Mom Makeover: The Road from Ho-Hum to Hawt

One of the best pieces of parenting advice I got from my mother involved mascara.

I've shared my opinions on mom jeans, Keds, denim jumpers and the like. I don't believe that being a mother is license to be a frump. We all take a few steps away from our dry clean only wardrobe once we have children, but it's not necessary to trade in fab for frump. Yet all too often, it happens. Like back fat. It just creeps up on you before you realize that everything in your closet has an elastic waistband. When we stop putting ourselves first, we plummet to stretchy pant hell.

I'm guilty as charged. To a certain extent.

I recently embarked on a journey with a few other women to do a Mom Makeover. Nothing extreme to walk the catwalk or sport a tiara. Just a simple makeover that's realistic for a mother who spends her time in car pool, at the park, or on a date. I was hoping to transform a couple moms who could go from "Park to Party" in a flash.

With the help of Jill, Joanna, Pam, and Amanda, we pulled it off for our first contestant on Park to Partay!

Meet Liz.

36-year old mother of a three-year old daughter and 5-month old infant son. Liz is tired. She's been feeling frumpy and is scrounging up the time and energy to hit the gym again. Her own sister in law even threatened to turn her over to What Not to Wear. Ouch! Liz knows there's a sprinkle of her former self sparkling in there somewhere.

We were there to help Liz regain her shimmer so she can put some shimmy back in her step.

Meet our makeover team.

Jill, owner of hairdos. Before Jill pulled out her scissors she talked to Liz to get a sense of her style, preferences, and lifestyle. Clearly Jill took the time to know the client first instead of treating her head as a canvas with license to chop. We've all been in a salon seat like that, right? Jill gave Liz a kicky little cut and even gave her options to wear her hair up or down. Options are good. Did I mention that Liz donated a whopping 11 inches of her mane to Locks of Love? I know how freeing it is to cut off all that hair. The key thing about the magic that Jill worked is that she kept Liz's hair maintenance free. After all, what mom wants to deal with a high maintenance hair style that involves multiple gooey products and various electrical devices? It's a wash and go cut that will grow out lovely, meaning Liz can look good while not swapping out style for sleep.

Joanna, makeup artist and owner of Look at Me Makeup. And I don't use the word artist lightly. Every girl dreams of the make up case Joanna was toting. Oh, the creams and powders and shadows and blushes and liners! Some of her go-to products to make us moms look more awake than we feel: mascara, concealer, blush, lip gloss, moisturizer! Also, maintain those brows, ladies. Like Jill, Joanna focused on making Liz's makeup regimen fast and easy. Wearing makeup doesn't have to be a 30-minute ordeal that requires paint brushes and spackling. I don't even own blush and I've never put a drop of foundation on my face in my life, yet I think I don't look half bad. Joanna gave Liz makeup tips that fit her lifestyle and schedule. The beauty is that she also gave Liz tips on how to turn the makeup amp up to 11 for date night. Va va va voom! Again, options are good.

Pam, owner of Dress. and fashionista extraordinaire. Pam is that rare blend of fashion and frugal. Pam's shop perches at the intersection of Quality Road, Style Boulevard, and Affordability Avenue. Dress. is a lovely little boutique that features consigned and new designer clothes, shoes, and handbags. And boy are the brands in there mouth watering! Pam, having the honor of being my most fashionable friend (who is blessed with lean long legs and a tiny waist...damn her), not only sells the clothes, she helps with personal styling too. She gave Liz so many fantastic options that it was nearly impossible to make a choice. Sometimes options aren't so good. ;-) The ticket was to find Liz an outfit that's comfortable, versatile, fun, and easy. Do you see a trend here? Perhaps the best testimonial is that I left Dress. with the most perfect little black dress, and our photographer bought three! Ooh la la.

Amanda of Amanda Olson Photography. She's one helluva talented photographer whom I'm going to hire to take my headshot for my book jacket one day. Amanda captured not only the activities of the day, but the spirit as well. Though she and I were in the same room, her eyes saw things mine did not. She really has a storytelling gift. Amanda's photos were simply glorious. There's nothing phony or diva about her, but she is a true artist. You have no idea how hard it was to select photos for this post. Every single shot rocked. I kid you not. I'd pepper my walls with Amanda's photos and spent a good hour just perusing her gallery on her site. Poor Amanda will now have to chase my two sons and a pesky dog to capture some family shots this fall. You can see more photos from our day here.

So the key is this: style and comfort are not mutually exclusive. We owe it to ourselves to put our best face on and our best foot forward. Clad in a touch of mascara and some swoon worthy shoes.

Motherhood is hot. Bring it.

Bring Sexy Back, One Girls Weekend at a Time

Reporting for duty after a much needed vacay from reality. Reality doesn't suck, but it sure does suck the life out of me. Sometimes it's nice to steal away and forget that my name is Mom. Sometimes I like to be Ilina again. You know, the woman who wears dry clean only clothes, tall leather boots, carries all her belongings in a pocket, wears red lipstick, and has runway posture. Life with children can be shackling. Come on, I know you've thought it too. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me explain that I wouldn't trade my life. I love my family and cannot imagine life without my Bird and Deal (Mac Daddy too, natch). Seriously, folks, all that goes without saying, but I can't deal with the holier-than-thou freaks out there who are ready to pounce. Allow me to extinguish your fiery words of contempt.

No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.

Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.

What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.

Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?

The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."

And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.

