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.

5:00 Fridays: Tipping My Glass to Laura Bennett

I recently got a copy of a fine read Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos from the author herself. I've even exchanged emails with the author herself. I feel like it's a brush with fame. Well, if said brush were but one hair thick. A brush nonetheless. And nevermind that I have never owned a pair of stilettos in my life.

Gasp!

The author of Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos, Laura Bennett, is someone I'd like to have a weekly cocktail with. We'd have our 5:00 Fridays inked in our calendar books, and it would be a weekly standing date while our boys would tear up the joint. We'd kick off our shoes, hers, 4-inch fabulous Manolos, mine, more modest cowboy boots or handmade leather sandals my aunt brought me back from India. I'd drool over her shoes and bags while she'd secretly be thankful I'm not her size. Then Bird would deck someone or Deal's whining would reach epic levels and she'd ask us to leave.

Laura and I would make quite a pair. She towering at close to six feet, while I stand at a solid five feet if I throw my chest out, yank my shoulders back, and hold my head up. She, a redheaded red lipsticked beauty. Me, a brown skinned and eyed, dark eye-circled, 40-something with a swoosh of black eyeliner and lip balm. I think I'd mostly like to hang out with Laura in hopes of her cool factor, sense of style (Did I mention she was on Project Runway and made it excrutiatingly close to the end?), confidence, and ability to shake it off.

You see, Laura (We're totally on a first name basis. I mean, we did exchange emails and all.), lives in Manhattan in a two bedroom loft. With FIVE boys (her daughter is lucky enough to be away at college...incidentally, her daughter and I went to the same boarding school...but let's just say I didn't graduate from the same school). And of course Laura has a husband, who's really like boy #6. And here I thought a lousy two boys and a husband (boy #3) was bad. Even my dog is a male. Being outnumbered isn't the issue as much as the sheer dirt and noise. You did know the meaning behind my blog's name, right? If two boys can run amok and wreak havoc, I can only have nightmares about what five boys can do.

Laura's life is pretty much a gassy cloud of burps, farts, shrills, guffaws, spills, and well, Chaos.

Yet she thrives in it. What I learned from reading this laugh-aloud funny book was that I could use a lesson in taking it easy. I'm clearly wound too tightly, and it ain't from my Spanx (which, thanks to Laura, I must run out and buy because it's apparently the miracle non-surgical surgery fix). My version of letting loose is to declare Sunday as no-making-the-bed day. In fact, on a recent vacation Bird cleared Deal's stuffed animals off the hotel bed and started to make it. I stopped him, but part of me was damn proud. In an admittedly sick way.

I'm a stickler for rules, manners, healthy food, home cooking, blah blah blah. After reading about Laura's philosophy on mothering, take care of yourself first (akin to putting on your oxygen mask first as Laura recounts), I realize I am piling on loads of couch fodder for my sons' future therapy. But can I really exchange my rigid cookin' ways for a more fabulous MO? I mean, it doesn't seem that Laura's sons are any worse for the wear. Actually, they appear quite smart, gracious, and downright funny.

And yes, she has help. Dear God, she must. But let me be the first to say that having help doesn't make Laura less of a mother. There are no blue ribbons in motherhood, so get off your soapbox and make room for us all to share a piece of the winner's circle.

I might not be as relaxed, charming, talented, and funny as Laura Bennett but I could at least don some red lipstick and stop yelling for a spell. Luckily for me it's 5:00 Friday so I can put up my kicky-shoed feet and relax with a cocktail.

This one's for Laura. Her candor. Her humor. Her style.

Now go buy her book. If you don't laugh aloud I'll buy you a drink. Make that three. Because if you don't laugh out loud, it clearly indicates that you are a fool with no sense of humor and a corncob stuck up your ass.


DIFYY

3 ounces of Hendrick's gin
1 ounce of Stirrings Bitter Lemon Soda
1 cucumber slice

Drop a few ice cubes into a highball glass. Pour in the gin. Top off with Bitter Lemon Soda. Float a cucumber slice in there to make it look fancy and spa-like. Put on some of that long lasting lipstick that doesn't wear off, you know, the kind flight attendants and Mary Hart must wear, and sip away. You'll tune out that chaos in no time.

Stepford Mom Encounters

Snark alert! If you are searching for a feel good story about rainbows and unicorns and a couple hand holding verses of Kumbaya, look elsewhere. In fact, you'll never find that here so surely you're misdirected, misguided, or mistaken.

I happen to live in an area teeming with Stepford Moms. I bet they lurk where you live too. I have a hunch their uniforms are different in each locale. Surely the Stepford Moms inside the beltline of Raleigh don't look like the hipster chic moms of Santa Monica or the earthy bohemian moms of Portland. I'm talking about the women who have dogeared Lisa Birnbach's Preppy Handbook and are on the perpetual hunt for the ideal bloody mary recipe. The prep school crowd, whether they went to one or not.

Full disclosure, I went to prep school and I live in the same zip code in the same coveted neighborhood as many of these moms. I am not, repeat not, one of them. For starters, I am likely one of five brown people in my whole zip code. I've met one other brown person who happens to be a good friend (but not just because we're brown). The Stepford Moms are not brown, at least until August after three months of sunning themselves at the beach or the club. They don't grace the municipal city pools, no siree. I'm talking about my town's version of Kate Middleton wannabes. A whole swarm of women Holden Caulfield would loathe.

