prada, and a catalog or two, but nothing more. Then I went to see Helmut Newton's agent, who took Polaroids of me in my undergarments. I had been modeling for a year and was immune to the humiliation of being photographed in my underwear. But I hated such appointments because I was very sensitive about my scar, which had become a professional problem. I knew I would get only so far with this aesthetic handicap. (Also, the waif phenomenon was in full swing—and I was a voluptuous 34C-24-34.) As I undressed behind a partition, I told the agent about the scar. "Don't worry, Helmut likes scars," he said. Soon afterward, my booker told me Newton wanted me for a privately commissioned photo, but that it involved full nudity. I agreed, but a few days before the shoot I began feeling more and more anxious. I had never posed completely nude, and two days before the appointment I did something I've never done since. I canceled the job. Needless to say, my agent was furious.

That week I made an appointment to undergo chemical dermabrasion to take some of the dark pigment out of the scar. I was frightened. A doctor in Los Angeles had once stuck a six-inch needle under the surface of the scar and shot it with cortisone. This made the scar flat but left me terrorized. In Milan, another doctor treated it, inch by inch. As anyone who has had dermabrasion will tell you, it's excruciatingly painful. I had never known such agony, even in the car accident itself. But it actually worked. The scar peeled to a neutral color quite close to the rest of my arm. This would be much easier to cover.

Then a miraculous thing happened. Helmut wanted to book me again, for a Lavaz-za calendar (with only partial nudity). I said yes. When I arrived at the shoot, I found that one of my closest friends, Antonio Gazzola, had been booked as the makeup artist. His presence was a good omen. In those early days, he was somehow always there at the right moment. Backstage, he used to whisper to me in Italian that I was just as beautiful as all the other models and that my scar made me special. He knew how anxious I was about the scar and would tell stylists they didn't have to check the sleeves on my rack, because he would make it disappear. Of course they always gave me the clothes with long sleeves.

When Antonio was done, Helmut came to say hello. He treated me calmly and comfortably, as a grandfather might. I began to feel at ease in my own skin; but when he caught a glimpse of my arm, he shrieked, "What have you done?" "Didn't they tell you about my scar?" I began to panic. "Yes, yes," he answered, "but why have you erased a part of it? You've ruined the beauty of it. Antonio, get your paints out and restore that mark to what it was."

I couldn't believe it. I felt like a queen. I can still remember Antonio smiling with a brush between his teeth as he touched up the scar, adding wine-colored lipstick to the lightened areas. "Crazy business," he murmured under his breath. He knew what I didn't: When the designers found out I had shot with Helmut because of my scar, not in spite of it, they would all want to use me. Already models with tattoos and piercings were showing up in American ads for Calvin Klein, and Europe often followed America's lead. Helmut would give everyone in Milan and Paris the courage to use me without camouflaging my scar, Antonio said.

He was right. I was soon booked for an eighteen-page shoot for Italian Elle. Then I shot a campaign with Aldo Fallai and was booked for many shows in Paris, from Ungaro to Sonia Rykiel. At the shows they still checked my sleeves—but now they were checking to make sure the sleeves were short, so that everyone would know who I was under all that makeup. Because I spoke Italian, I was a favorite of the news crews that covered the shows for the style-conscious Italian media. Eventually, RAI television asked me to join the cast of Domenica In, the biggest show on Italian television. I asked the director about showing my scar on TV. "Everyone knows that Padma has a scar," he said. "Don't cover it up."

In my career as an actress, the scar is no longer an issue. I cover it when necessary, but I prefer not to, especially in my private life. I love my scar. It is so much a part of me. I’m not sure I would remove it even if a doctor could wave a magic wand and delete it from my arm. The scar has singled me out and made me who I am. “Everyone knows that Padma has a scar." Now I know what Antonio whispered to me is true. The scar does make me special. I've started seeing my body as a map of my life. I can tell a story about every imprint life has made on my skin: the mosquito bites on my back from when I slept under the Sardinian sun the summer I first fell in love, the scrapes on my leg from the rocks in the Cuban sea during the filming of my first movie. In her introduction to Women, by Annie Leibovitz, Susan Sontag asks, "A photograph is not an opinion. Or is it?" I believe it most certainly is. A photograph can change the way you look at yourself, though it's more complicated than that. Perhaps it was under the right light, or the right lens, that I really saw myself for the first time. I have Helmut Newton to thank for that. People have told me that my scar makes me seem more approachable, more vulnerable; that it inspires a certain tenderness. Ironically, the greatest gift fashion has given me is the courage to expose what is most vulnerable, to be proud of my body. Including my scar.

I forgive you

“Not forgiving someone is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” –Anonymous


I’ve been angry, upset and feeling quite defeated lately. Some days, it feels like I’m insanely running in circles and hoping that on my next pass things will be completely different. I don’t know why I’m angry and I don’t know who I’m angry at, that’s what makes it so crazy. I spend my days feeling like I just lost an important fight and all that’s left for me to do is fold into a ball and give up.

I haven’t always felt like this. No, this feeling just crept up; quietly consumed me and I became its host, like some terrible parasite. “Those people” I tell myself, they are the ones to blame. They’re the ones who refuse to support us, who assume we’re liars and pray each night for us to fail. It’s them I am so angry at; they’re the ones who are ruining my existence. It’s they who are responsible for all the zits on my face and every canker sore in my mouth. THEY did this to ME.

It’s a horrible thing, blaming your misery on someone else; someone whose name you don’t even know, whose face you couldn’t pick out of a crowd. The fact is, they have nothing to do with how I feel. The question I fret over now is, when did I let them in? What day was it when I decided that I was going to let them hurt me? Was it a warm, sunny Tuesday or a cold, miserable Friday? Maybe they crept upon me while I was sleeping, defenseless and calm, silently laughing as they invaded my head. When did I become so weak?

On an incredibly long (and today, painful) run yesterday, it dawned on me: it’s not about me. These people, the ones that hate me; it’s not me they hate. It’s them—I’m just an easier target. I knew what I had to do, I knew there was only one way that I was going to stop being so damn angry; I was going to forgive them. I was going to tell them that I forgive their ignorance, their hatred, their lacking ability to see the future and I was going to stop letting them make my wonderful life completely miserable. They aren't sorry, but I forgive them.

Of all the things in this world I fear, losing someone I love to a tragedy is the most severe I can imagine. Whether it be a drunk driver or a home invasion, my greatest fear, my most severe horror, would be to suddenly lose a loved one. I can’t imagine the pain, fear and anger those left behind feel when something like that happens. How could they not hate the person who ripped a hole in their still-beating heart, those poor people who are left behind to pick up the pieces? Nothing is more amazing to me than when those who survived, those who are left with the pain of losing someone they love, forgive the person who did this to them. They look them in the eye, forgive them and only then can they move on with their lives.