What My Bathroom Cabinet Doesn't Say About Me

I'm not much of a prissy girl. With this new haircut of mine I really don't need much more than a dime size drop of drugstore gel and my fingers to get gussied up. Did I just say "gussied up?" Indeed I did. And I meant it. My entire regimen in the morning is 30 minutes, tops. Even on my wedding day. I guess you might think I didn't care or look all that great. But the reality is that I wanted to look like me in my photos, not some Glamour Shot glimpse of a girl I knew for a mere 24 hours. And for the record, I think I looked pretty good on that hot March day back in 2000 in Key West. Whether I still fit into that sheath of a dress is another story.

Despite what you might think or what my friend Will proclaims to all who will listen, I am a relatively low maintenance woman. Black tie gala with Mac Daddy, jaunt around the lake with the boys, or brunch with girlfriends, it will take me 30 minutes to get ready. In a crunch I can do it in 20.

Try me.

So all this leaves me wondering why I have so much crap in various size bins under the cabinet on my side of the bathroom sink. You know by now that I am a neat freak and I love compartments so everything has a home. No random bottles or potions stacked upon each other every which way on my watch. I did a quick inventory today, and this is what I found:

• nail polish (15 bottles, 5 of them red)
• nail polish remover (acetone free, 2 bottles)
  
• 2 sets of foam toe separators
• 2 bags of cotton balls
• box of Qtips
• bag of make up sponges
• 1 bottle eye makeup remover
• 1 pouch of makeup wipes
  
• tray of makeup, including 4 mascaras (2 of which are Lash Exact), 6 liquid eyeliners (4 of them black), various brushes (I don't use anything that requires a brush so I'm not sure why I have all these. Also 4 eyeshadow palettes; I don't even know how to apply eye shadow.)
• 3 bottles of face cream in varying SPF ratings
• spray water bottle
• 1 large tub Aquaphor
• 2 bottles of lotion
• 1 bottle of rubbing alcohol
• 1 bottle of witch hazel (What the hell is this stuff even for?!)
• 1 eyelash curler (never used for fear of blinding myself)
  
• 2 pots of hair wax or some such thing
• 1 bottle of spray hair gel
• 1 tube of hair gel
• 1 unopened tube of black hair color (the temporary kind you brush on with a mascara wand looking thing...I'm pretty sure I specially ordered this from the salon.)
• 2 shower scrubby/spongey thingees
• 1 huge can of hairspray (unopened)
• 1 bottle of mousse (Not the chocolate kind, unfortunately.)
• 2 bottles of face wash
  
• 1 pot of cucumber eye gel
• 3 tubes of eye cream
• 1 tube of eye gel
• 1 pot of night cream
• 2 sticks of deodorant (Degree and Secret for a "pit off." So far Secret is winning.)
• 1 bottle of neck and decolletage cream (I couldn't make this up.)
• 1 flattening iron (I have hair shorter than most boys so this will do me no good.)
• 3 hairbrushes in various textures, sizes, and shapes
• 5 combs, unsure of origin
  

So what's a girl like me doing with a veritable pharmacy of beauty products? My cabinet looks as if I looted a Walgreens delivery truck. Granted, most of the products are unused. I don't even know what to do with half the stuff. I shower, lotion up, put on some sunscreen and eyecream, concealer under my eyes, a swipe of black eyeliner, a coat of mascara, lip balm, finger comb some gel in my hair, roll on deodorant and am out the door. Well, I do get dressed, natch.

Is it hard wired in all women to flock to the health & beauty aisle and just stock up on crap we don't need? Is this why Mary Kay and Avon are so popular? I admit to having a slight orgasmic reaction in Sephora or Ulta stores, even though I don't know what any of the stuff is for. What makes us buy all these lotions and potions and gels and creams? I am not generally a sucker, but my bathroom cabinet would prove otherwise. I look at that cache and am left wondering who the hell I am? Tell me I'm not alone.

Conversely, under Mac Daddy's sink:

• 1 bottle of lotion (Unused. I bought it and put it there so he'd moisturize in winter. He hasn't. Ever.)
• 1 bottle of SPF 30 face cream (Ditto above.)
• 1 can shaving cream (top off)
• 1 razor
• deodorant

I wonder what an anthropologist would say about us? I'm a consumer researcher by day, and I sure know how I'd sum us up.

But I'd be totally wrong.

Simply having the trappings doesn't make a girl prissy. I know this much is true.

Type A Mom, Yup, That's Me

I've never really considered myself Type A. Sure, I'm anal, organized, ambitious, and driven. I thrive on structure and often fumble in the face of flexibility. However, I also lack motivation at times, hitting a writer's block plateau more often than not these days. I am not aggressive and I shy away from competition (unless it involves board games, don't mess with me when it comes to Taboo and Scattergories.). I do share the traits of impatience and need for control with the Type A folks out there but I don't characterize myself as excessively aggressive or obsessive.

Perhaps Mac Daddy would beg to differ.

When it comes to parenting, I surely don't consider myself Type A. In fact, most of the time I feel like Type F, as in Failure. We moms are hard on ourselves, feeling like we could always do more, better, faster, tastier, tidier. We rarely look upon our accomplishments and savor the little miracles of everyday. "Relish" in our book is nothing more than a condiment.

That stops today.

