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YES, I DO!

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 08:59:18 -0500

By Heather Feeler

When I got married 10 years ago, I had long curly hair, a college diploma with the ink barely dry, a whole plethora of life experiences (I thought!) in my back pocket. I was 22, but I felt 32. People constantly asked if I was ready to get married, being so young and all, and I remember thinking that they knew absolutely nothing about me. I was mature and energetic. I was ambitious, but kind. And above all us, I was loyal, through the good and the bad.

I had no flippin' idea. Marriage was actually work, really hard work at that. This person who wooed me and loved me and read poetry to me turned out to be the least romantic husband in the world. It's like the wedding package was all bright and shiny, but the marriage center was kind of gooey and tart. I already took a bite, so it was too late to return it to the store.

Today, it's been 10 years since we took our vows. I am 32, but I feel 42. I am still the wife to one, but now a mother to two. Life is so exhausting that I rarely think about the day I wore white and promised to love, honor and cherish. I hardly know the girl I was. I have, however, gained a few more life experiences, which is good because the jeans are a little bigger these days, too.

If I could give advice to a soon-to-be-bride, who, like me, is young and a tad foolish for the bright, shiny package of marriage, here is what I would say:

• Nothing can prepare you for your new husband moving his stuff into your one bedroom apartment in trash bags then asking where he should hang his black light. Do not be afraid. It may take 10-15 years, but he may mature into something really amazing, especially with your love and acceptance. Then again, he may not.
• There are five love languages. Know your own, but especially know your husbands. You are wasting your energy doing four other love languages when, really, all you need to focus in on is one--his. It helps to tape your love language to the bathroom mirror, so he reads what you need every morning of his life.
• Nobody is perfect. If you can't forget, at least try to forgive. You may sacrifice more, hurt more, give more, love more than you ever imagined, but there are great rewards. The ironic part is that you might not always see those rewards. Keep working on it anyway.
• In the first year of marriage, go through a Dave Ramsey Financial Peace class, so you the last thing you have to worry about is your finances. Also, please don't play the lottery. Being rich gets you in as much trouble as being poor. Aim for the middle, or a little higher, I say.
• Never mention divorce in jest or in anger. I truly believe saying the word gives it power over your relationship. It's like a seed in the bottom of your heart. It may grow sprouts at the oddest time and push all the other good stuff right out of the way.
• Lastly, be careful of all marriage advice from others, including the information above. Every person is different, so is every marriage. Cookie cutter advice only works well when making cookies, not when talking about relationships or people.

I can honestly say I love my husband more today than I did when we got married. He also drives me just as crazy. It's our anniversary and we made a wonderful family meal in the kitchen together with our kids, which just tugs on the heart strings, but now I've got to go clean up in the kitchen all by myself. He's on the couch, sprawled out, laughing hysterically at the TV.

This is my married life, the good and the bad. I do, I do, I do.

Dear 20-YEAR-OLD A*

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 08:50:57 -0500

By Andrea J. Shipman
*The project continues! Thank you Cassie!

Dear 20 year-old A* -

South Beach can wait. Read this first and then go enjoy a frozen cosmo.

You had a tough year last year, didn't you? Don't be afraid. Right or wrong, you made a decision that worked out well for you.

Stop worrying about your still-living-at-home status, you're banking some experience and cash. It pays off. On that note - no, you aren't your mom but give her some credit because it could be so much worse. Yes, they spoil your brother and always will. But they are so, so proud of you. Ok, they're a little worried as you ARE twenty and pretty hot.

Oh those white shorts? Look amazing on you. Wear them as much as possible since it's Florida and your ass has never looked better in a pair of size 6s.

Also amazing - your gays. You're finding them now and while many will fall away, several will be your foundation for the next few years. Lean on them, they're not all sass and flair.

Use your voice. As much as possible. Your thoughts COUNT and you are so smart. Stop secretly thinking everyone out there is smarter than you, they just aren't afraid to be wrong.
BE WRONG. IT'S OK.

No one will ever care about your major. Ever. Just study and finish it out. Oh, that statistics all-nighter works out just fine by the way. And you will NEVER need statistics or that report again. True story.