Allow me to illustrate my point. Here's what I just saw in a habitat known to be a common gathering ground for Stepford Moms, the public library, in said zip code.

It is fact that these women have fantastic taste and svelte pilateed bodies. Not a thigh touches or an ass sags, breasts are perky, natch (with the help of Doc Op or Wacoal). The majority of the Stepford Moms are blondes, approximately 2% of them are natural blondes. Not a soul has red hair and freckles. The typical outfit on a spring day consists of white designer jeans with a striped grosgrain belt (mostly I see Paige, J Brand, Hudson, or Citizens of Humanity: the Sevens are reserved for roughing it on the playground or for preschool volunteering), Tory Burch flats in colors that are not practical in the least bit but nonetheless fabulous (lime green, orange, mustard yellow), Lily Pulitzer tunic or Trina Turk ruffled blouse, hobo or otherwise slouchy bag (lots of Kooba and Marc Jacobs), Nicole Richie-esque sunglasses bearing an obvious logo perefectly propped upon their heads (I'm guessing there are a lot of fake Chanels.), and something monogrammed, like a sunglass case, library tote bag, or water bottle koozie. And monogrammed children are a given. I could write a whole separate post on the culture of monogramming among this set. These are not women who buy clothes at Target, Old Navy, or god forbid, the thrift store or yard sales.

The Stepford Moms chatter about all of life's most important topics. When to go to the beach, what private racquet club has opened up the waiting list, tennis match pairings, nanny bargains, private school application pitfalls, sample sales and boutique party nights, Bunco, diamond cleaning, interior decorating guffaws, and the latest fiasco involving the help (their word, not mine). From what I've overheard, the economy, health care, education, reproductive rights, civil liberties, civil unions, equal pay, planet earth, or CSAs do not creep into conversation, even in passing. I'm guessing these women are not Facebook fans of Rachel Maddow or NPR. But maybe I don't give them enough credit.

What strikes me is not just the apparent shallowness of this ilk; I am in awe of how they all look and talk and laugh and point and toss their hair in the exact same way. I swear if you put a Glamour magazine black bar across all their eyes you'd think you were looking at the same woman. Apparently individuality is not a core value among this set (my favorite quote ever about individuality is found in this song).

They all try so hard to be the same, sound the same, think the same. It seems to me that they are afraid. Afraid to be themselves, to stray from the crowd, to think irreverent thoughts, to break the pink and green mold, to turn their paradigms sideways and backwards and upside down. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of not belonging. Afraid of being singled out. Afraid of being exposed. Afraid of being an individual.

What scares me is a flock of lemmings.

How I Lost 11 Inches in a Day

I did something drastic recently. Yes, drastic.

I lost 11 inches.

And I'm not talking waist line (not that I couldn't use it).

I'm for sure not talking height or I'd be writing to you propped up on a couple of phone books like I did in driver's ed (cuz I'd be 4'1).

Read on, friends...

You gotta love a place that gives out Blo Pops to every client. This, plus the massage shampoo chairs, wine, and water with a slice of lemon, fantastic music, and oh, the awesome staff and haircuts too. This place is totally worth the drive. And you know that means a lot from me because I rarely leave my five mile radius of convenience.

This is the scene of the incident. Where I took drastic measures. But thankfully not into my own hands.

This is me. I'm wearing a cape, which is as close to a super hero as I'll ever get. Please ignore my dark circles. I blame my mother for them. As in genetics, not that she's personally responsible for my stress and lack of sleep.

Meet Rachael. She freaking rocks. She's a hot mama of two. And did I mention she rocks? If I had a million dollars to blo (get it? ha ha!) I'd build a house for Rachael right next to mine so she could do my hair everyday and be my Ken Paves.


Here's my 11 inches. My ponytail died a peaceful death surrounded by supportive friends and the bass of an awesome farewell soundtrack.

This is me feeling freedom for the first time in years. This style might have worked in the 80s with the whole bi-level shag thing going on. But Rachael wouldn't leave me hanging like that. And wow does my hair look shiny. Must be the flash.

See how happy I am. I don't usually go around hugging my stylist, but this outcome deserved it.

Check us out. A picture of perfection. My smile is not fake. Rachael's might be because I think I am encroaching on her personal space and I'm not wearing that protective cape. Also, do you see how we are both short? I love friends who don't tower over me. I don't experience that often. I do, however, think this hair style makes me look tall. OK, tallish.

And voila! Me. Rocking a short do and loving it. LOVING it! I need new earrings and necklaces now. Another reason to shop. Just what Mac Daddy wants to hear.

And those 11 inches didn't end up in a Hefty garbage bag or clogging some drain. They're on their way to Locks of Love. My shorn locks will be made into a wig for a lucky kid somewhere. Hopefully not for someone with naturally blonde eyebrows.

It's a Wrap.