If I don’t do this one thing for myself, I realized, I would spend the rest of my life being no better than those I once hated. For that, I think I owe myself an apology.

What I know for sure

Ellen DeGeneres was on Oprah yesterday and I was touched by how honest, self-depreciating and hilarious she truly is. It's refreshing to see someone who is so wildly successful be so very humble and down to earth. In the December issue of O magazine, she wrote Oprah's "What I know for sure" column, it's both touching and quite funny:

What Ellen DeGeneres Knows for Sure


(She Thinks)

1. My home address. But I'm not printing it here. Nice try, Oprah.

2. I know that "personality can open doors, but only character can keep them open." And I know that for sure because I read it on the sign at the dry cleaner's.

3. I forgot what number 3 is.

4. Sometimes I forget things.

5. I'm sure I'm good at making lists.

By the way, I should point out that there are things I know for sure and things I don't know for sure. Also, there are things I wish I never knew. Like did you ever see that Primetime report about hotel rooms and what's on the bedspreads? Exactly.

Actually, there's nothing I know for sure because I know for sure that things change.

For a long time I thought I knew for sure who I was. I grew up in New Orleans and became a comedian. And there was everything that came along with that. The nightclubs. The smoking. The drinking. Then I turned 13.

While I was doing stand-up, I thought I knew for sure that success meant getting everyone to like me. So I became whoever I thought people wanted me to be. I'd say yes when I wanted to say no, and I even wore a few dresses. And it worked. I got my own sitcom.

The show was very successful. I had everything I'd hoped for, but I wasn't being myself. So I decided to be honest about who I was. It was strange: The people who loved me for being funny suddenly didn't like me for being…me.

I had a really tough time for a few years. My show was gone. My phone wasn't ringing. There wasn't one job offer. And at that point, I thought I knew for sure that I wouldn't work in Hollywood again.

Eventually, I decided to go back to how I started my career, and I wrote an HBO special. Then I got my talk show. And look at me now…I'm on the cover of O. And that's the highest honor we give in this country.

I know for sure I would never change any of the hard times I went through in my life. Because it was in those times that I grew the most and gained the most perspective.

It's our challenges and obstacles that give us layers of depth and make us interesting. Are they fun when they happen? No. But they are what make us unique. And that's what I know for sure…I think.

On the Path

If you hope to expand

You should first learn to contract.

If you hope to become strong
You should first understand weakness in yourself.

If your ambitions are to be exalted
Humiliation should always follow.

If you hold fast to something
It will surely be taken away from you.

This is the operation of the subtle law of the universe.

The law of the universe is subtle,
But it can be known.

The soft and the meek can overcome the hard and strong.

The true strength of a country or a person is not on the outside.

Just as the fish cannot leave the deep,
One must never stray from one’s true nature.

-From the Complete Works of Lao Tzu

Grand Funk Railroad

“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.”


- Albert Einstein

I’ve been in a real funk lately; I’m tired, I’m cranky and really just unmotivated. My laundry room is overtaken with piles of both clean and dirty clothing and my desk at work is being consumed en masse by piles of paper. Some days, I feel like I’m a salmon, trying my hardest to swim against the current to some unknown prize awaiting me upstream—all while spectators on the sidelines spit obscenities at me, daring me to justify my position.

When things are rough, it’s easy for us to forget about how wonderful our lives are—especially while watching the evening news. I still have a home, a husband, a job and a refrigerator filled with food. Even when the future seems uncertain, we all need a rock to cling to—even if we are our own rock. Disappointment, unfortunately, is a part of life. People who achieve great things are separated by those who give in to defeat by one small but meaningful gift; fortitude. The Beatles received countless rejection letters from radio stations who weren’t interested in their music, saying the world wasn’t ready for their “rock n’ roll” sound. What would the world look like, I wonder, if those who were told “No” on more than one occasion began to believe what their opponents said?

When life throws stones at us, it’s important to realize that someone is trying to tell us something. Perhaps it’s a reminder to savor the good times, or a message to just slow down. Regardless of the reason, sometimes slowing down and taking stock is necessary. For me, it’s been a hard lesson learned. You see, I never slow down—ever. I’m happy while in the midst of perpetual motion, but find great agony in being stagnant. My life is planned to a T and diverting from that plan is just plain scary. What would happen if I didn’t walk the straight line, following the rules and doing what I thought was necessary?

Although it might seem inconsequential, I tested my theory recently by doing something that truly scares me: not exercising for two weeks straight. Frightening, I know. If you know me, though, you’d know that exercise is the cornerstone of my sanity. You’d also know that I secretly fear that the world will come to an end (or my body will turn to 95% fat) if I don’t do something that involves rigorous physical activity for at least 1 hour, 6 days a week. Having an extreme “need” or compulsion to do something is never beneficial—even if the act itself is.

Allow me to be the first to say that it was hard, it was really hard. It’s not like I just sat on the couch for two weeks, but I didn’t undergo my normal 4 mile runs or hour-long weight training sessions. Surprisingly, my body didn’t turn to mush and I actually found other tasks to complete like working in the garden or taking Rudi for a long walk. It was, I dare say, relaxing.

Regardless of what it is you do to remain sane, sometimes you can find sanity in letting it go—even if it’s just for a moment.

Pride Skin

As a child, I was completely consumed by horses. I even wrote my own “horse book” in a spiral notebook, complete with magazine collages and short stories and poems about horses. You could say it was the beginning of a love affair with writing.


Now that I’m an adult, I still have a great fascination with horses. I often find myself entranced by them as Rudi and I take our daily walk by the horse pasture down the road. There’s just something about them that puts me under a spell. I read once that when a horse is injured and their skin is cut, the scar tissue that grows over that wound is known as “pride skin.” How wonderful it is to think that our scars, which we often find great shame in, should really evoke a sense of pride.

It’s nearly impossible to go through life without scars. Just face it—you’re going to fall, you’re going to injure yourself and it’s going to leave a mark. However painful or embarrassing they might be, you’ll always remember how your scars came to exist. Our scars have a story to tell and a memory to evoke, whether we like it or not. They’re never pretty and leave your body changed permanently, but they mean something.

For me, my scars exist as a constant reminder of what my future might look like if I’m not careful. Most of my scars are precautions of the slicing and dicing variety made by a dermatologist. Having a great tan became an almost-obsession not long ago, and now I’m paying the price with practically annual biopsies of moles and the possibility of melanoma. My arms, legs, back and neck are all kissed with scars—some more severe than others. They are all thanks to suspect moles on my now pale skin, reminding me how foolish it is to bathe in the sun.