All that Miami-ness, the chusmeria around you? Soak it in. Your heritage, your affinity for the Cuban tongue (yeah, insert inevitable dirty joke here) is glorious. People will check with you for authentic Cuban restaurants so eat up all the platanos, palomilla and frijoles you can shove your face into.

Enjoy the flirty kisses, silly conversations and all that attention you're getting. Yes, they like you. They want to see you naked. They're GUYS. You have boobs. It's what they do. Jump in and bask a little.

You think you're crazy. Anxious? Yes. Type-A? Definitely. These things don't make you crazy. Trust me, you don't know from crazy yet. You will meet crazy but not BE crazy.

Kiss your grandfather. Often. You're the best thing in his life.

Look A*, I am not going to sugarcoat or spoil it. You're going to make some missteps and wind up where you don't want to. It will all lead to the right place and the right person. Embrace the changes, accept your beauty and laugh out loud as often as you can.

Enjoy that cosmo. And don't be afraid to shake your ass a little more tonight - it burns some extra calories.

Love,
30-something A*

THE TRUE STORY OF COUPONS AND HOME COOKING

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 07:43:16 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

Once we moved back to the States, I had a grand plan of clipping coupons to take advantage of those fantastic deals. I bought a Sunday paper ($1.75 I think) and started flipping through the glossy pages like a treasure hunter. No such luck. We eat a minimum of pre-packaged items and ready to serve foods. I rarely buy any brand of body wash, diapers, or other toiletries. AND, that's really all the coupons were for! I think I was able to cut one out for Goldfish crackers (.50) and one for deodorant (.25). Obviously you can do the math on that. I didn't even recoup my paper cost.

Here's the kicker though. I don't spend tons of money on groceries. If I want to make rice, I use some from the huge bag of basmati rice (10 pound bag or so) that I bought, not Rice A Roni. If I need chicken stock, I use the stuff I made myself in the freezer (it's conveniently measured in 1 cup portions in baggies), not a can. My grocery trips are short and easy because I rarely have to travel through the aisles; my focus is typically on the perimeter. We don't eat meat every night with dinner and we have multiple veggies each night.

I enjoy cooking so some of these methods might be tedious for some (making the stock...), but the food is SO much better. And, it's extremely easy to roast a chicken. Cooking time is a little bit longer than a 30 minute dinner, but active time is low (plus you can throw your veggies in the roasting pan with the bird). Tossing that chicken carcass in a pot with water and leftover veggies to boil down to make your own stock is also very EASY! Plus, it makes several cups of stock which can easily be frozen in Ziploc bags for later use.

It's EASY to chop up a head of broccoli and steam it for dinner. Easier than a can of veggies? Maybe not, but with the 3-5 minutes it takes to wash and chop, the taste is phenomenally better (not to mention the added health benefits).

I think sometimes we have preconceptions of what is too time consuming or what we think is difficult, but actually don't evaluate the true effort a task might take. Next time you think you don't want to put forth the effort to make rice, read the ingredient list on that boxed mix. How many does it have? Mine has one.