I'd like to pay homage to some of the amazing women I met at the Type A Mom Conference. Women who were my imaginary friends, as Mac Daddy says. Women who are real friends now. Women who I admire. Women who make me laugh, think, cringe, question, applaud, act, discover, cheer, revel, celebrate. If being a Type A Mom means being counted among the likes of the following utterly amazing women, then count me in (in no particular order):

Morningsidemom - My blog love affair and sister, separated at birth. Seriously, how have we gone 40 years (give, in my case, take, in hers) without knowing each other IRL?
Down to Earth Mama - A gloriously funny, self proclaimed geek. I am amazed at her writing and photography that captures spirit beautifully.
Pundit Mom - Really, need I say more? I was on her like beans on a stalk. Smart. Smart. Smart. I beam just to be able to say that she's my friend.
Deb on the Rocks - I stalked her from afar at BlogHer and was all over her awesomeness at Type A Mom. She's gonna have her own sitcom one day. I might be duking it out with MorningsideMom to see who's her biggest fan.
Modern Mami - Beat It is our theme song, and she's a rock star.
Egg Marketing - Susan thought I was a rap star. I hope I didn't disappoint. She sure didn't.
Cecilyk - A woman who proclaims she is more liberal than drag queens is alright by me.
Canape - Founder of Triangle Mamas and most impressive Wii Rock Band drummer. Real life musician who is every bit as cool as you'd imagine.
Abbyjess - Fellow Triangle Mama, Wii Rock Band vocalist extraordinaire. Her snark is hidden by her adorable awesomeness.
Upsideup - Always a joy to run into my friend. Kirtsy founder, designer, all around smart chick. Counting down to seeing her again next month at the Social Media Business Forum.
Sugar Jones & Angela England - I'm lumping these two brilliant women together because their graciousness taught me an invaluable lesson: Heart matters. Regardless of our political views and religious affiliations and histories, we can all get along in earnest. We share mutual respect for our outlooks, experiences, crafts, and talents.
TypeAMom - Oh, words escape me. My fellow foodie, francophile friend. I aspire to be half as awesome as she is. Kudos for planning and pulling off one helluva conference! I bow to her.
Mamikaze - Seriously, her name alone is worthy of our love, right? Kudos for making it a fantastic conference. A good time and a helping hand who can rock the hell out of an organic T-shirt made from recycled plastic bottles.
High Impact Mom - Always a joy. A kind soul who's always game for a good laugh and would never make a girl drink alone.
Vdog - I almost climbed into her lap at BlogHer because I was so excited to meet her. Now I am left speechless or ramble about nothingness when in her presence.
Writing Roads - I dream about being an ounce of the writer she is. Funny and liberal to boot. I think I love her.
Shash - She wins for coolest shoes. And you know how I am moved by a pair of awesome peep toes.
Mommy Niri - My fellow Indian blogger who doesn't write about techie stuff and isn't a geek! Words of wisdom flow from her ever-so-candid conversations.

I hung out with many other awesome bloggers at the Type A Mom Conference. We rocked out. We toasted one too many local brews. We indulged. We squealed. We cried. We snortled. We embraced. We cavorted.

We all found each other online, whether on Twitter or other such vehicle, have read each other's writing, commented on touching posts, offered condolences and congratulations, formed a friendship. What is astounding and refreshing is that the people I imagined to be cool turned out to be even more so. We shared a connection through our writing. A certain intimacy becomes apparent after you realize that peering into someone's soul through her words can truly move you. Such is the power and beauty and mystery of writing.

Our words connected us online and have brought us together in person.

Cheers to the Type A Moms out there. Mwah!

Marriott is a Disgrace: A Loyal Marriotteer No More

Marriott has always been one of my favorite brands. It was a staple on my T & E reports from way back in the day when I traveled regularly for business. A bunch of us crashed at a Residence Inn somewhere near Alpine Valley all those years ago when we road tripped annually to Jimmy Buffett shows. Mac Daddy and I choose Marriott brands over any others on our family trips. Mac Daddy prefers a stay at any one of the Marriott family of hotels when he travels for work, which is more often than not. Even in my marketing consulting business I refer to Marriott as the gold standard of stellar brand architecture. I have been a loyal Marriott patron, investor, and fan. A veritable Marriotteer.

Once I even got a call from the office of JW Marriott himself after he received a letter I wrote condemning another hotel's lack of safety, cleanliness, and hospitality, while praising Marriott's. The call was timely and personal and cemented my love affair with the Marriott brand.

The love affair is over. And it is beyond repair.

Marriott is a despicable disgrace.

Bile gurgles up the back of my throat as I even say the brand name.

A woman, a mother of two, was raped in a Marriott parking garage. In front of her 3 and 5 year old children (THE SAME AGE AS MY SONS!). This mother was raped at gunpoint, with the rapist threatening sexual assualt against her children if she did not comply. That could have been me. Or you. Any one of us.

Instead of issuing an apology, offering counseling, or financial retribution, Marriott blames the woman for her own rape. Marriott recently issued a statement saying how there has been a grave mistake that has led the public to think it is unsympathetic to the woman, her children, and victims of violent crime. Read the full statement here...and prepare to dry heave.

I'm not buying it, assholes.

And that little blurb on your website about the Marriott culture, core values, and social responsibility. Bullshit.