Granted, I have a family history of freckle abundance and am practically the poster child for necessary sun etiquette: fair skin, freckle-prone, blonde hair and blue eyes. All a dermatologist has to do is glance my direction and then begin to rattle off the many reasons I need to stay out of the sun and slather 4786243 SPF on my body. I have a lot of freckles and I make the doctor earn that $15 co-pay each time I visit as they photograph and create extensive diagrams of my natural body art. I even have freckles in fun places, like on the palm of my right hand and the bottoms of my feet. In grade school, my best friend also had a freckle on her palm and we’d joke that we had maps on our hands and pretend to give directions to our homes using freckles as reference points. See, freckles can be fun!

It’s not that I don’t like my freckles—I just struggle with the concept of what they potentially mean for me. Are they landmines just waiting for me to step in the wrong spot or harmless, but sometimes obnoxious, dandelions growing in the yard? If I had a scar for every freckle on my body, I don’t think I’d have much skin left—and that is what I find scary.

I sometimes gaze admiringly at people who have great tans; they look fantastic. I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness, though. Do they realize what they’re doing to themselves? Will it hit them on some idle Thursday afternoon that life was bigger than having a fantastic tan? Or will they cry in regret 20 years from now in the mirror, lamenting their deep wrinkles and bad choices?

These things seem to come in waves, spinning in cycles as the year’s progress. Years ago, being pale was seen as a thing of great beauty and status. Those who were pale were wealthy; they spent their days indoors and in the shade as their tan counterparts slaved away in the fields. As time wore on, being tan became a thing of status—luxury, even. It was a sign of having the funds to take a lavish vacation, the spare time to lay in the sun or the wads of cash to visit a tanning salon. These days, our paranoid health-conscious world warns us of the dangers of sun exposure, creating bigger and better sunscreen to save us from impending doom. Our affinity for big hats and sunscreen has even led to a mass, nation-wide Vitamin D deficiency.

In the end, I realize that my beauty doesn’t come from tanned skin—it comes from being smart enough to know when to stop. Sometimes, we have to endure a little pain to get the message across. For now, I’ll slather on the Helioplex-infused 100 SPF and look to my scars for inspiration; now that’s something to be proud of.

Cool Customer

It is not in my nature to let others see me sweat; it’s just not how I operate. It’s partly my nature, but mostly my job that has turned me into a “let’s look at the bright side” kind of girl. You’ll never see my eyes tearing up as I run from the room—I save any tear shedding for when I go home. I’m the person sticking their finger in the dam while versing others on what great craftsmanship the structure has and how wonderful the men and women who constructed it all those years ago must have been. That doesn’t usually leave time for me to freak out about the impending doom that lies ahead.

Being in PR, as I am, one realizes quickly how important it is to not only be the voice of reason, but to look the part in the face of disaster. I often liken those in this field to a hybrid of an actor and a magician. They call you to look this way at something bright and shiny, all in an attempt to distract you from the disaster the other way. PR professionals are also the people who expertly craft messages when bad things happen and coach those who will be delivering them in front of a captive audience. Next time disaster hits, (which, lately it seems to happen daily) take a good look at the individual delivering the news. Watch their eyes, hand gestures; facial expressions and tone; all while remembering that each was very carefully orchestrated. You aren’t supposed to notice, that’s what makes it so fascinating.

There’s a distinct difference between who writes the message and who delivers it---they aren’t usually the same person. Any CEO, spokesperson or leader is often just the messenger, not the wordsmith. People forget this, because consideration is never given to the possibility of individuals scheming behind the scenes. Sure, the President is saying it, and obviously approved of it, but someone else stayed up late the night before, drinking Red Bull and proofreading until the early hours of the morning.

As someone who has always loved to write, sometimes it’s easier to write knowing that you aren’t the person who will ultimately deliver the message. There’s just not as much pressure involved when you realize you don’t have to speak those words—you are just the artist crafting them behind the scenes.

If you were to ask my co-workers if I’m constantly repeating anything, they’d say:

It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it

No matter where you go and what you do, you are a representative of this organization

I’m fairly certain I annoy everyone with my unnecessary repetitiveness, but I think the world could benefit from (and avoid a lot of undue drama) if they just remember these things. People often forget that words do matter—and they do hurt. Whoever came up with the “sticks and stones” adage, in my opinion, just wanted to come up with a catchy phrase to convince the playground bully that their feelings weren’t hurt. I say, you aren’t fooling anyone.

C'mon get happy

When things get crappy, I find myself scrambling to surround myself with things that make me feel better. Regardless of how you feel or the day you’ve just had, there are always things that will eternally make you smile, if only for a moment.
Here’s my list:
Puppies that look like Rudi: they always make me smile and usually make me (and my carpet) happy that I don’t have a puppy anymore.

A medium hazelnut coffee (with one Splenda) from Tim Horton’s: For $1.35, this cup of happiness opens a myriad of possibilities for the day ahead.
A refrigerator filled with fresh fruits & veggies: I feel a great sense of calm when I can open the fridge and an abundant, colorful selection of nature’s bounty is staring back at me.
A long bike ride to a place I’ve never been before: I’m a total creature of habit, but heading out on a 10-mile plus bike ride with Adam to someplace new really excites me. The random unleashed dogs that nip at our heels don’t, but it’s just part of the experience. Besides, isn’t that what mace is for?
A Blue Moon draft beer with a fresh slice of orange: Post-college, I’m an incredibly cheap date. However, I have never stopped loving my very favorite adult beverage. Throw in an outdoor patio and you should just hope I don’t pass out from excitement.
Reminiscing with old friends: There’s just something incredibly magical about meeting up with good friends from your past. I love the feeling of sharing stories and laughs with a group of people who left a lasting mark on your life, even if you only see them once a year.
Surprises: It’s pretty hard to sneak anything past me (because I’m so damn nosy) so when I’m genuinely surprised, it’s a pretty big deal.
Finishing a complicated project: As intense weekend warriors, Adam and I tackle quite a few in depth projects each year. Often, we start a project and it takes a while for us to see the finish line. OK, so maybe the bathroom we tore apart over a year ago is pushing the concept of “a while,” but you get the idea. The extended timeline just makes the victory that much sweeter, really.
Lying in bed before drifting off to sleep: Regardless of the day you just had, you always find yourself back in the same place you started at the end of every day. To me, there’s something magical about the chance to start fresh each day, and it always begins with going to sleep.

Back in Black

I know, I know. I've been away for a while--6 months counts as "a while," right?