We are taking a family trip to LA in a couple weeks. I'll have to pack less in my carry on bag since both boys are potty trained now (insert crazy happy dance here). I'll tuck in a change of clothes just in case...fingers crossed! No diapers and baby gear that we needed in the past. No formula. No sippy cups. Same snacks and diversions. The snacks are mostly carbs since it's not so easy to pack bananas and apples. I've tried it, and my bag smelled like mushed bananas for weeks. I swear, I would have been the pied piper of monkeys had I taken that bag to the zoo. And let's face it, carrot sticks are not a fun plane snack so I resort to things like trail mix, pretzels, plantain ships, granola bars, and fruit snacks as a treat. Oh, and lollipops. Helps with the whole air pressure thing while passing for a super treat. Diversions are now of the electronic variety: laptop with DVDs, Leapster, iPod. Does anyone make headphones that stay on a kid's head or in his ears?

Lots to consider when trying to ensure the comfort of my kids and the fellow passengers around us who drew the short stick when seats were assigned. Airplanes are notoriously cold. No need to be nipping out cold in the air, folks. Seriously, does anyone else have this problem? I'm pretty certain my headlights aren't helping the pilot see. I wear layers and pack two thin large receiving blankets for Bird and Deal (takes up way less room than a couple sweatshirts). Mac Daddy must fend for himself, and it's not my fault that he always forgets a sweater for the plane. I just have to endure the complaining.

I believe in looking chic and being comfortable on a plane. My parents taught me and my brother that at a young age, and I'm telling you, it makes a difference. I dress my kids accordingly in something matching and adorable (not Little Lord Fauntleroyish, however). I used to travel in jeans and a cute jacket or something. You'll never, ever catch me in sweats or wind suit (on a plane or elsewhere for that matter). And sneakers? Pshaw! Not a chance (even before the whole stripping down to bare feet to walk where 76,000 people have walked barefoot before you thing started). Since having kids I've resorted to sporting jeans or a jersey dress with a machine washable black cardigan. My fave black cardigan is now more the color of a 1932 penny found in the bottom of a well. What's a girl to do? Jean jacket? Another cardigan? Pashmina?

Then I discovered Adam Peele, aka Ahpeele.

The chic little kimono wrap I ordered from Etsy arrived today. I love it, love it, love it! The design is spectacular and surprisingly versatile. The color is neutral enough without being boringly so. I'm going to wear this wrap everyday until I die. The cotton is soft yet stretchy, but not in that if-you-stretch-it-it-will-stay-stretched-out kind of way. The wrap is perfect with jeans or a strappy sundress. Oh, and the best part? Something about the cut of the wrap makes my pipes look, well, cut. Make that well-cut. (God, don't you just love language?!)I think I'm going to pair mine with a brown tank (to hide spilled coffee stains and chocolate fingerprints), jeans, and slip on flats for the plane. Don't be surprised if I'm wearing that little number in every single family photo. I'm totally packing every outfit around my new wrap.

00. The new 0.

So there are apparently enough women out there who are 5 feet tall (like I am) and 88 pounds (definitely not me) to warrant the fashion industry creating a size 00. Now this is not new, though it is newsworthy. I'm not mathy, in fact, I like to say that I'm the only Indian in the world who is bad at math and science. OK, so that schtick is old for those who know me. Nonetheless, while I was no Mathlete, I don't recall learning about a double 00 unless there was a 7 at the end. The integer preceding 0 is -1, right? So why don't we size those doll clothes made for hideously skinny women a -1? Oh, pardon me. I meant those women who are naturally petite. Wink. Wink. I suppose a size denoted by a negative number would carry a negative perception. Because we all know that the introduction of a size 00 is completely positive. I mean, now those skeletons have a place to shop aside from the little girls' department! Oh yeah! But let's face it, even the girls' department is looking more and more hoochie everyday.

Are women really skinny enough to warrant a size 00 or are clothing designers pulling a fast one on us, creating vanity sizing to boost our egos? Either way you look at it, the practice perpetuates unhealthy, unrealistic expectations. Thin does not equal beautiful. Let's get that straight.

I am 5 feet tall. 105 pounds, give or take that time of the month when I consume more chocolate than anything else in the food pyramid. I am naturally petite. Anything smaller is plain unsightly. Unhealthy. Unnatural. Yes, I have my mushy parts, my thighs are practically Siamese twins, my arms jiggle. I can't complain...well, not too much anyway.

The fashion industry has a long history of creating unreasonable physical "norms" in our society. Girls and women of all ages fall into the trap. Present company included. I lived in a sorority house in college that had a designated puking bathroom. There was a silver spoon on the back of the toilet that the girls used to gag themselves. They'd clean up the spoon and lay it back down for the next bulimic victim. It was a secret sisterhood within a sisterhood. Gross on so many levels. I was horrified when I learned of this practice, and the house mother and sorority president turned the other way. I later found out that the sorority president was a frequent spooner. No wonder her figure looked like that of a 10-year old boy.

My childhood friend Lisa died at age 16. She was always taller than the rest of us, though being a grown woman of 5 feet tall, you can imagine that everyone was taller than me my whole life. She was chunky, but in that baby fat way that you knew she'd outgrow. I moved away and lost touch with Lisa. We were living in different cities during those gawky, confusing, teenage years when we were learning to understand our new bodies and struggling to get to know and like ourselves. Apparently Lisa's baby fat wasn't melting away with puberty so she took control of the situation. That's when she became anorexic. Severely so. After a long battle that left her body weak, decrepit, and unrecognizable, Lisa's heart gave out.