Here's an excerpt:
"Marriott's reputation for superior customer service rises out of a long tradition that started with J. Willard Marriott's simple goal for Hot Shoppes to provide "Good Food and Good Service at a Fair Price"

• "Do Whatever it Takes to Take Care of the Customer"
• Pay extraordinary attention to detail
• Take pride in their physical surroundings
• Use their creativity to find new ways to meet the needs of customers"

"Attention to detail" and "the customer is always right" are mentioned in the company's core values.

Like I said, Bullshit.

I am so sickened that I can hardly write this post coherently. I shudder and feel slightly like vomiting every time I read another news story. And if I were to actually upchuck, I would package it up and mail it to Stephen Brown, one among many of Marriott's cadre of lawyers, and all the fat cat C-suite executives. Stephen Brown got paid big bucks to rape this woman again.

Apparently the safety and security of Marriott's guests is not paramount. And if a woman is raped by a lurking lunatic who had been hanging around the hotel parking garage for days (days!), the rape is clearly her fault. I mean, rape is always the woman's fault, right? Oh, those teetering high heels, itty bitty mini dresses, decolletage baring halters, gold hoop earrings, seamed lacey stockings, and such other attire that act as a sexual assault billboard are just asking for trouble, right? I mean, really, a woman should know better; that's what Puritanical bonnets and calico print rompers are for. We should all look like the queen of the Duggar clan, no? I mean really, wholesome women who are alert and responsible for their own safety are not raped. Only women who are negligent, preoccupied, or otherwise irresponsible can claim culpability for her own rape. The simplest and most natural sashay could send the wrong message and rightfully land a woman in the ER with a rape kit (for those counties that even have them!). We must really walk like androids just to be safe. Or so the Stephen Browns of the world would have you think.

Listen to me, and listen closely. Women are never to blame for the violence inflicted upon them. Being raped is NEVER a woman's fault. Under no circumstances. If you disagree, I beg you to read the moving, poignant, candid, and often frightening stories posted at Violence Unsilenced. These women, like this woman, are someone's mother, daughter, true love.

There is no going back to the way things were for victims of violence. There is an earthly shift. I know this much is true.


If you'd like to share your $0.02, please send your comments to Thomas Marder, the lucky bastard who gets to manage all inquiries regarding Marriott's vile actions. I encourage you to stand up against violence. If you are close to 5 women, chances are one of them has been raped.

thomas.marder@marriott.com

Not So Wordless Wednesday: Race for the Cure

With my friend Scott who ran for his dear friend Ann.


Balloons released by survivors.


The saddest tribute. This woman hugged my friend Christy and thanked her for raising money for a cure. No one is a stranger on race day.


Part of team Stop the War in My Rack. We're hot. By that I mean we have just raced in two races in the June heat of North Carolina.


A survivor. An inspiration.


Parade of survivors. Notice how young they are.


Ann's Fans, a team in support of my friend Scott's pal.


Men came out in droves to support their loved ones.


Love love loved her hat! Dang, it must have been hot and itchy.


Starting line. More diversity than I ever see in one day. Cancer does not discriminate, cliche but true.


Heartwarming to think of someone's children hammering this sign along the route.


Random neighbors along the route.


This is what 30,000 racers look like.


Meeting Tutugirl for the first time!


The early risers of our team. Thanks to Christy, our team captain (and brains behind the fantabulous team name Stop the War in My Rack)! What an amazing experience.

Rockin' the Race for the Cure

I am furiously scribbling this at the tail end of a long night of writing. I can't promise my best work, but the thoughts, the feelings, the stories had to get out of my head to make room for more. My brain can only hold so much since my marathon viewings of the Real Housewives of New Jersey have sapped me of precious brain cells. I'll upload photos later when iPhoto isn't being as finicky and pissy as a tantruming three-year old not getting any sugar cereal in the grocery cart. Forgive my babbling. If this were a writing test I'd fail. Luckily no one reads this with a virtual red pen.


Saturday marked my second Race for the Cure. I walked for my friend Jen, mom of three, wife to one, who just had a bilateral mastectomy today.

I teamed up with my pal Christy who is training for the 3-day walk in DC in October. She's the brains (and let's be honest, the beauty) behind our marvelous team name: Stop the War in My Rack. We, along with about 10 other friends, walked the 5K on a hot June morning. Some of us walked the route twice to support Christy's training for the grueling 60 mile walk she's conquering come October. I walked with old friends and new. Tutugirl1345 jumped in to join us, so we could finally meet in real life after chatting on blogs and Twitter for months.

The shower of pink was blinding. The beauty of women even more so.

Our team shirts (which you can buy for $15...100% goes to help Christy's fundraising...just leave a comment with your email address) garnered a ton of attention. Strangers were snapping photos of us, and the folks at Fuze gave us our pick of drinks just because they dug our shirts. It was the first time I didn't mind strangers totally checking out my rack and laughing. I puffed my Girls out proudly.

Here's where you can read my observations from last year's race.

As for 2009, here's what captured me:

Men turned out in throngs. Had they turned out in thongs we'd be onto something. Um, I totally didn't mean it *that* way. Men were out in full force supporting their wives, mothers, grandmothers, aunts, friends, colleagues. They wore pink. They teared up. They cheered. They embraced. They were brewing with raw emotion and bared it unabashedly.

Children had pink signs pinned to their backs reading "In memory of Mommy." Children. A 10-month old baby. Three-year old twins. Five-year old girls. Children the same age as my Bird and Deal.

Young women crowded the field during the survivors' parade and salute. Young women. Women younger than me.