Dear 20-YEAR-OLD JULES,

Tue, 8 Jun 2010 11:14:28 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl wrote a post recently that got me thinking...
She wrote a letter to her 20-year-old self. I loved the idea, (given to her by the talented young lady, Cassie Boorn) so I ganked it.
Dear 20-year-old Jules,
Girl, if I could actually be in front of you right now, I’d raise my hand in the air and offer you a high-five. Sure. High-fives are kind of dorky and cheeseball, but let’s face it: so are you. Good for you for starting to embrace that more.
Life’s not such a cakewalk for you right now, huh? Yep. I remember. And although you have had your fair share of “difficult” in the past, I know this is the first time you really let yourself feel the hurt rather than plastering on the smile and telling a joke to make those around you feel more comfortable about you being “ok.”
Oh, and if I did the math correctly, you are starting to go through another breakup. Yeah. That’s rough. Not so much because you lost a boyfriend, but because you lost your best friend. I am here to assure you, you’re going to have plenty of those. Boyfriends? Yes. Best friends? YES! Emphatically, yes! Pay attention to those friendships. Nurture them. They will enrich your life beyond measure.
You know how you recently started going to class in whatever you were wearing the night before? How you can’t sleep? That inkling that maybe you needed to talk to someone? Don’t be scared. You’re going to do the right thing by letting an objective party into your past. And...It will suck. Truly. You’ll cry a lot. You’ll drink a lot. You’ll start to own and wield the power you can have over members of the opposite sex. A lot. And you will have moments when you feel guilty about all of that.
Don’t.
Remember this: The only way out is through.
That little pearl carries you through those rough patches later on, so you may as well start using it as a mantra now. Know what else? The person who actually told you that does most of the heavy lifting for you later. His love and friendship are the jacket laid down over a rain puddle, except knowing you, that rain puddle is more like the Grand Canyon. Don’t worry. With him, miraculously, there is always enough material to cover it.
And all those frogs you kissed were worth it. Remember them fondly, and appreciate how they made you better...and how they led you to him.
I don’t want to give away the intricacies of your life’s plotline, but taking the leap and moving to New York City will be one of the best decisions you make in your young life. Go on with your badass self and enjoy it.
I know you get caught up in pleasing everyone. And in getting the approval of those you love the most. Let me save you some fretting. Those people? The ones who REALLY love you the most? Want YOU to do what’s right for YOU. They care as much about your happiness as they do their own. Those other, more peripheral people? Their opinion of you doesn’t matter anyway.
And honey, go ahead and wear that outrageous outfit. Your body is slammin’. Quit nitpicking and appreciate how healthy it is and all it does (and will do!) for you.
(Um...But, enough with the sweater-vests. Seriously.)
While we’re on the topic of your body, THANK YOU for being a bit maniacal about the eye creams and moisturizer. It pays off.
What else can I tell you? Oh, yeah.
Don’t stress so much about your grades. You are working so hard to be one of eleven graduating with honors from your college in your class. And no one will care. Ever.
Wear sunscreen.
Drink more water.
Take ibuprofen before you go out for the night.
Keep a twenty tucked in your bra. A cab costs about that much to get home from wherever you are in Manhattan, and pickpockets just want your wallet.
More importantly....
Continue to passionately fall in love...with people, with experiences, with life.
Now, get some sleep.
But start waking up a little earlier, because it gets really good, and you don’t want to miss any of it.

I love you bigasthesky,
Your 32-year-old (admittedly awesome) Self

WHY WE’RE NOT HAVING A WEDDING

Sun, 16 May 2010 09:40:45 -0500

By Allison Rae Carlsen

I’M GETTING MARRIED!
So..that’s exciting. But we’re not having a wedding.
We’re not having a wedding and yet I have an email folder for “wedding stuff”. And a “wedding to-do” list. As I was sitting here just now looking at the list, I smiled.
“wedding rings” *smile*
“write vows” *smile* (okay, okay fine…*tear*)
The wedding basics. And that’s all we have, folks. Me, him, a coupla’ witnesses, and the person to make it all official. 10 minutes and out. We’re married.
This is how we want it. If we were going to have a small wedding for only our closest friends and relatives, it would still be 50 people. Of the 15 or so “essential” people I would need at my side, 10 of them live out of town. Not just out of town, out of state. Not just out of state, out of time zone.
Then there’s flowers. And the rehearsal dinner. And the reception. And music. And picking the right DJ for the right times with the right playlist and making sure he plays the right version of the first dance song and forgoing the awkward father-daughter dance moment and hoping no one notices and putting in writing that there will be absolutely no garter toss. And designing and having the cake delivered and worrying about it not melting. And my flat hair. And feuding aunts and uncles and awkward friends. Seating charts. Vegetarian options. Pew bows. Paying for the pew bows and the cake and the DJ…

This is why we’re not having a wedding.

I’ve been to dozens of weddings. I’ve been to magnificent weddings. I’ve been to atrocious weddings. From richer to poorer, I’ve just about seen them all. So, I feel like I’m pretty much covered. My partner and I simply want to formalize the commitment we have already made to each other. I would like for the moment itself to be special, but nothing really more than that. My friends and my family know that I love them. They know that if it were possible, I would have them all around me while I state my intentions to be with this person forever. But it’s not possible. And they know, without having to see or hear me say it, that it’s true. I will be with this person forever, as long as we both shall live. I plan to tell him that each and every day, not just on the day that we’re married. And that’s why we’re not having a wedding.