This, my friends, is what anorexia looks like. It is not sexy. Or pretty. Or desirable.

That was my first brush with death. And my first brush with eating disorders and the battle to be thin. Granted, I have been naturally thin my whole life, even being force fed protein shakes for a while to try to keep weight on my tiny frame. Ironically, I was downing calorie laden shakes at the same time Lisa was starving herself 200 miles away. One in the name of health, the other in the name of vanity.

Lisa's ideals of pretty and thin were from 1978.

Fast forward 30 years to what our little girls (and grown women) see now. Bratz dolls, Victoria's Secret Pink ads, Britney, Lindsay, Lauren, Miley, the list goes on. Even DQ has gotten into the act. An entire generation of girls worships celebrities and tries to emulate their outrageous diet fads and styles. Seriously, we're subjecting our children to unrealistic ideals from such a young, tender age. A 5-year old girl should not be worrying about her big belly, as a friend's daughter does. Such influences are coming from the flippant ways we degrade our own bodies, the flurry of inescapable marketing messages, the Disney princesses with waists the size of my upper arm, and those damn celebrity rags.

Look in any catalog, magazine, billboard, movie. You'll see women who don't relish the pure joy of butter oozing on hot bread or giggles over strawberries and homemade vanilla ice cream. What's worse is those women likely smoke to keep the weight off. And we pay them TOP DOLLAR for it. Be thin, be pretty, make a shitload of money. Be smart, be healthy, eek out a living. The pretty girl visions our children conjure up are detrimental to them both physically and emotionally. Lisa starved herself to be thin, simply a manifestation of larger, deeper self-esteem issues. It's our responsibility to arm our children with confidence, self-worth, and dignity.

What messages are we sending to girls these days? Are we encouraging them to be smart, assertive, passionate, powerful? Or pretty, demure, silent, passive? Isn't it our responsibility to society, to our girls and boys, to reinvent the definition of beauty and femininity? To establish the difference between "fit" and "skinny?" Sure, there's a severe problem with obesity in our country. The focus should be on FIT, regardless which side of the weight coin you land on.

A size 00 is an outrage. And that's coming from a girl who wore a 0 until she bore two healthy children. I've come to grips with never wearing a 0 again. I donated all those clothes, with no remorse, tears, or regrets for not having done more crunches or time on the elliptical machine. And I'm cool with that. My body carried and delivered two healthy children. Nothing defines beautiful more perfectly.

Resell. Reuse. Recycle.

I loved being pregnant. I ate with abandon and loved not having to suck in my stomach for a good seven months. And I admit, the elastic waistband was my best friend. God, I miss that. My slight frame of 100 pounds did flourish to 145 when Bird was growing in me. That's almost HALF my body weight for those readers who never aced a math class. And to think I lost and gained it all back with Deal. For the record, I did lose it a second time too. Nonetheless, pregnancy was a piece of cake...and a bowl of ice cream, a handful of cheese fries, a decaf vanilla latte, and mango lassis. Maternity clothes were even cute and getting cuter every season!

Birth was easy too. Please don't smack me next time you see me. Granted, I had the modern medicine benefit of an epidural (This girl had nothing to prove. Clearly millions of women before me gave birth without drugs. I know it can be done. Not for me. I figure we don't get a root canal without Novocaine these days so why shirk the comforts of medicine? I'm not preaching epidurals for all, just stating my experience.) Plus, I swear by prenatal yoga to open things up. Anyway, three hours from start to finish (labor pain to baby in arms), three pushes, done. Mac Daddy jokes that he didn't even get to crack into the snacks we packed. Bunion surgery was way worse than childbirth.

So pregnancy was a dream, childbirth an ease, motherhood...a different story that you'll glimpse through the annals of this blog. After two healthy pregnancies and two healthy boys, this girl is done. I sold or donated all my maternity clothes, though I was tempted to hang on to a few discrete pieces for those days I needed some fat pants.

If your closets are still bulging with maternity wear you'll wear no more, check out Belly Bundles. You can consign your maternity clothes, make some cash, and be green! Yes, recycling clothing is an easy way to treat our planet gingerly. If you're in the market for new chic maternity fashions, Belly Bundles will be a dream. You can buy twice as many hot outfits for the price of one new one at Motherhood. Maternity clothes get such little wear and tear so all the pieces are in top shape. And with designers like Michael Stars and Japanese Weekend, you're sure to find some awesome additions to your growing addition. I spent waaaayyy too much time window shopping and I'm never going to be pregnant again. Hmmmm...that almost makes me shed a tear.

Haute Momma

Now this is what I want my boys to don on Mother's Day. You know I'm not opposed to using Bird and Deal as my personal billboards. It's always fun to gauge the public's expressions of wonderment, disdain, and judgement. It's not like the boys are sporting this. Even I have boundaries and a modicum of taste.

Regardless what your kids wear, it's a reflection of you. Like it or not. No different than what you drive, where you live, where you shop, how you vote, where you worship, what you in fact wear. Your kids represent Brand You. Now go get them some duds that tell the world how much you rock.