I could come up with a million excuses for why I've been foresaking my blog, but it comes down to the fact that it was just "one more thing" that I had to do.

Do you ever love something so much that it's easier just to forget it exists rather than admit you've let it go?

That's how I feel about my blog.

I've still been writing my entries, I just haven't posted them.

So, in the interest of catching up, be prepared for the onslaught of all I've written in the last 6 months.

Only skin deep

“Life is pain, princess. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” – The Princess Bride

Just how much pain are you willing to endure if it meant saving your life? How much pain and suffering can you take if you’d look better after it was all over? It’s always fascinated me that most people are willing to endure incredible pain, all in the name of beauty. From plastic surgery to bikini waxes, it’s almost become acceptable, understandable even, that we must go through some pain before we achieve our beauty-related dreams.

I was recently in a bit of pain after a completely un-enjoyable visit to the Dermatologist. I can’t say that visiting any doctor is ever enjoyable per se, but the Derm tops my list as least likeable individual who holds a doctoral degree. I’m what those in the business refer to as a “high risk” individual, what with my blue eyes, light complexion and propensity for freckle accumulation. Additionally, I have a family history that isn’t so favorable in the skin department.

I generally approach these yearly visits with disdain, but I was particularly peeved on this occasion. The only Dermatologist I’ve ever loved recently moved to Miami, Florida and I was “stuck” with her replacement. Things were off to a horrible start when she swung the exam room door open wide, revealing me and my undergarment-only clad self with nothing but a horrendous, still-folded paper gown to hide behind. “We’re all girls, who cares?!?” she screamed loudly when I exclaimed I wasn’t quite ready.

After giving me the once-over, she proceeded to say incredibly obvious things like:

“Wow, you have a lot of freckles.”
“You’re really tiny.”
“You’re definitely someone who should be going to the Dermatologist every year.”
“You should stay out of the sun.”

As if the barrage of obvious and body-conscious inducing questions wasn’t enough, she began using scientific terms to explain everything.

Doctor: “I see here that you were on Isotretinoin.”
Me: [Silence, perplexed look]
Doctor: “Accutane?”
Me: “Oh, yes.”

It reminds me of an episode of The Office, where Michael tells everyone to report to the conference “RNDT,” which no one understands. So, he has to take the time to explain that RNDT means “right now, double time, which is twice as fast as normal.” He proceeds to cut Jim off before he has a chance to explain it would have been faster to just say what he meant, rather than using a term that no one could possibly understand. I guess my new doctor isn’t a big fan of the show.

Upon inspection of my many, many moles and freckles she found a specimen on my left arm that was either melanoma or “traumatized in its youthful growing stage.” What? After some numbing, she sliced it off, cauterized my skin (gross) and sent it off to the lab for testing. Turns out it was one of those moles that was beaten as a child, not the cancerous variety. Trading a weird freckle that is possibly skin cancer for a circular-shaped scar seems like a somewhat even trade to me. Besides, it will be in good company with the circular scars that currently reside on my neck, right thigh, back and foot.

After the old “once-over” was complete, she pointed out another obvious character flaw I possess in addition to my moles and small frame: oily skin. This affliction, she explained, was why I had zits, oversized pores and other unsavory issues on my face area. She prescribed Tazorac, a topical cream for my face that comes with a major caveat: pain and unattractive side effects before the real magic happens.

I’ve been on this medication before and stopped using it because of this very side effect. The main purpose of this great cream is “cell regeneration,” AKA all your skin drying up, peeling off and revealing smooth, baby skin underneath. It’s a prescription-strength acne and wrinkle prevention medication—and it really works. Just a pea-sized amount every night over the world’s most awesome lotion, Cera Ve, does the job.

One of the only redeeming phrases my doctor uttered during our visit was that every woman in America should be on this medication. Twenty years from now, she urged, I will look like a million bucks because I use Tazorac. I’m supposed to remember this when I’m feeling as though my face is burning off. “I can always spot a woman who is on a prescription Retin-A product,” she said. “They have beautiful, glowing skin regardless of age.” In the end, I’m told, you have amazing skin. In the meantime, I realize, things are getting ugly in horrendous horror movie-like phases.

Phase 1: Burn, baby burn: The first few days of application made me look and feel like I had bad sunburn. A bad, splotchy and uneven sunburn all over my face, to be exact. Or, a red mask made of fire ants permanently affixed to my face area. Smiling and laughing were a painful task and there wasn’t enough foundation and concealer in the world to make my skin look normal. All the lotion in the world couldn’t take away the pain either; it was just me and my flaming face.

Phase 2: Skin goatee: Much like typical sunburn after a few days, my special burn also had the same result: peeling skin. On my chin, around my nostrils and on my right jaw—like I had facial hair and boogers made of skin flakes. All the lotion and St. Ives Apricot Scrub in the world couldn’t get rid of the flakes that fell onto my shirt every time I touched my face. My face dandruff, though not painful, made me stand out in the crowd—but not in the way I’d always hoped. The worst of the worst arrived on a day where I had back to back meetings, one of which made me the center of attention during an hour-long presentation. Thankfully, I only realized the true horridness of my face after the meeting was over. I wonder if my audience thought I had been prescribed Testosterone, not Tazorac.

Phase 3: What lies beneath: After the burning and peeling, I moved swiftly along to the phase where the medication brought up all the junk lurking in my pores. For those of you who aren’t well versed in the “zit process,” when the junk in your pores comes to the surface, you have a zit. Imagine all the junk in your pores all coming up at once. A good way to imagine that is to pretend that you’re in junior high again. At least I don’t have braces anymore.

Phase 4: The good stuff: After weeks of pain and lots of embarrassing flakiness, my face and I were both ready to give up the fight. Seriously, how much pain and unsightliness can a girl and her forehead take? Our patience was handsomely rewarded when a new face began to emerge. It was subtle, but noticeable to me as the zits slowly healed and the pores began to shrink. The journey was long and painful, but easily forgotten with clear skin and an increasingly positive outlook on life.

The lesson in all of this? If you want something great, you’re going to have to endure some pain to get it. Or, a grow a beard made of peeling skin.

Hairy Situation

I’m currently growing my hair out, which is possibly the hardest task I’ve ever undertaken. Since birth, my hair has always played a major role in my life. That role has always been that of the villain. Each stage of my life seems to be marked by my hairstyles—or lack thereof.