I met and wept with one mom whose sign bore the name of her daughter who died of breast cancer. At age 32. Her best friend died recently of the disease. She said it was the first year she was walking in memory of someone instead of in celebration. I shudder in awe at her resolve.

The 88-year old woman rocking on her porch who was a beacon of beating the odds last year was there again. Cancer-free since 1980. Standing ovation and curtsies to her.

Mother and daughter walking arm in arm, oblivious to the hubbub around them. The girl's shirt reads "We helped our mom beat breast cancer." Hallelujah.

And I'd be remiss to not shout out to the masses of organizers volunteers. We, the racers, had the easiest job. The volunteers did all the hard work. They sweated it out in sweltering heat with no one to applaud their efforts. We owe our fantastic experience to them.

And to the women battling breast cancer, I salute you. I honor you. Your stories are inspiring, if not overwhelming.

Early detection is key. Cop a feel. No one knows your Girls better than you do. Hop in the shower and poke around. Get to know your breasts, ladies. I turned 40 last year and got myself a mammogram for my birthday.

If you are in the Raleigh area, the YWCA of the Greater Triangle has an Encoreplus Program to support early detection. Free screenings and breast exams for women 40+ are scheduled twice a month at the YWCA at 554 E. Hargett Street and at Rex Hospital at 2800 Blue Ridge Road. Contact lkimble@ywcatriangle.org or call 919.834.7386 ext. 19 for deets.

Do it. Early detection got Jen treatment right away. You owe it yourself, to your husband, to your children, to your family. It's their body too.

Blowing Over Differences

The difference between men and women is palpable on oh so many levels. To say we are wired differently is a gross understatement (emphasis on gross much of the time). Case in point:

When I hear the term "blow out," I think hair, natch.

When Mac Daddy hears "blow out," he thinks the score of the Carolina/Oklahoma game at half time. Then his mind wanders, he gets a glazed over look, and a wanton smile creeps across his face. His male mind replays the scene and gets stuck on the word "blow."

Differences indeed.

How Bottle Feeding Screwed Up My Sons

With children in tow, even the most mundane of activities becomes an adventure (or a scene). Take our recent outing to Target. The plan was to pick out a birthday gift for a four-year old buddy of Deal's, but the trip turned into an anatomy lesson. With me as the live model.

Bird, Deal, and I were walking hand in hand (which by the way, delights me to no end). We walked past a rack of bras in vivid colors, polka dots, stripes, and argyle prints. Ha ha, I just used the word "rack" in a sentence about bras! Dang, I am funny without even trying. I kill myself.

So as we traipse by, Deal stops, stares intently, his dark brown eyes with excruciatingly long lashes moving side to side as if watching a tennis match. Then he exclaims, "Mommy, I think you need to get the blue one with the green polka dots for your things hanging on your body!"

Then I, of course, stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes darted all around to gauge who was within earshot. That particular Target is across the street from Mac Daddy's office, so with my general good fortune, I expected to see his boss in the One Spot right next to me. As luck would have it, the only people laughing at me were strangers, which was good because things got a whole lot better.

Bird, in his all-knowing five-year old brilliance, tells Deal, "Those things hanging off Mommy are her hips!" He practically spit when enunciating the "s" in hips.

So then Deal says, "Well, Mommy, buy the polka dot one of those for your hips."

Mind you we are all still standing hand in hand in the middle of the aisle. Apparently embarrassment leaks out through your soles because I was still glued to the floor. I could have easily just nodded my head in agreement, shooing the boys on the to the toy department. That would have been the easy road, which I tend not to take. I just couldn't let my sons confuse breasts for hips. I knew not breastfeeding them was bound to fuck them up somehow!

I inhaled deeply and told the boys, "Actually, they are called breasts. My hips are here." (requiring me to drop their hands so I could gesticulate and put my hands on my hips)

Their eyes bugged out of their darling little heads.

They both uttered "Breasts?!" in disbelieving unison.

"Breasts." I said, emphatically overstating the "s."

I thought I was out of the bra strewn woods, ready to move on.

That's when Deal asked, "So what are those round pointy things on there, those other things on your breasts?"

"Nibs!" exclaimed Bird with sheer exasperation.

I give up.

Corporate Sexism or When I Worked with a Couple of Pricks

A tweet from Pundit Mom inspired me to dig deep into my complex past to rekindle the memories I am about to share. Before you read on, let me just say that a) I turned out fine, if not a tish better b) I am glad to not have daughters who might face this uphill climb one day, c) I am doing everything in my power to raise respectful, smart, decent sons.

Back in the day, as in back in 1991, I was in my first real job. The kind of job with a 401k and a pension. The kind of job with yes men, ass kissers, office politics, and lunch meetings. I worked in the financial services industry for a global player who still leads its segment today. It was the 90s so I went to work in a plain navy suit with gold buttons (gasp!), a striped silk shell, pearls, stockings, and sensible pumps. My uber conservative dress code defied my uber progressive leanings. I was a gem to this company, pardon me for being so blunt, if not a bit big headed. Here I was, an Indian woman with a brand name education, impeccable references, an articulate manner.

I was one of few women in my department and I was the only one with a degree in English and history, as opposed to the finance and econ majors I shared cube space with. At first I was mercifully teased for having no financial services background or education but I proved to be a quick study. My retort in defense of my liberal arts education was, "Hey, at least I can read and write about what we're doing here!" I quickly climbed the proverbial corporate ladder, having written a training guide about advanced financial planning topics and techniques and promoted to a national trainer.