The Birth of The Sweetest Baby Ever, No really, Mine is the cutest - PART 2

Fri, 7 May 2010 22:25:47 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Right. The waiting.
A little back story – I was in the “the business” (that’s the pretentious way of saying, the Theahtah, dahling), for more than a while, and in the interest of full disclosure (as if reading about my birthing experience wasn’t intimate enough) every time the overture played, I would...How do I put this delicately? I would hurl.
Opening night, for the duration of the run, heck – even a final dress rehearsal would get me so worked up, I would either have to cry (which is how I pretty much vent every single emotion) or vomit. Turns out, crying really does a number to false eyelashes caked with mascara so thick and laquery one could use it to redo a hotrod’s paint job. Unless I was playing a televangelist, that just wasn’t going to work the majority of the time. So...that only left one other option.
I was never incapacitated by stage fright, but just the anticipation and nervous, excited energy would cause me to yak. I knew it would happen, would start to dread it every time the lights dimmed behind the curtain, but prepared accordingly. I got really good about keeping my hair and makeup in tact, and thanks to one hardass costume mistress who swore she’d brain me if she had to shout-out another spot of grodiness off a white blouse, I even got in the habit of tucking a towel into my bra straps to protect my duds.
Therefore, I was shocked (GOBSMACKED, for all you Brits) that during the HOURS I was awaiting the arrival of our baby, and kind of, um...fearing the actual delivery...I didn’t puke. Thought about it. Kind of almost did once, but I guess I am a bona fide grown up because I handled my nerves, got myself together, and kept whatever was still left in my system from traveling back up that one long tube that goes from your mouth to your stomach like they show in the old Pepto Bismol commercials. I don’t care if “not throwing up because of irrational jitters” isn’t what constitutes being an adult. I was proud of myself. That may seem really dumb, but there you go. I never promised you a rose garden of rational thinking.
Ok, so remember what I told you last time about the nurses telling me to go as long as I thought I could without getting checked again otherwise I might have to push without the baby being engaged? Well, blip blap bloop, and that time had come. I was checked and the baby was engaged, and then the nurses told me that it was time to try some “practice pushes.”
What does that mean, “practice pushes?” Was that just squinting my eyes and grunting without doing anything, you know, “down there”? Who’s ever heard of rehearsal pushing? What I found out they meant was, “ok, now you’re going to try and push, but it kind of feels like you’re not really accomplishing anything, and that term was coined to make you feel less unproductive.”
So, I was “practice pushing” before the doctor had arrived and ohmigosh! Sidebar! I forgot. I never introduced you to my team. Meet the players:
1) My husband. My rock. My calm and controlled sweetie.
2) My supportive younger sister who smiled and nodded and held the camera at an appropriate angle so as to not scar all future “baby’s debut” viewers for the rest of their lives.
3) My caring older sister who flew in from Missouri to see Little Miss make her grand entrance, and who is pretty sure she knows everything since she’s been through this twice already, but who graciously and diplomatically bit her tongue and let me direct this circus, you know, for the most part.
So there we were. A motley crew of goofballs, who frankly, manage to get things done with slightly less grace than the Keystone Cops in the most organized of situations, with even the most predictable of variables. My baby sister, Martin Scorsese, was behind me shooting from over my shoulder, my older sister was to my left, responsible for holding my knee, and my husband on the other side, holding my right leg, while also handling the counting and the focusing. You know...an intimate grouping of people who are very important to me. Those 3. And, of course, a clown car’s worth of doctors and nurses who, after the first push, started talking to me like I was a 5 year old.