As a child, I had really blonde, curly hair. My hair furled itself into curly, springy ringlets that bounced as I ran through the yard as a toddler. When it came time for kindergarten, brightly colored plastic barrettes were the only thing that could tame my thick and still curly, sometimes tangled mane. The smell of Johnson & Johnson No More Tangles still sets fear into my heart. Upon my first trip to the hairdresser, my mother presented me and my crazy hair and asked, “Can you do something with this?” I wore those barrettes for a long, long time.

In the fourth grade, I decided it would be fashion-forward to have short hair. That is quite possibly the worst decision I’ve made to date. I’ll never forget looking up at the salon mirror and holding back my tears; I looked horrible. My mother would shove my head under the faucet each morning in a feeble attempt to request behavior from my “devil-may-care” hair. My bad choice eventually grew out to chin length, creating a fabulous triangle shape with pointy sides. Hello, frizz!

In the history of my hair, my crowning glory as the Queen of Bad Hair Choices truly came to fruition in high school. I grew my frizzy mane out and hadn’t the slightest clue how to blow dry, condition and straighten it. It took hours to dry completely. It was, as they say, a hot mess. I also cut my own bangs, generously applied hairspray for a crunchy affect and separated them into three sections on either side. The overall look was big frizz with two claws on my forehead---if I didn’t have the photographic proof, I myself might not believe it was possible. After that horrendous decision, I went back to what was once another bad choice; short hair.

This time, it wasn’t an afro. It was flattering and easy for a year or two before I again became tired of the shortness. I ventured into chin-length territory, using my trusty curling iron to flip out the ends a la Farrah Fawcett.

These days, I’m using my freckles as goals for hair length (I knew they were good for something) and practicing the great art of patience on a daily basis. I’ve surpassed the awkward “in-between” stage and have evolved to another oddity—having hair that is exactly the same length as your shoulders and is closely infringing on the collarbone. Most days, I just give in to the fact that my hair wants to flip out on either side and won’t give into my ever-weakening will. I have the next freckle mile marker on my chest all picked out; everyone needs something to shoot for, right?

Truly the best part about growing out one’s hair is the incredible cost savings. At least that’s what my coupon-loving husband would tell you. As a shorthaired girl, haircuts at least every other month were a must. As someone who is attempting to grow our their hair, I’ve evolved to visiting my hairstylist just four times a year for trims, touchups and the latest gossip. All this has been made possible by another major life-altering choice: going au natural with my hair color. While being a blonde was great, I felt it was time to move on from the color I’ve forced my hair to be since the 7th grade. Sure, my roots still grow out, but I don’t look like I’m lost in the 80’s when they do. Today, I’m a light brown with lighter brown and darker blonde highlights and when things start to grow out, it takes a sharp eye to notice.

Along the way, I’ve realized an incredibly important lesson: if you’re going to fight your hair to do something that isn’t natural, you’d better be fully prepared. Preparation, unfortunately, means that I have to invest in non-drugstore, quality products. After running the gamut from cheap drugstore finds to luxe salon-only items, the latter wins. They just work better and when you’ve got hair like mine, it becomes worth the investment.

When it comes to shampoo and conditioner, anything on sale made for color protected or frizzy hair will do; I can’t say I’m all that picky. When it comes to finishing products, however, I can’t live without my upper-crust stand-bys:

My weekly deep conditioning treatment:
Oscar Blandi Trattamento Di Jasmine Smoothing Hair Treatment

For a weekly deep conditioning treat, my hair LOVES this stuff. It deep conditions, softens and smoothes like nobody’s business. I apply it in the shower after I shampoo and leave it in as long as possible, then wash it out when I’m finished. It really does wonders when left on for an extended amount of time with a hot towel on your head, too. I take any opportunity to put a damp towel in the microwave and pretend I’m at the spa. Rumor has it Kelly Ripa is a fan—just look at her hair!

What I apply to wet hair before blow-drying:
Paul Mitchell Super Skinny Serum

My hairdresser got me hooked on this stuff back when I had shorter hair. It gives my hair great shine and some great protection from the blow-dryer and straighter, as I use both every day. I apply this to my damp hair, let the hair air dry for a bit and then blow it dry.

What I apply after blow-drying:
Frederic Fekkai Glossing Cream

This stuff is a desert oasis for my hair. Made with pure olive oil, this stuff provides some serious moisture reinforcement. All you need is a pea sized amount (any more and your hair gets a bit greasy, what with the olive oil component) and the frizzies just melt away. I rub it over my ends after I finish blow drying and I wake up with better behaved hair. It’s pricey, but you use so little that a big tube lasts a long time.

The truth of the matter is, when it comes to my hair nothing is ever as it seems. I’m still fending off the day where I decide I’ve had enough of being patient and decide a shorter ‘do is just “me.” In the meantime, I’m still shooting for that freckle-sized goal on my chest. Grow, baby grow.

The 100

100 Things

There was recently a note going around the world of Facebook, requesting individuals to write down 25 “random” things about themselves. I obliged, but it got me to thinking about all the things we have to say about ourselves. In reality, I believe we each have many unique and interesting facets to our lives. Why limit a list about you to only twenty five? So, I’ve come up with 100 random, but true, things about me. I hope you’re sitting down—this might take a while.