Rockin' it.

I saw my coffee shop guys yesterday. They were yuckin' it up again with their usual backwoods panache. They sat outside since it was finally a spring day here, so the whole posse was shrouded in Joe Camel fumes. Cancer perfume, as I like to call it. A few of the gents were sporting cowboy hats and sweatshirts that had random sayings like "Autism Run 1998" and "University of Smith & Wesson." Hardy har har har. Them guys are funny, I tell ya! I didn't stick around to hear their shards of wisdom since I prefer to keep my kids away from places that leave them smelling like the ashtray in my dad's Chevy Malibu from back in the day.

I know that secretly Mac Daddy would love to be like the coffee shop guys when he gets old. He dreams of being a toothless curmudgeon sitting his ass in a rocking chair all day long, commenting on all the nonsense that passes him by. He'd for sure have a toothpick to pick the strawberry seeds out of the last three teeth in his mouth. He'd have dentures, but they'd sit in an Efferdent bath all day because he won't be bothered to deal with gluing them in. Mac Daddy will see aging as license to say and do what he pleases. Hmmmmm....much like a preschooler.

As for me, I see myself aging gracefully a la Audrey Hepburn. I plan on staying fit (well, at least as fit as I am now, which is certainly far from gold, or bronze, medal shape) and being hip enough to be cool but not too hip as to be precociously annoying. I dream about having a fabulous commercial grade kitchen with a fireplace and Architecture Digest caliber outdoor entertaining space. I guess I'll be whipping up mashed osso bucco for Mac Daddy and all his toothless buddies.

What a pair we'll make. Yin and Yang. Oliver and Lisa. Beauty and the Beast.

Sure, I also dream about a gloriously happy family with no signs of dysfunction, gorgeous grandchildren, and sons who are gainfully employed by Johns Hopkins Hospital as a brotherly surgical team. No one wants to hear me wax about that crap. Of course we all wish for world peace, or at least family harmony. We all want our children to be smart, fulfilled, and rich (Yes, rich. No one dreams of having poor children. Someone's gotta fund our long-term care.).

All of us, regardless of social stature, wealth, education, geography, or upbringing share the same goals and hopes for our families. It goes without saying that the whole world wishes for the same blah blah blah that beauty pageant contestants are made of.

As for me, I just want that iconic Chanel jacket before I'm too hunched over to rock it and too blind to admire myself in it.

TSPUM: Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Momwear

I do not claim to be a fashionista, fashion slave, or trend setter. OK, admittedly I can be a fashion victim. No one will ever add "Style Icon" to my epitaph. Audrey Hepburn I ain't.

That doesn't stop me from having an opinion on what moms wear.

Here's the Dirt & Noise Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Mom Wear:

Mom jeans. Burn them. Turn them into dog bed covers. Use them as ground cover to keep weeds at bay. Just do not wear them. A high waist, full thigh, and tapered leg is not flattering on anyone. Even my nine foot tall super model friend MH wouldn't look good in them. And trust me, she looks good in everything because clothes are made to fit a nine foot tall size 0 these days.

Keds. Seriously, why are you wearing the same sneaks you wore when you were 7-years old? Mischa Barton pockets the paycheck, but the girl doesn't have one lousy pair of Keds in her closet. Go ahead and sport some cool Pumas instead.

Wind suits. Track suits. Call it what you will. Your clothing should not make more noise than your children. The whoosh whoosh sound of your thighs rubbing together in a pair of nylon sweat pants is warning enough to make others leave the playground premises. How about some capri sweat pants and a cute hoodie instead? Just don't wear "Juicy" across your ass. And by all means, don't match your husband unless you are on the same Olympic team.

Your husband's button down shirt. Only my friend Newman can pull off this look. And that's with her husband's crisp white oxford tied in a knot atop her Lilly capris. Sure, it's kinda sexy to wear your husband's shirt after a quickie, but keep it contained to your own home. Most women don't look so chic in oversized menswear. You'll find some lovely white shirt options at Boden. Or Target. Or Old Navy. Just wear one sized and cut for a woman. Promise you won't go all 80's on me and pair your husband's shirt with black leggings.

Anything with licensed characters. Even Bird and Deal don't wear Pooh or Nemo on their clothing. Certainly grown women should not either. It's bad enough that they make diaper bags emblazoned with that crap. Leave Minnie Mouse on your kid's lunch box where she belongs. I find it ridiculous that the Disney Store even has an adult apparel category.

For the flattering but ridiculous Momwear category:
Rock and Republic jeans, kitten heels, and a Stella McCartney top...at the park. Clearly these women don't get down in the sandbox with their kids. High fashion is not for play dates. Save the Lucky Magazine getup for date night. Your kids deserve machine washable garb if your time with them is indeed quality. And PS, get over your big bad self.

Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive.

What other mom apparel horrifies you? What should we add to the Treaty?

Find your own swan.

Overheard at the dentist's office:

"Why are you scarfing down lunch now? I thought you went out for lunch. Where you been?"

"I go tanning everyday at lunch. I'm dating this new guy who says he doesn't like me pale so I tan now."