With self esteem issues.
Who was just learning how to ride a bike.
“Ok, Julie. You are doing so great. That was a really good try. Now, I want you to try eeeee-ven harder. You can do it, ok? Ok? Rest a minute, and we’ll give it another go.”
And then I heard something in my left ear... a very soft “good job.”
That’s right.
...
It was Jesus.
...
Just kidding. But did that get your attention? I just wanted to make sure you were still with me.
It was really one of my sisters. I don’t know which one, but I smacked whoever was closest.
“Do NOT speak. Do not encourage me. I will die laughing and not be able to hold my breath.”
I mean, really. I know you’re supposed to handle pregnant women with care, and we’ve all been conditioned to think that when they are in the throes of childbirth, the heads of perfectly sane women will spin 360 degrees multiple times, start spewing profanity that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush, and curse the jerk that got them into these stirrups. But...no.
At least not for me. I was fine. I felt ready, and although nervous, my eyes were on the prize. But I guess if you work in L&D, you prepare for the worst possible mom-to-be scenario, and treat your patients with kid gloves. Everyone was so sugary and encouraging, they should’ve had pom poms, worn way too much makeup, and hair ribbons that coordinated with their scrubs.
I was really trying to tune them out and just listen to my husband counting to 10. Which, by the way, if you ever want to feel what it’s like to be in real life slow-mo, all you have to do is be in the “pushing” phase of childbirth and listen to your birth coach count. For the love of all that is good and holy, I was wondering if he had an undetected learning disability, because OH MY GOD, COUNT FASTER. Turns out, he isn’t supposed to, which I knew, but STILL.
Meanwhile, on my left side, my older sister has jerked my knee so far toward my ear that I heard an audible POP and thought, “Great. My leg is now dislocated from my hip,” and after a fleeting thought that I probably looked like some kind of deformed doll whose leg popped out of its plastic socket, but was held in place by the sheer will of a pant leg, I was focused on the backs of my eyelids again.
The doctor came in, and there was a lot of hustle and bustle, and “way to go, Julie-ing,” but at that point, I kind of zoned. I started visualizing our family. Our little threesome. I thought about this wonderful partner who found me. I saw a little girl laughing. I saw the two of them together, smiling at me. Almost waiting for and willing me to make this vision a reality. Tears were streaming down my face at this point, I am sure.
I pushed for a total of 45 minutes. About 42 minutes in, I finally opened my eyes, looked at the doctor and said, “Listen. I am a very goal oriented person. How many more pushes? 2? 10? Give me a number so I can see the end of this thing.”
“6,” she said. “Tops.”
I closed my eyes and visualized my baby. I could not wait to see her. To hold her. To kiss her. Sing to her. I wanted that soooo much.
Not to mention, I wanted the 87 kagillion kilotons of pressure on my name and address to be relieved. I mean, I wasn’t in pain, but the pressure during those last few pushes was really, really uncomfortable.
I heard my sisters saying, “She’s right there! She’s almost here!”
I heard my doctor encouraging me. “That’s it, Julie. Focus.”
I heard my husband’s soothing baritone. “Seven, eight, nine...”
And then, 2 pushes later, I heard her.
Over all the kind of collective jubilation in the room, I heard that soft newborn cry, leaned my head back, squeezed my eyes shut, and wept freely.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I said over and over in my head.
In a blur, they gave her to me while we were still attached, and I scanned her little fingers and toes, looked at her swollen, little body, and then saw that pouty bottom lip, and smiled.
And laughed.
And cried.
But! I did not throw up.
Maybe it was because this is a role I always knew I was born to play.