1 I love a good sale and am a sucker for price reduction. I get really excited about paying a fraction of the cost for something, anything, fabulous.
2 Getting married to Adam was, in my opinion, the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. I can’t imagine my life without him.
3 I’m horrible at good-byes and ending conversations. I love to talk, but have a hard time figuring out when it’s appropriate to depart or stop talking.
4 At any given moment, there is always a wide variety of fresh fruit in my refrigerator.
5 I’ve never eaten brussel sprouts or chicken wings. I plan to die without experiencing either.
6 I am one of four children. There is a 16 year age gap between my oldest and youngest sibling.
7 I’m horrible at taking care of my hands and nails. I have ugly, raggedy-looking nails and dry, cracked hands. To me, a manicure is a pure waste of money.
8 I love vintage and vintage-looking jewelry. I love the quality and look of something old, even if it really isn’t. I also love that old things have a story to tell—even if I have to make it up.
9 I want to be the editor of a fashion magazine when I grow up. I love the thought of writing about fashion, attending shows and having access to the coolest new stuff.
10 I’d be lost without my dog. I think she’s great, even when she wakes me up in the middle of the night by whining until I pet her.
11 There’s nothing better than the excitement of having something new. I just love admiring and owning something that’s new—it’s one of the best feelings on earth.
12 I’m a terrible cook. I’m not patient and organized enough to be a skilled chef, which is why I married one.
13 I don’t like sports. I don’t care enough to understand or become interested in the world of sports. I mostly oblige because my husband has a love affair with all sporting events.
14 I’m extremely annoyed by people who use incorrect grammar when they speak. I often hold myself back from correcting them, but cannot resist my urge to cringe.
15 I’m always multi-tasking, but I’m not very good at it. I’m very easily distracted and incredibly forgetful.
16 I try on a minimum of five outfits every morning before work. Depending on my mood, things can get ugly in my search to find an outfit.
17 I never eat 3 square meals a day. I don’t like to be tied down by real meals that don’t include a bowl of cereal.
18 Although I realize their stupidity, I am a sucker for sleazy reality shows. I watch many, many of these shows; more than I’d like to admit.
19 As a child, I wished for nothing more in life than my own dog. At age eight, I got a little brother instead.
20 My hair is the true bane of my existence. It’s thick, curly and mostly frizzy on a good day. We’ve always had a love-hate relationship.
21 I can’t live without crazy shoes. Bright colors, obnoxious patterns and pointy toes are just a few of my favorite things.
22 I rarely wear bracelets, mostly because they are too big to fit around my ridiculously small and bony wrists.
23 I was a lanky, awkward late-bloomer with crooked teeth as a child.
24 I didn’t have my first kiss until high school. (See #23.)
25 Writing is, and will always be, my life’s passion.
26 I feel sorry for people who don’t run. I think they’re missing out on something great.
27 My biggest fashion splurge: a black pebbled leather, full-price Coach bag. My greatest fashion steal: a Kenneth Cole men’s watch from DSW for less than $40. Both play a starring role in my daily life.
28 Before I met Adam, I never hit the snooze button. Now, I’m a two snoozer every morning.
29 My biggest work-related pet peeve: people who call me instead of walking down the hall to talk to me. Seriously, would it kill you to walk 10 yards?
30 I’m very critical of others, but only behind their backs.
31 I would be late to just about everything without the aid of my cell phone calendar and audible reminders.
32 I cannot control myself around snack foods. I once I start eating them, I can’t stop—so I usually don’t even start.
33 I can’t sleep unless the closet door and all drawers in my bedroom have been closed.
34 I’m still afraid of the dark, even in my own home.
35 My favorite part of the weekend is drinking coffee.
36 I hate talking politics, but I believe abortion and the death penalty are wrong. I think if you want to own a gun and you’re a responsible person, you should. I believe the sheer greed of wealthy people has led us down this horrible economic path.
37 I always feel guilty spending a lot of money on something, even if it’s worth it.
38 I can’t wait to see what my blue-eyed, blonde-haired children will really look like. I can’t wait to kiss them goodnight and teach them everything I know.
39 I have a really small mouth. As a child, the dentist pulled out several of my teeth because there wasn’t enough room in there for all of them.
40 I could happily live the rest of my life eating the exact same thing every day.
41 I have no intention of ever owning one, but anything that involves cats is absolutely hilarious to me.
42 The only way I can fall is asleep is by laying on my right side, curled into the fetal position. I can’t sleep with pants on; they are just too restricting.
43 I hate mornings and despise getting up early. Coffee is really the only redeeming quality the morning has to offer. (See #35)
44 I didn’t really enjoy high school, but I loved college.
45 I’ve never broken a bone, but I have received a black eye after falling off my bunk bed in college.
46 I carry the stress of the world in my hands and mouth. When I’m under a lot of pressure, the joints in my hands ache like nobody’s business and my mouth blooms with canker sores.
47 Like my mother, I always root for the underdog. I love a good story of someone prevailing over adversity.
48 Like my father, I’m fascinated with the story behind everything. I love hearing about a great journey or fascinating tale; I love the history behind things.
49 I don’t like milk and never drink it. I opt for soy milk instead, but only in my cereal.
50 I eat 6 hardboiled egg whites every day. People at work think I’m crazy.
51 If I don’t have a pack of gum in my purse at all times, I start to panic.
52 I own two cell phones, which I find incredibly annoying.
53 The first time Adam came to visit me in college, he got a speeding ticket because I gave him the wrong directions.
54 I refuse to give up my cell phone’s “Cincinnati number,” even though I’ve lived in Sidney for 3 years.
55 I believe DVR is the world’s greatest invention. I’d marry it if I could.
56 When I like a song, I listen to it over and over again until I no longer like it.
57 People who brag about how much things cost annoy me. We all buy things and spend money, why tell everyone about it?
58 I think astronomy is a crock, but I’m a Leo through and through—from my mane of hair to my intense love of attention.
59Before I was born my parents couldn’t agree on a name for me, so they made a bet. If I weighed less than 8 pounds, I’d be Emily. If I was over, I’d be Jessica. Emily, my mother has always said, is a name for someone who’s tiny.
60 I have a lot of freckles, many in strange places. I have one on the palm of my right hand and two on the bottom of my left foot.
61 I scrunch my nose when I laugh.
62 When I’m nervous or stressed, I chew on my lips.
63 I love sarcasm—it’s the spice of my life.
64 I’m a collector of inspirational quotes. My screensaver is always a scrolling quote, which I change each week.
65 I think Wally Lamb is the greatest writer the world has ever known.
66 I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo, but felt I needed a good reason to do so. When my grandfather died, I found my reason.
67 I’m not a big fan of reading directions, which always leads to frustration.
68 I sometimes wonder if retirement is going to be really, really boring.
69 Life, I believe, is all about perspective. Changing your thinking can change your world.
70 No matter how many times I clean and organize my office at work, it never stays that way. At home, everything is neat and organized in its proper place.
71 Much like Pavlov’s dog, I’ve become accustomed to eating fruit and protein every 3 hours. I begin a slow decline into insanity when my schedule is interrupted.
72 I really, really love my job and look forward to coming to work every day.
73 I’ve always believed that a smile and being polite can take you far.
74 When I’m talking to someone with bad teeth, it’s all I can look at during the entire conversation.
75 I’ve always been jealous of creative people who can make things. I can describe and paint you a pretty picture with words, but I can’t make squat.
76 I will never carry a small purse—ever. I need a gigantic purse to hold everything at all times.
77 I’m a rule follower through and through. I don’t like breaking rules or being part of something that doesn’t follow them. It makes me really nervous.
78 Though I have no intention of ever moving back, I’ll always feel like I left a piece of my heart in Cincinnati.
79 I’m very impatient. When I get it in my head that I want something, I have a hard time waiting around for it to happen.
80 I’ve run three half marathons and collectively, they were the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t think I could ever run a full marathon.
81 I hate being stagnant. In all aspects of my life, I have an inherent need to always be working towards something specific.
82 There was a time in my life when I wasn’t happy unless I was tan. Now, I regret all the sun exposure and curse my horrible decision every time I visit the dermatologist.
83 I ask a lot of questions about everything, especially during movies and Daylight Savings Time.
84 I am a maniac behind the wheel of a car. Once the engine starts, I’m a raging lunatic. Outside of the hunk of metal, I’m really quite meek.
85 I have very realistic, very strange dreams every night that I remember almost every morning when I wake up.
86 It’s taken me 25 years to realize that the people who have the most “stuff” aren’t always the people with the most happiness.
87 I believe the creative genius behind the Target Corporation is just that—a genius.
88Mice and snakes don’t scare me, but spiders and heights do.
89 I’m always in a rush, regardless of whether it’s warranted or not.
90 I’ve never been athletic or good at sports, but have an intense love of physical activity now that I’m an adult.
91 If I could only wear one color for the rest of my life, it would be black.
92 I’m supposed to wear glasses when I drive, but I rarely do. It hasn’t caused any problems—yet.
93 I think secretaries are the most under-paid and under-appreciated employees in the world.
94 I never notice someone’s eye color, but I always know what their hands look like. In a hand lineup, I could easily identify you.
95 In college, I chipped my right front tooth on a beer bottle; I told my parents I was drinking Snapple. I’ve had a cap on that tooth ever since.
96 Gin and tonic is, and will always be, my very favorite drink.
97 I like talking about myself, but hate being asked pointed personal questions in a public arena. I find it incredibly offensive.
98 I love dressing up, even when it’s not appropriate. If I had my way, I’d always be in high heels and something fabulous and completely un-casual.
99 I’ve always been incredibly nosy and interested in being in the middle of everything. In first grade, my teacher told my parents that I need to learn how to mind my own business. You could say PR was a calling.
100 I’m not a big fan of candy, but every fall I become completely obsessed with candy corn. I consume many bags, and then retreat to a candy-free life when winter rolls around.