And that's where the real fun began.

I have been paradoxically blessed and cursed by genes that make me look a decade younger than my age. In fact, a few years ago the dean of a national business school refused to hire me as a marketing consultant because he thought I was too young and inexperienced (nevermind the unjust ageism issues here). He needed proof of my experience because he thought I was a 23-year old recent college graduate upon simply seeing me at a meeting. I was flirting with 40 at the time. And such has been the lot I've drawn. I'm short (5'0 if you must know), slim (getting less slim with every vanilla bean cupcake I eat), and youthful. That's all dandy anywhere but the boardroom.

In my training days I faced more than my share of sexism. It was my first taste of slimeball men, a jolt coming from the daughter of a straight-laced, if not stoic, man. Join me in a stroll through Memory Lane.

I spent my days talking to financial advisors around the country. Mostly I dealt with the heavy hitters who were living high on the hog, which might explain the pigs they had become. A large care package arrived in my office one afternoon. Everyone gathered around to watch me open this, making a scene, gushing on and on about how cool it was to get a secret admirer gift. To my horror, I pulled out a beach towel, suntan lotion, and a bikini too small to fit on that obnoxious Hollywood Chihuahua. Inside was a note, "I hope to see you in this poolside." We were days away from a conference in Palm Beach. The guy who sent this was a Baptist preacher turned financial whiz, married, three kids. I never did find him to introduce myself.

When I was a trainer we naturally got course evaluations. Mac Daddy and I tag teamed many classes (yes, we were the Pam and Jim of our time). His evaluations were chock full of remarks like "He really knows his stuff." "He has an excellent command of the materials." "I'd take any class he was teaching." Meanwhile, my evaluations, from the exact same classes, for which I wrote the training materials, read, "She looked hot in that black skirt." "I couldn't concentrate because the instructor was so hot." "Watching her made it easier to be away from my wife." "She always dresses so well." Of course the slimy bastards wrote that crap anonymously. When I complained to my boss, brace yourselves here, he said that I should be flattered! Flattered!

In another class, the participants, all men 10-20 years my senior, handed me a wad of cash at the end of our session. They apparently had placed bets on how old I was. The one closest to my age won the pot. I was fuming but maintained my composure. Finally, I asked them what ages they put their money on. Turns out no one was right so I pocketed the cash and walked out of room, never once turning back to see that gaggle of jaw dropped men.

I was in a regional office once when an advisor, visiting from out of town, asked me to show him the sights. I explained that I couldn't. He proceeded to call me a stuck up bitch and other choice taunts. In the office. In front of clients. The glimmer of goodness that came from this particular episode is that a fellow advisor, whom I did not know, overheard this outrage and turned the ass into HR. Now that guy's mama raised him right. Sadly, HR discouraged any action against this guy, who just happened to be a top producer. Money Maker = Invincible.

I faced all kinds of sexism and general assholism in my daily life in the cubicle trenches. The offhand snide comments. The oogling of my chest, resulting in my hand knocking some guys upside the chin. The negative remarks about mothers and wives who work. I learned to suck it up. I learned that complaining, regardless how justified, blackballed me. I learned to sit tight but be firm. I learned to tread lightly. I learned to suck it up. I harbored resentment that ate away at my soul.

I never got my payback but I do believe in divine justice. And I did turn up my moxie to demand a raise one day after finding out that Mac Daddy earned more than I did for the exact same job. That small victory was like a TV perfect golf shot after 12 holes of double bogeys; it was enough to fire me up, enough to find my voice, enough to force some change. I eventually moved on.

I don't know how the workplace has changed for women in the male dominated, old boys network of the financial industry. My fear is that all too many women today share my story. My hope is that men like Mac Daddy, and my sons when they're of age, will turn that wheel.

Women Make the World Go Round: GASP!

North Carolina is a state scarred with the wounds of battle. Its fertile fields, cascading mountains, and illustrious shores have seen the anguish of war. The pain and suffering are still palpable. The lore still very much alive. The history retold. North Carolina has seen its share of battle. The folks here know what it is to don their proverbial armor and hoist their bayonettes to fight the good fight. "Battleground state" is more than a metaphor here.

We are a battleground once more. A political battleground, but the tension still runs fierce.

Obama might actually have a shot to turn the fields of red into a shade of glorious, hopeful blue.

It started with 12 girlfriends having dinner. And like the old shampoo commercial (Breck?), they told two friends. And so on. And so on. And so on...

Four weeks later it was 225 women.

G.A.S.P. was born and has hit a rapid growth spurt.

Hope
Change
Leader
Economy
Integrity
Peace

Those were the words we chanted in unison. It was musical, magical, moving. 225 women dedicated to the same cause: to help elect Barack Obama to the White House.

Sure, it started as Girlfriends Appalled About Sarah Palin. It ended in a fire under all our derrieres to donate, volunteer, canvas, knock, call, feed, stuff, walk, talk, breathe, live, give. We are a sorority of Obama evangelists. Super Heroines. We are all stepping outside our comfort zones. Whether we are stepping in our Manolos, Birkenstocks, Rainbows, Tory Burches, Dansko, Nikes, Pumas, Simples, or No Names is irrelevant. We are stepping out together to lay to rest the disastrous last eight years. We are stepping out to give credence to our system and to women who have worn the mantle of leadership before us. We will not be mocked or used or puppeteered.

The power of women cannot be discounted.