WHHHAAAAAATTTTT THE F*%#?! I almost fell out of my seat, but I feared dropping People magazine, and I really, really needed to finish reading about Reese and Jake.

Now listen here: Dump his sorry, hairy ass right now. Text him. Email him. Write it in graffiti on a city bus. Stop taking his calls. Delete his messages. And then tell the whole world about what an A-rated prick he is.

Then go take a good look in the mirror. One arm on opposite shoulder and squeeze. Self-hug, honey. Then hug those little boys of yours and realize what an amazing creature God made you. Embrace your beauty and teach your kids to value people from the inside out. I'd roll over in a bin of snakes if Bird and Deal ever made a woman feel like she needed to lie in a bed of cancer rays to be worthy. The shame.

No woman, or man for that matter, but I'm dealing solely with women's self esteem issues here, should be made to feel like she needs to change for a man. (Fellow X-chromosomes make us feel bad enough.) "He does not define your self worth!" I wanted to scream. I was seething inside. And I wish she was too rather than accepting such nonsense as fact. An order, even.

We have enough screwed up messages telling us to be thinner yet curvier, erase those pores, smooth away that cellulite, pucker those lips, whiten those teeth, lift those boobs, carve away that belly. And let's not forget the photoshopping going on to make us think our hair should be a shiny mane strong enough to tie a barbell into it. We're turning into a nation of expressionless, Botoxed, tucked, bleached, blown out Stepford Hos.

Stop the madness. We are all victims of fashion, me included. But I make my own calls. I recently bought a spring little Lilly dress for a wedding rehearsal dinner in Florida with a resort casual dress code. What's more perfect than Lilly for such an affair? Unlike Mac Daddy, the uniform of khaki pants and a collared shirt wasn't going to work for this fashion maven seeking an outfit that would never meet playground sand.

So I try on my new dress, and here's Mac Daddy's comment: "I like the dress, just not on you."

Guess what, I wore it anyway. And for the record, I got a jillion compliments. Between you and me, I think Mac Daddy didn't like the dress because it wasn't clingy enough to show me off to his buddies whose wives aren't MILFs. Had he articulated such a thing, I would have worn a burlap bag emblazoned with "I'm a hottie in my own mind."

Confidence, ladies. We've earned it. Guard it vehemently. Preach it.

Sock it to 'em.

To the hyper woman at Helios this afternoon who was worked up about how quickly she's aging: Get over it. It beats the alternative. I'll take some gray hair and wrinkles over a pine box or copper patina urn any day.

And here's a tip that I won't even charge you for. Ditch the Christmas socks. It's March 19 for criminy's sake! And by the way, holiday theme socks are a bad, very bad, idea (unless you're a preschool teacher, of course, but even those should be donned at the appropriate holiday). The wacky little red socks peppered with Christmas trees and stars ain't helpin' you look any younger. Or cooler. Or hipper. Or sassier.

Happy Feet

It's no secret that I love shoes. I even dream about them. Seriously, one of my frequent dreams is that I open up my extraordinarily large, organized closet to find umpteen boxes of new shoes. Stacked high in clear Rubbermaid boxes and labeled with my new label maker. I delight in my options and try on everything in a frenzy to decide what to wear. It sucks waking up realizing that I'll be donning flip flops or cowboy boots...again.

I equally love shoes for Bird and Deal, even though they want to wear sneakers everyday. Apparently Mac Daddy told them those are the "fast" shoes so anything else I buy doesn't cut the mustard. We will be flying with the kids this summer so sneakers are not an option for expediting an already lengthy security regimen. With my luck, the boys will be fiddling with the laces, creating knots that Salvatore Sarno couldn't untie. Bird is particularly adept at screwing up his laces since he's in the I-want-to-tie-my-own-damn-shoes mode.

In walk Toms Shoes.

These canvas slip ons are as cool as Vans of yore but serve a higher purpose. For every pair you buy, Toms' donates a pair to a child in need. That means that by one simple act of buying shoes (!) that you'd buy anyway, you are doing a good deed. Is there any better motivation to shop?! That's a justification even I haven't used yet. Trying to ignite the economy one Amex charge at a time is a ploy that's not working on Mac Daddy, but even he can't argue with Toms.

The shoes are way cool in a hunky surfer kind of way. The boys can put them on themselves, a real time saver in the security jungle. Based on available sizes, only Deal can sport the Toms. Bird will undoubtedly get jealous, meaning that I'll be shooting off a note to Blake Mycoskie asking him to stock larger sizes. And don't think for a second that I won't be ordering a pair for myself too.

Note that this, like my other unsolicited endorsements and opinions, are unpaid. I'm simply sharing the wealth of knowledge that I garner from shoe surfing.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Ladies, we spend so much time shopping, dieting, primping, plucking, shaving, exfoliating, taping, tucking, concealing, glossing, flossing, painting, teasing, curling, brushing, waxing, poofing, and toning. Why, when you work so hard to look so good, would you ruin it with a bad, bad case of VPL? It's plain inexcusable.

This one's for the fabulously dressed woman I saw at Uniquities this morning. She was a knockout until I saw her from behind. No amount of riches can make a trendy, high fashion outfit look good when you're sporting VPL. I'm pretty sure Phillip Lim would have been aghast. I beg you, ladies, invest in a full length mirror. And use it.