Thanks for the memories

Someone broke into our house today.

Our home, the place where we feel safe.

In broad daylight.

They kicked in the back door and walked right into the place we call home.

They took their time, looking through our lives and touching our things.

They opened doors, walked into the place where I sleep every night and began taking what they deemed to be valuable.

What was junk, they let me keep.

Then, they left it just as they found it.

I am, for lack of a more eloquent term, pissed. I can't say that what they took from me was of any significant value in the end, but it's the principle of the concept that has me angry. How dare you destroy my property, come into my home and take things from me? I wonder if, when they pawn off the antique jewelry and things that I cannot replace, they know how old and precious they were to me. I'd question if they look into the eyes of the woman in that antique locket as they shoved it into a pocket or rubbed a finger over her initials carefully engraved into the back. Or, if they lovingly spun that big green stone ring around their finger like I did as they wait for the pawn shop to assess its value. Surely they'll know that diamond heart necklace was a gift from my husband on our first Valentine's Day together.

When it was all over, did they walk home wondering how much money they'd get for what they had taken? I wonder if they looked around for someone who might have seen them. Were they nervous? Did they yell at my sweet dog as she barked her heart out at them in her cage? Did they think they'd get caught? Did they watch me pull out of the driveway this morning, waiting for me to leave so they could arrive?

The Sheriff's deputy told me who they suspected entered our home. Suspected who entered our neighbor's home and did the same thing to him last week. Gave me their names. Showed me where they live, just on the other side of the field behind our home. Told me how they probably did it in between their stints in the County jail. Then, told me they couldn't pin anything on them. Said they were "kids in their twenties."

I couldn't help but notice the irony. I'm a kid too, also in my twenties--with a real job and aspirations and the decency to respect the property of others. I wonder if those idiot pieces of crap and I have anything else in common.

%$#&%@*(%&@#(!

A few Wednesdays ago was Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. As a general rule, this is a time of deep reflection, piety and servitude. Or, giving up cookies and everything that is great about the top portion of the food pyramid.

Growing up, for me it was a time to give up something that I really liked until I had that thing in front of me. Then, I’d find something else to give up. I’d proclaim I was giving up cookies until the Girl Scouts came to the door and then I decided cake was a much wiser choice. It was a pretty sweet gig until my religion-teaching mother caught on to my scheme. Now, it’s a great story to tell her sixth graders every year as Lent approaches.

These days, I’m way past giving up cookies and cake and changing my mind every week. I strive for more promising items that provide a bigger bang for my buck. When a raging pretzel addiction ruled my life in college, I gave them up for 40 days. It was borderline impossible. Last year, Adam and I decided to swear off all alcoholic beverages for Lent. It was pure torture. This year, it took some time for me to find something major to extinguish from my daily life. Once I decided on something, however, I quickly realized I had made a wise choice.

For the 40 days of Lent, I will abstain from using obscenities of any kind. I immediately knew I was onto something after explaining my choice to Adam. His reaction was priceless:

“Are you just giving up cussing at the dog or all cussing?”

Ouch. I guess I do primarily shout obscenities at the dog, though any injury or anger-inducing scenario usually invites a cussword or two. Wouldn’t you get testy when someone is vomiting on your off-white carpet? I thought so.

I have to wonder, though, how things progressed to this point. I haven’t always had such a dirty mouth, especially during my formative years, where cussing was strictly prohibited. When your mother is an English teacher (and your teacher for that matter), being polite and finding “the right words” for every occasion is a constant lesson. Being polite and having good manners was also a well-learned lesson in our home. In regards to expletives, I was taught that they are unnecessary; one can always find “better” words to use or perhaps no words at all if that plan fails. Not that my parents didn’t cuss, it was just a rarity and used in extreme conditions.

As a writer, the lesson of finding the right words is a constant. In my PR-focused world, I realize that words craft messages and feelings to the public, who forms their opinion around the things our organization does and says. I sometimes feel like a broken record, reminding my co-workers that life isn’t about what you say; it’s how you say it. Words are powerful tools and when you get them wrong, you cannot take them back. You have but one chance to show who and what you are, and what you say becomes the primary focus.

To me, writing is like painting a beautiful picture, ensuring the perfect blend of colors and textures accompany each masterpiece. Describing something so beautifully and carefully each time I sit down at my computer is like painting the Mona Lisa, regardless of the subject. Often, the subject isn’t all that wonderful or exciting—which is my favorite part.

I love both hearing and telling stories, which is what writing is truly all about. Why then, I wonder, do I have such a dirty mouth when it comes to the spoken word? As a general observation, when others curse it generally brings my perception of them back to a realistic standard. You can find someone truly charming and perceive them as quite elegant, only to hear them utter an obscenity and realize they’re just human. Or, they aren’t afraid to let others see them sweat. You know that pang of horror you feel when you realize you forgot something or made a major mistake? I sometimes feel that when I hear someone I hold in high regard utter something vile. Cursing—it’s the great equalizer.