G.A.S.P. is Momentum personified. G.A.S.P. is Motivation. Dedication. Realization. Emancipation.

Women are a force to be reckoned with. Nothing, nothing my friends, stands in the way of our Conviction.

In the words of G.A.S.P.'s battle cry, "We believe that as Wake County goes, so goes North Carolina. As North Carolina goes, so goes America. And as America goes, so goes the world."

Register. Vote. Honor the Women Who Kicked Ass for Us.

Because I am away on a girls' weekend at the beach, I'm posting a very important message from Moms Rising. Pass. It. On.

The voter registration deadline in the state of North Carolina is October 10th. If you want your voice to be heard, if you want to cast a vote in the 2008 Presidential election, you must register. This is less than a month from now.

Please check on the registration deadline for your state. It is imperative. Lives truly depend on this election.

Please make sure that you, your friends, and your family get a chance to vote this November 2008. Your votes are important. We have a neck-in-neck Presidential race. And many local races are decided by fewer than 200 votes. That's you, your friends, and your friends' friends.

If you aren't registered to vote, or you're just not sure, register today:

http://www.momsrising.org/registertovote

Are you sure you're registered to vote? There are many reasons you might not be registered--like having moved or changed your address at all since registering--even if you're still in the same city or zip code. In some states, if you change your political party of choice you may need to re-register. You can also register to vote in the Presidential election (sure to be a close one) even if you didn't register to vote in your state's primary.

Registering is super easy. It only takes 5 minutes to fill out your form - and another 3 to print it, sign it, put a stamp on it and stick it in your mailbox. 8 minutes plus a stamp. Heck, if you're a fast typist (and licker and sticker), it's even less time. Isn't 8 minutes worth it to have a voice in the November 2008 elections!?

Forward this note to your friends and family so they can be sure they're registered to vote, too. Think your friends are already registered? Think again. In the last Presidential election, 36 million female potential voters (many of whom are moms) were not registered at all, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. That's 1 in 12 women!

And, if you're thinking that you might not vote this year, remember, every vote counts, really!

Here are some amazing examples of how a single vote (yes, just one vote!) has made a huge difference: John F. Kennedy won the Presidency in 1960 by getting one more vote per precinct in Illinois; Texas won statehood in 1845 by just one vote; and women won the right to vote in 1920 by a single vote.

Making sure that you, and your friends, are registered to vote in time for the 2008 elections can have a huge impact.

MomPower is sweeping across the nation, and we're changing more than diapers. By making sure you're registered to vote, you're joining up with others to make your voices heard for change. In fact, mobilizing moms to vote in the 2008 election is one of the most crucial things we can do to make sure our country is moving in a family-friendly direction on paid maternity and paternity leave and paid sick days, health insurance for all children, quality, affordable and accessible preschool and after-school programs, flexible workplaces, fair wages and ending salary and hiring discrimination based on parental status and family responsibilities.

*Register to vote now at: http://www.momsrising.org/registertovote

Thanks for doing your part and being a voice for moms and kids everywhere.

P.S. Eighty-eight years ago, on August 18, 1920, Tennessee became the final state to ratify the women's right to vote. All of those moms who came before us, moms who asked for the right to have their voices heard in our political process, will thank you if you register and vote. We do!

Palin in Comparison to Biden

Is this Candid Camera's PR stunt to relaunch the show? Has Ashton Kutcher gone politico on us?

It's all aflutter in the media today. Carville uses the word "vexed" to sum up McCain's odd choice of VP running mate. Begala says the choice is irresponsible. I'm on their team.

Sarah Palin. Heard of her? Nope. Me either. Joe Biden. Heard of him? Thought so. For the record, I'm so voting for his son Beau one day. He's not running for anything right now, but I'm keeping my sights on his political future.

It's no secret that I'm an Obamaholic. Of course I'm biased. But guess what, I'm a blogger, not a journalist. I simply opine, not report.

But seriously folks, let's look at a couple points regarding Ms. Palin.

1) She's a first-term governor of Alaska, the state of 670,704 citizens. And three electoral votes. And before she became governor? She was mayor of a town of 9700 people. Dudes, that's waaaayyy smaller than even Mac Daddy's hometown in west-of-nowhere Wisconsin! I bet most people in the lower 48 consider Alaska a foreign country.

2) Her lack of experience is laughable. Imagine the crib sheets she's gonna need when asked who our top foreign enemies are and how would she deal with them. Could she name all those dictators we're dodging? I can't but I'm not on a presidential ticket. Some doofus on Fox News actually said he thinks Palin has great foreign policy experience because Alaska is close to Russia. Hardy har har! Those conservatives are funny. Or are they just stupid? I somehow think the guy was not joking.

3) Palin could be McCain's granddaughter. Ageism is alive and well as much as sexism is. But guess what? I don't want a geezer drilling holes in my teeth, cutting out my tumors, flying my 747, driving my son's school bus, or controlling the red button. I don't even want the shaky handed white haired lady with too much red lipstick in the creases of her mouth at the Chanel counter apply my eyeliner. Yes, I am an ageist. But look, the reality is I'm petrified (see point #4).

4) McCain is 72 years old. He has battled cancer 4 times. He's not a spunky guy by any stretch. Should he not fulfill his bucket list, America is left with an inexperienced vice president to take the helm. Not to be morbid, but this is a real concern. McCain has defied the odds over his lifetime. He's no cat with nine lives. Not a hep cat, fo sho. We're at war with two countries and face potential nuclear threats from two more. Do you really want a newbie to make the call?