When will it Spring?

This time of year makes me antsy. The way I feel about spring is the way Bird and Deal feel for the weeks, no months, thanks to marketing, leading up to Christmas. I'm not anxious to open the wrapped loot under the tree. I just want to free my feet. Spring marks pedicure season, which means sandal season. I don't need an excuse to buy shoes, but the turn to warmer days is a pretty damn good one.

I'm just itching to rip off my socks and boots and sport some cute little wedge sandals with a flirty sundress or don flip flops with madras shorts and a tank top. Sweaters, coats, tights and the whole ilk of winter wear are so confining. I hate layers. I hate coats. I hate shivering. Chattering teeth is so unbecoming. I left 10 years of frozen snot and icy eyelashes behind when we moved from the midwest 6 years ago. I miss the novelty of snow but not enough to ever go back.

I remember waiting and waiting and waiting for spring in Minneapolis. March would march right by in a whirl of snow. April showered us with cold rain and ice. May flirted with spring, but winter kept her gloved grasp tightly on the thermometer. June brought a glimpse of spring so brief that it really just melded into summer like two colors of Playdoh squished together. I felt like Margot in the Ray Bradbury story "All Summer in a Day," just waiting to feel the warm rays of sun on my toes. That story still wrenches my heart. I will read it to my boys one day to illustrate the utter cruelty that bullies can inflict. It is a sunny, albeit chilly, day as I write this. I shudder even now to think of Margot.

Spring fashion brings out the best in us (see me jockeying for another excuse to shop?). No more hiding that spare tire under a puffy vest and Irish knit sweater. Show off those gams you've been working on all winter! Be proud of the shoulders you've sculpted! Shed those constricting clothes! Exfoliate! Wear blue eyeliner! Paint your toenails! I don't know about you, but my toes are ready for a brush of I'm Not Really a Waitress. Red toenails simply make me happy. Let me clarify, my own red toenails make me happy. I'm not much into other people's feet. But you know as well as I do, that like well groomed brows, polished toenails look waaaaayyy better than the colorless mess they are unadorned.

Spring colors rejuvenate us all, adding a kick in our step. And I'm not just talkin' fashion hues. I am stockpiling recipes to try with the new bounty of vegetables our farmers' market brings. Strawberries! Swiss chard! Lettuces and greens galore! The drab colors of winter's root vegetables give way to produce's version of the Crayola box of 64.

Bring on spring. Its glorious food and fashion are beckoning.

Do you take (insert name here) to be your husband?

Mac Daddy and I enjoyed a glorious weekend away...sans kids! Thanks to Nani and Aunt Ginny, we were able to go to Florida to see our friend Chris wed his one true love. Chris is quite possibly the nicest human being on the planet. Not in that he's funny looking with a crooked nose and too full upper lip kind of way. He's actually just genuinely nice. And awfully attractive. I mean it. Cute. Downright hot even. He and his bride make a lovely couple indeed. You almost expect to see them as wedding action figures atop every lemon chiffon cake in every hotel ballroom in America.

We all know that weddings host a colorful cast of characters. Only an airport departure gate affords better fodder for the Olympic sport of people watching. This wedding was in Tampa, providing different color than the chicken dance Midwestern receptions, preppy Palm Beach weddings, and stiff British affairs I am used to attending. Tampa offered a certain fromage factor that I hadn't expected. Some of the cocktail dresses were skimpier than the tankini I've resorted to wearing since my stomach never regained its pre-baby tautness (at least according the modicum of hotness that I think is required to be appropriate for human eyes at the beach). I have dangly earrings longer than one chick's dress. To top it off, she had Crystal Gayle hair, and I kid you not, the hair was as long as the hemline.

I can't comment on the male guests because I can't say I noticed them. A bunch of suits and shiny shoes. No white socks or zoot suits that I noticed. It's strikes me as silly that the E! fashionistas even bother with best and worst dressed men from the Oscars. Black tux. White shirt. Shawl collar. Vest. Armani. Dolce and Gabbana. Whatever. George Clooney in a tux is the exception. HOT. HOT. HOT.

The wedding gents looked resplendent in their tailored-to-order Men's Wearhouse penguin suits. The bridesmaids were downright superb. First of all, the girls were lovely. Really lovely. The bride must really, really love those friends for choosing a dress with a universally flattering cut and color that the women can actually wear again without screaming, "I wore this in a wedding once, but the bride promised I could get more use out of it, and dammit I will!" It goes without saying that the bride was perfection. No back fat or cottage cheese arms spilling out of that fitted lace sheath gracing her trim figure. Quite the opposite as she looked divine.

I was a good 12 years older than any of the women I befriended. 12 YEARS. A generation apart. They were suckling newborns when I was sporting purple hair and lace tights a la Cyndi Lauper. Nonetheless we had a blast yucking it up, but I fear that at the end of it all they'll remember me as the old drunk chick who was trying so pathetically hard to be young despite a pending 40th birthday. Maybe the fact that this was only our fourth time away from our children (Ever!) was all too apparent. Funny how weddings bring out the immaturity in us, while marriage is one of life's biggest marks of maturity. Blame the open bar for that irony.