Cussing should be like eating a decadent dessert—only in moderation and on special occasions, like your birthday. As for me, I’m realizing that inserting obscenities is a direct result of laziness and lack of consciousness. It’s become a part of me, part of how I express myself when I choose to not let my fabulous shoes do the talking for me. I think we could all stand to be more conscious about everything we do, from cursing to eating dinner and talking to others. Sure, it’s a lot more effort. But it also makes our lives much more meaningful. Don’t agree? Well, then you can just shove it up your…oops.

Good Enough

When it comes to how we feel about our bodies, it sometimes feels like we, as women, will never be happy. There’s always something that could be improved, from our pesky love handles that just won’t let go of the bulk to a muscle that we know is just waiting to pop out, if it weren’t covered by a layer of fat. Regardless of how hard we try or how well we eat, we always end up wishing for someone else’s body.

We’re all guilty of it: admiring someone with a ‘perfect’ body and wondering what it must be like to walk around every day looking so wonderful. We never consider, or see for that matter, the effort and pain that go into all that perfection. Maybe they spend hours each day at the gym or they have a personal trainer. Perhaps they never eat dessert, alcohol or carbs and inspect, weigh and measure every morsel of food that goes in their mouth. There’s no way to know, which is why we never really give consideration to the road leading to perfection. From where we sit, being perfect just seems to come naturally to some people.

Is there anyone who really and truly loves every part of their body? I haven’t met one yet, at least not one over the age of 5.

I often wonder what it would be like to go back to being a child again, basking in the happiness of my lack of body consciousness. Remember what that was like? You never gave consideration to how big your butt looked in jeans or whether your belly pudge was visible in your outfit. Your body was a vehicle to propel you to the other side of the playground, not something you inspected in the mirror for cellulite. It was that pure innocence, that lack of awareness that you were primarily judged by your looks, which made being a child so beautiful.

Once that great time known as puberty arrives, things quickly change from innocence to awkwardness. Your physical attributes were up for judgment and soon the thoughts about how others viewed you became painfully real. My chest wasn’t big enough (OK, maybe it was non-existent), my legs were too skinny, my hair was too crazy and my face had far too many zits. You could say I was quite the looker. Life sometimes deals us a painful hand when we don’t fit in; it’s just part of the process.

Today I look back at junior high and high school as one big, however painful, lesson. The wisdom that comes with growing older makes me realize how much time I dutifully wasted on trying to impress boys and wishing, even praying every night, that I had a bigger chest. Did I seriously think God had time to consider my chest size?

Being so self-conscious, lamenting over not having a butt and attempting to tame my crazy hair was the equivalent of treading water in the middle of the ocean. Simply trying to stay afloat, just getting by, gets us nowhere and after a while, becomes very tiring. It is truly exhausting to spend every waking hour feeling self-conscious about your body.

The adult world, in reality, isn’t all that much different than our junior high and high school tribulations. We’re still primarily judged by our looks and inspected for our flaws on a daily basis. Some of us still feel really, really awkward about our bodies. The difference is we’ve already gone through it once and we now have the maturity and quick-thinking to formulate snappy comebacks and witty one-liners to those same bullies from our playground days. Heck, even those things that you once considered to be terrible aren’t so bad once you let 10 years pass. The pair of stilts I call legs don’t look half bad these days, but the zits still don’t seem to be in vogue just yet. I’m still holding out hope, though.

Did I do anything last year?

When an old year ends and New Year begins to peek over the horizon, we can’t help but reflect back on our successes and failures throughout last year’s calendar. Personally, I am beginning to think that I really didn’t DO anything in 2008. Or, perhaps, this year just pales in comparison to all the stuff I did the year before.

In 2006 and 2007, a lot of big things happened:

I moved
I purchased a home
I got married
I got a dog
I got a new job

In 2008, I…uh, um did projects around the house? Wait, what did I do? Surely, there was some major accomplishment or accolade during those 12 months. One cannot go an entire year without doing something noteworthy, can they? Upon further inspection, I have concluded that rather than major accomplishments, I instead had small victories along the way.

I ran a half marathon, a 5K, a 10K, completed a triathlon and attended many, many weddings. I put new handles and hinges on every single cabinet door in our kitchen. I realized it takes 3 hours to put new handles and hinges on every kitchen cabinet door. I refinished and painted an entire kitchen’s worth of cabinets, painted a 400 square-foot room, mastered the art of painting stripes, became an aunt for the second time and found out a third time is soon coming.

I dropped a gym membership and purchased a treadmill and a bicycle. I gained a new boss (twice) and aided in my second (unsuccessful) levy campaign. I bought four bedrooms worth of new carpet, helped install crown molding and (successfully, after the second try) installed two overhead light fixtures all by myself. I put new doorknobs on every door in my house. I bought new countertops and a front door and screamed as water poured from the ceiling. I rolled my eyes at the hole it left that still greets me daily.

I started a new business venture and planted a vegetable garden. I mowed the lawn on my own and stained the deck. I pulled weeds, planted flowers and laid mulch. I trimmed hedges, got a nasty sunburn and painted the mailbox post, front porch and garage. I agreed to purchase a 90-lb. solid concrete bulldog wearing a football helmet. I gasped at just how much water was in the basement and shoved a lot of moldy carpet out of a really tiny window. I enjoyed destroying a bathroom with my gloved hands and a sledgehammer. I dreamed of how great it would look someday. I nearly fainted when I realized how expensive a new bathroom is. I fell deeply in love with coffee. I let the dog lay on the furniture and rushed to “tidy up” before people came over. I organized the garage, cleaned out closets and felt really, really good about it.

I turned 25 and remembered 10 years ago when 25 was old. I gained muscle, went cold turkey on eating pretzels, drank less alcohol, drank more water and grew up a little. I gave up my one Red Bull and protein bar a day habit. I forced myself to eat grapefruit and I liked it. I held babies, heard many baby announcements and considered what it might be like to have one of my own. Then, I realized how much I like to travel and do whatever I want, whenever I want (sorry, mom).

I went to Chicago, Michigan and Cincinnati. I made plans to visit Baltimore and Colorado. I realized how expensive new brakes are and how un-squeaky they sound. I realized it’s OK to only own two hand-me-down television sets, neither of which have plasma screens. I understood why no one wanted to watch a football game at our house.

I logged many miles on the road, some painful, most enjoyable. Some involved tears, others running from dogs and cars. All meant something.

I’m sure I have missed a small accomplishment or two, but I am already beginning to feel like less of a failure. Then again, there’s always 2009 to make up for lost time.