AT LEAST WE WEREN’T UP THAT INFAMOUS CREEK WTHOUT A PADDLE

Sat, 17 Apr 2010 10:45:39 -0500

By Michelle Wilson

Having a 3rd child has reminded me to STOP, slow down and do what is important - Like giving Brooke (3yr) the extra hugs she needs and watching Anna (6) practice numbers and letters that she just learned in school...

I'm really trying to "enjoy the moment" and not get caught up in the breakfast mess or the large piles of laundry and to remember to laugh about those moments when I really can't do anything but laugh - like the time when the shit hit the fan- LITERALLY!

It was 3 am and I had just finished feeding Dylan and she needed to be changed. While I was changing her - she exploded - or to be technical, she shot poop at me in full force. It totally took me by surprise - 3 days old and she just shot poop so far that it hit the fan...Really? The shit just hit the fan!? Literally! I looked around the room, my husband is snoring away - no one to share this experience with...no one to laugh with - and at the same time thinking - what the bleep do I do now? Do I clean her up first? Do I clean me up first? The fan? The fan that is on medium speed with shit stuck to it? So I told myself...one thing at a time...Laugh first, clean baby, change my clothes, then clean the shit off the fan.

The Birth of The Sweetest Baby Ever, No really, Mine is the cutest - PART 1

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 11:26:31 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I am sitting here on the deck in the first day of the year that has jumped over 80 degrees...listening to the birds chirping and a lawnmower as white noise from somewhere in the neighborhood, while the baby monitor is registering that my 5-month-old baby is softly protesting her afternoon nap. My 5-month-old baby. FIVE.
These last months, to borrow a total cliché, have flown by. I blinked and here she is, holding her head up, rolling over, and giggling. Real giggles. Giggles that come from her belly and stay in the back of her throat, so much so that when we hear them, it sounds so earthy - as though a Blues singer, not a 5-month old (!!!) baby, has just found something amusing.
5 months old. And I haven’t even yet written about her birth.
I won’t use this entry up on why I knew I always wanted to be a Mama (in summary - mostly because I had such a good one – one who injected magic into even the most trying of circumstances) or on the incredible man I married, and the marriage that made me excited to have a child with this wonderful partner. I won’t write about the pregnancy either. How many times does someone need to read about heartburn, really? No – this is about her arrival. That’s the most important part anyway.
I checked into the hospital at 5:00 on a Sunday evening. We didn’t race to the hospital because my water had broken in the middle of the night. I never grabbed my swollen middle, gave an all-knowing, earth-mothery glance to my hubs, and said, “It’s time, honey.” No speed limits were broken. I wasn’t hoo hoo hee heeing on the way, eyes as big as silver dollars, digging my nails into my husband’s arm because THE PAIN, OHGODTHEPAAAAAAIIIIN! It was so NOT the labor scenes we’ve all seen in movies. I wasn’t even contracting within the 5-7 minute window they tell you about in the childbirth classes. None of that drama for us. We had actually planned that I would get induced on her due date if she hadn’t already made her grand entrance, and apparently my hostessing prowess not only extends to my kitchen, my guest bedroom, and my living room, but my uterus as well, as Little Miss got pretty cozy. I think she even got a subscription to Elle Décor and was picking out backsplash tiles, but that is just a theory.
(I had saved that part about getting induced from being shouted from the rooftops until now, because of all the controversy around inducing labor, but there you go. That’s the way we decided to get this here baby birthed, and whadya know – I got to bring a cute little chunk of adorable home and the earth wasn’t hit by a fiery meteor! Chalk one up for me and mankind, both.)
So, after we grabbed some fish tacos and cilantro-laden guacamole as my “last meal” for a while, we calmly walked into the hospital, holding hands, grinning like big goofballs to each other, checked in like we were at the Marriott Convention Center, and were shown to our room by a nice woman with a clipboard.
I was then told to get naked while a chick asked me a lot of questions about my past. (Which got me looking around to check if this actually was the Marriott Convention Center as this really felt a lot like the last sales conference I went to. Bad Dum Bum. I’ll be here all week.)
I changed into a hand-me-down nursing nightgown that had two slits over the breast area – kind of an unsexy, upper body version of crotchless panties. I just reread that and it sounds like I think crotchless panties are sexy, which I hadn’t thought of before now, but now that I am thinking of it...my vote is no. Glad we got that cleared up. Before I decided on wearing this gown, (Did I think I was getting ready for the Oscars?) I had tried on the standard hospital issue that was this sad and enormous army greenish tarp with military lettering spelling out the hospital’s name stenciled on the side. Obviously, they wanted people to know which house this number was designed by, but it kind of skeeved me out thinking that blood and guts and stuff that was once inside someone’s body may have been (strike that – definitely was because what is that stain? EW!) on this gown. So, yeah. And, you know, I already felt kind of grody and exposed, and when I greeted my little girl I wanted to have something on that didn’t look like it was made by Texas Tent and Awning.