One touching exchange I was privy to by sheer happenstance was during the ceremony when the bride's mom reached her hand behind her and found the bride's father's hand rest in hers for a tender moment. The clasp was longer than a heartbeat but shorter than a lingering grasp. You see, the bride's parents are divorced and remarried. In that moment they shared their love and pride for their daughter, and that transcends all. My parents too are divorced, and I can guarantee that there has never been so much as a handshake since their split ages ago. I'm pretty sure that apart from conceiving me and my brother, there was no hand holding or embracing going on. All that baggage makes for shaky ground when it comes to my own marriage and raising my boys.

All in all, the trip was SO worth it (and not just because Mac Daddy and I could sleep past 8:00, enjoy the decadence of room service, and eat dinner later than our usual 5:30). We made new friends, laughed at the mating rituals that I don't miss partaking in, and luxuriated in wine, cafe con leche, and lots of laughs.

A memorable moment was when young, handsome Grant was questioning taking hitting-on-the-ladies advice from bald Dave and grayed Brandon (both of whom are handsome guys themselves). We got the inside scoop on air traffic control from a guy who's served two terms in Iraq and is poised for a third. One highlight was the 2-year old ring bearer who was adorable in his mini tux, though he was totally uninterested in bearing any rings. He was a champ despite staying up waaaaaayyy past his bedtime all weekend. When he was approaching meltdown mode I could have lent a helping hand...but I didn't. I was enjoying my time away from Bird and Deal too much to step in to manage someone else's toddler. Go ahead, call me selfish. You know you'd shirk the duties too.

And then there were the Ivy Leaguers who could be spotted the proverbial mile away. No uncharacteristic boozing going on at their table, only erudite conversation and quiet lulls. Meanwhile our table next to them was full of friendly bickering, catty conversation, and wine sloshing. The Ivy Leaguers were PhDs who left before the band played the last song. I guess there's a reason those guys are so smart.

Lastly, the minister was the big surprise hit of the weekend. She was earnest and fun, mind you, but damn, she was the most brazen, snappy woman of the cloth I have ever encountered! The Birkenstocks threw me for a curve. She was so candid and free spirited with Amstel Light in hand. I expect I'll never again discuss the topics of lost virginity or homosexuality with a minister. Hats off to her for being human!

Mac Daddy and I have vowed to take more time away from our kids. We came home feeling refreshed. We've been back for two days and haven't lost our patience, temper, or car keys once. We realize that we missed our silly family rituals and appreciate each other so much more than when we were in the midst of our Sisyphus life. It's the familial, group hug version of absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder-sex. G-rated, of course. And don't even think about bursting my bubble.

Happy Endings, as Neil Diamond says!

Rules to Live By

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett (minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably intertwined.

I am verbose.

Polliwalks Rock!

Bird was given a chance to try out some fabulous new shoes from the clever folks at Polliwalks. I'm talking sizzlin' cool shoes. Bird slid them on as soon he ripped open the package and practically hasn't taken them off since. This is the kid who takes off his shoes and lines them up in the mud room before the door behind him is even closed. He doesn't see the need for shoes at all, which makes me wonder who his real mother is. Bird feels like a million bucks in his Polliwalks. And boy, you oughta see a four-year old strut his stuff. He picked the Gator because of the menacing teeth, so I suppose that ups the coolness factor (and his testosterone level).

The cool thing about Polliwalks is how freakin' fun they are. There are four different animal styles to choose from, Gator, Ladybug, Frog, and Duck, with more in the works. The design is adorable, the colors tasty, and the price is so great that there's no way Mac Daddy can bitch about how much I spend on shoes (wait a sec, he only bitches about how much I spend on my shoes). The coolest thing on the Polliwalks is the tread. Each animal footprint leaves a different impression.

Stomp in puddles!
Sashay through the sand!
Squish in the mud!
Strut all over the wet cement in front of the neighbor's house!

Leaving a trail of where you've been has never been so fun. I, the neatnik OCD mom that I am, even let, no, ENCOURAGED, Bird to trail through the mud yesterday. Just so we could see the Gator prints. We were cracking up at the sheer novelty of it. The best thing is how easy is was to clean up the shoes. Some water, a spritz only, and they're good as new (well, granted they are new). Bird ran downstairs this morning and put on his Polliwalks rightaway and couldn't wait to show them off to the kids at school. I have a feeling we'll be the proud owners of a shoe menagerie this summer. You too can get them at http://polliwalks.com/.

Don't think for a minute that these are Mock Crocs. Banish the thought. Polliwalks are a whole different animal (pun fully intended). I succumbed to the Crocs last year but never found them to be anything more than a utility, easy on, easy off, easy to clean. Polliwalks are all those things and cute to boot. Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive in my world.

Kids shoes should promote a life of being footloose and fancy free. We'd all have a bit more whimsy in our world and spring in our instep if we sported Ladybugs on our tootsies too.

Needless to say, I hopped online and ordered Deal a pair of the Frog Polliwalks. He's gonna be one hoppy little boy.

Hip Afterall

While I was zipping up my tall red boots this morning, Bird remarked:

"You're groovy, Mommy."