5) Did I mention that McCain met Sarah Palin one time before choosing her as his running mate? One time six months ago. Geesh, arranged marriages in India start off with more intimacy than that! I bet Pawlenty feels pretty snubbed. Romney too. I have more years of experience in student government than Palin has in public service. And look, we're only 4 years apart in age. I bet some of my schools were bigger than the population of Wasilla, Alaska.

Now let me tell you what's on my mind from a mom's perspective. Sure, Sarah Palin is a mom. A working mom, a term that makes me shudder. WE ARE ALL WORKING MOMS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! Now she's a hero for giving birth to a Down's Syndrome baby. Rather, a hero for keeping him. Devastating, no doubt. I'm not discounting the courage, faith, and unconditional love she and her family demonstrated. But listen, plenty of people have challenges and heartaches. I am so turned off that the media is using baby Trig as a pawn. What really eats me is that the McCain camp puts Palin on a pedestal because she is a working mom. If I hear one more thing about "from breast pump to Blackberry" I'm gonna poke someone's eyes out. This is a farce. Am I the only one to see the transparency of this decision?

In this case, the woman is spotlighted for balancing motherhood with her career, yet so many of McCain's policies and perspectives squash women. Fair wage? Nope. Education for women? Nope, they don't need it, remember? Maternity leave? Sure, unpaid and your job's not guaranteed. And healthcare for kids? Nah. Pull yourself up by those bootstraps and get yourself some of that tasty orange St. Joseph's aspirin. Palin is nothing more than an exploited pawn to make the McCain ticket look like it truly embraces the plight of the working mom and women in general. Seriously hanging-on Hillary supporters, are you going to fall for that? You are a smarter bunch than that. I could stomach Meg Whitman over Palin.

Does it really help women everywhere when Alaska magazine puts Palin on the cover with the headline "America's Hottest Governor?" Yeah, I get the double entrendre. The problematic piece is the subhead "she's more than just a pretty face." Excuse me while I upchuck in the corner. Would we ever, ever make such statements about a male?

Here are some talking points that Republicans committed to memory today (I know this because I hear them all saying the same thing over and over again. Cliches, all of them.):

She governs the biggest land mass state. I guess size does matter if you're Republican.

When Sarah puts her mind to something, she does it. Well, ain't such gumption sweet? Just what I want in my PTA president.

She's got grit. Whoa, cowboy! I live in a house of dirt, I don't need more grit.

She's a mother. Um, yeah (insert Office Space inflection here). Last I heard the same people who tout family values don't actually value motherhood. Ironic, no? Picture this, a Democratic woman has a baby and goes back to the rank and file of work in six days. Heroine or heretic? You bet your ass that the Republican pundits would declare her a disgrace who was unfit for motherhood as well as a hormonal twit unproductive in the workforce.

She's a hunter. Am I to be impressed that she shoots the caribou and fries it up in a pan? Someone alert Charley to make a new ad campaign. Oh, and someone actually said that moose is Palin's "favorite meat product." I don't have a favorite meat product. Isn't Spam a meat product? Is that really the best they could pull out for her bio?

She has a son with Down Syndrome and a son off to Afghanistan. As my friend Julie said, it's like they pulled Sarah Palin from central casting. Is she really a mob member in the witness protection program who's been given a new identity? Is Sarah Palin real or is she an avatar? Are we in Second Life?

Sarah Palin is the most loved governor in all of America. I bet I could find 670,000 to give me an approval rating of 80% too. Just give me time to find more friends on Facebook. Let's not forget that GW Bush had approval ratings in the 70s at one time, and look at what a complete ninny he has proven himself to be.

Now it's clear that I too am vexed by McCain's choice in running mate. More than vexed, I am sore. Sore that he's choosing a woman as a political pawn to win the election rather than really, really think about the long-term ramifications on our country. But I guess being self-centered is the Republican way.

Tell me something I don't know!

You must read this before you continue.

Is this really what researchers need to spend their grant dollars doing? The next thing you know some fancy pants PhD from MIT is going to tell me that the latest research shows that college fraternity parties encourage binge drinking among 19-year old boys or that the more often a teenage LiLo wannabe wears words across her ass the less likely she is to get a BA in Economics.

Of course men create more housework for women! The male researcher should have just asked his wife. Or his mother. In this case, a focus group of one would have been sufficient to draw conclusions. Here's my favorite quote from Frank, "And the situation gets worse for women when they have children." No shit. Allow me to gather myself and readjust since falling over backwards from my Aeron.

Let's start with the little details of oh, say BIRTH. We do the hard work (as they say, it ain't called labor for nuthin'). The problem is that labor doesn't end when the nurse lays that writhing miracle in your arms. The fun just begins. We get to wear a diaper for weeks while trying to feed a child who gnaws on our nipples for hours a day. And never mind the juggling of other little ones running around, remembering to take the Lean Cuisine out of the microwave so we can get some much needed nourishment to keep the milk flowing, change some diapers, throw in laundry, and find time to sneak in a shower. Oh yeah, and then we're supposed to pick up our husband's strewn shoes and socks and briefcase to clear a path to the stairs and help him find his keys that he refuses to hang on the conveniently located hook by the front door.

Harumph. Frank, may I suggest you go research something more meaningful, like why women still think Republicans are helping our cause.