Blah blah blah and then I got an I.V. and kids, (SPOILER ALERT!) let me go on the record and say that THAT was the most painful part of my labor and delivery. Seriously. [Shrugging.] Sorry, ladies who went the “natural childbirth” route. Although I respect any decision a woman makes when it comes to her own body, I truly don’t understand the need to experience your hoo-ha being stretched in such a way that the only thing that slips into your consciousness is Johnny Cash’s RING OF FIRE and you can actually taste colors, but, that’s why they make different patterned shirts. What looks good on you isn’t in my palette, so knock yourself out. This just wasn’t a time when I wanted to pretend I was on Little House on the Prairie. (Nope. That’s reserved only for when I eat stew.) As far as I am concerned, if there ever was a time during which to take advantage of modern science, my personal choice was, and ever shall remain, childbirth. Um, yes please. Half-pint needs an epidural.
Unlike other facets of my life where I plan everything within an inch of its existence, the extent of my birth plan was - and this is the unabridged version - “Get drugs. Leave with a healthy baby.” All the stuff that I hear some people dwell on like having their Ipod cued up so that Sunrise, Sunset plays at the moment the baby starts to crown...well, that wasn’t for me. Of course, I also shave my armpits.
I told my anesthetist that I had been practicing for these kind of drugs my whole life and that in addition to my spinal cord, I had two arms with healthy veins, if they had any extra...you know, “no-pain-guarantors” they could give me. That’s when my husband smirked at me because he knows what a Dudley do-right I am, and then was all hand-patty like, “Now, now. This isn’t the time to practice your stand up,” and gave me a look that conveyed, “Dude. These people are going to help us get a kid. They don’t know you’re kidding. Let’s not prove how crazy we are just yet.”
Then a nurse injected some [whachacalit] into my [lady bits] to [get the party started]. I believe those are all the technical terms. It wasn’t Cervidil, but some jelly-like ectoplasm goo that softened the cervix. That’s the step before the big guns like Pitocin get called in, and hoo, boy! Did it work. My water broke without the heavy drugs and, I am telling you, the Gods must have smiled upon the sacrificial lamb chops I offered a few weeks before, because that little event happened IN THE BATHROOM while I was (ahem) returning all the bags o’ fluid they had been giving me via an I.V. to the ocean. You have no idea how happy that made me. All toilet related activity gives me the heebie jeebies and to know that fluid (Ick. I hate that word. Fluid. Ughhh.) that was once inside of me was now safely (and daintily) in a porcelain American Standard instead of on my sheets or (Lord, I feel faint just thinking about it) on the floor...well, I felt like it was an omen things were going to go smoothly.
What happened next was a lot of nothing. It was 1am when my water broke, and aside from some minor discomfort every now and then when I contracted, I was able to sleep. I’d wake up every so often to watch the little line graph on the monitor, but then just drift off again.
After a few hours, a nurse came in with a big cart and a doctor followed saying, “Are you ready for your epidural?” I wasn’t too uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to be one of those chicks that is like, “no thank you, this is cake” and then, BAM! I’m blindsided by pain in my nether-regions, and then have someone wearing scrubs inform me that “we have passed the point when we could give you an epidural.” Um. No thank you.
The doctor asked my husband to step around to face me rather than look at the needle. I guess they don’t want any coaches gasping or flinching when they see that thing. Kind of like how in Elizabethan times, when a good executioner had the decency not to let their subject see the sword. You know. This was like DECENT executioner style, but without all the gruesome deathiness.
The doc was all business, which is exactly what you want when a nine-inch needle is being injected into your spinal cord. I barely felt a sting, and almost high fived the guy.
Blah blah blah, hours of contractions that I didn’t feel, so much so that I thought, “Hmmm, I wonder if I am really in labor or if these nurses are just yanking my chain.”
And then one contraction came along, and lo! It was a doozie. Considering that I had an epidural, I was under the impression that that shouldn’t be the case. I believe I looked at my older sister with eyes that said, “Um...no.” She got right on that and another doctor came in named, I kid you not, Dr. Wo.
Like, WHOA man, Dr. Wo. For some reason, this made me feel better, like his name had something to do with the effect of the drugs he was about to administer.
“Feeling some pain?”
[Sheepishly] “Yeeees?” [Like I needed to be embarrassed that I could still feel after I had my ration of drugs.]
“Ok, let’s give you a bump.”
“Oh, good. So, do you have anything that will make me wanna’ sing songs by The Doors?”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Well, whatever he did, Dr. Wo nailed it. I was alert and aware of everything happening, but properly numbed from the waist down.
(God, this seems so long and drawn out, but I guess 14 hours of labor calls for a bit of rambling.)
I was on oxygen a bit, which made me feel very hospitaly, and my nurses kept “checking” me to see how far along I was, but at some point, later in the game, they informed me that it was better to wait as long as I could before they checked me again - when I really felt pressure, and couldn’t take it anymore. Apparently, if you are checked and are at 10 centimeters, they call the doctor in, and you have to start pushing, no matter how engaged the baby is. For those of you who are less well read in pre-natal literature, “engaged” doesn’t mean how actively participatory the baby is about getting born, but rather the point in labor when the baby actually begins to descend into the pelvic canal. So the baby could still be chillin’ in your uterus without having budged, and if you’re dilated, you have to push without its help in getting the action going, which can be for way longer than necessary.
So, we waited. And waited.
...
Just like you have to do for the “big finish” to the story, because my little Supreme is now up from her nap, and is ooh ooh oohing. I have to go in and add the doo wops and sha na na nas.

FINE. I AM A CURMUDGEON.

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 11:45:33 -0600

By Andrea J. Shipman

At 29+ I find myself, surrounded by people who are fresh-faced, 20-somethings. Life's all bright and shiny and new. The recession, unemployment or HOLY SHIT BILLS have not yet taken a giant poop on their perfectly coiffed (you spent $300 on straightening?!?!) hair. I am not saying their stupid or shallow. Just ... TWENTY-SOMETHING. Most of them work hard, stay late and overindulge without a thought to calories. I did that once. We all did.

God that irks me now. Whatever. I am an Ensure away from calling them whippersnappers and shooing them away from my azaleas.

Occasionally one girl will come into work and my immediate thought is - "PANTS!" WEAR PANTS!" Tights are not pants people. Neither are sheer leggings.

What? I am judgy. The name of my site isn't "constantly joyous."

And why do they always want to go to dinner with 15 people? Seriously.

My max for group eating out is 6. Three facing three allows for good whole-table conversation or simple break out conversations. You only have to bug one person AT MOST to get up to pee. You can split two bottles of wine comfortably without paying through the nose or getting an inch of wine for $18. Bill calculation is far easier. Plus, your server is nicer & more attentive since your bill will be larger but your party is totally manageable. Everyone wins.

Also, there's a good chance that everyone at the table of 6 gets along and generally likes each other. MAYBE you can swing that with 8. But with 15? N-O.

Case in point: the lovely 20-somethings who want to "Do a girls dinner! Friday nite!" When I was approached I thought - why not? As a washed-up wife, hanging out with single girls can be fun. Especially when you come home to your sleeping husband and think I never have to do that dating bullshit again. Don't be fooled people. Marriage is knowing you will have sex even if you haven't shaved your legs in 2 weeks.

Then I got the email of "the plan." Fifteen people on the email (a few of whom I would not choose as a dining partner) for dinner at 8 so as to "not be in da clubs so early."
Sigh.

I declined after 20 more emails went out, one of which mentioned seeing some band at a sticky bar around midnight with some sort of cover charge. Instead, I am going to see a delicious one-year old toddler and her mom for free. Because I will be in bed by midnight or at least in my Target sweats watching What Not to Wear.

Now get away from my azaleas and help me find my glasses. My stories are on.

Veto Valentine’s Day!

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 17:19:29 -0600

By Krissy Bertrand

I'm not the horrible, cold hearted cynic you think I am. I like flowers as much as the next girl, BUT, you pay a premium on those flowers on the 14th. Please celebrate with your Valentine, but avoid the boxed chocolates, stuffed things, and all those plastic, white tents you see in the grocery store parking lots.

Celebrate instead with a nice meal (I did see ribeyes on sale...) at YOUR house and gasp...maybe some candles! A pink teddy bear that says "I love you" means nothing to me. My husband washing dishes and putting the kid to bed - now that's what lights my fire.

Just remember, that little heart shaped box of chocolates that you buy on the 14th for $15 will likely be $7.50 on the 15th. That, my friends, is a loss any way you look at it.

CRYING IT OUT

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 18:44:21 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Yesterday, my darling Jane Scarlett turned 12 weeks old, and since she’s been banging the sides of her bassinet with her fists for the last two weeks, we decided to put our little percussionist in her crib last night at bedtime.
She slept from 10 pm until 4 am, which was when she cried for a feeding, but only nursed 15 minutes and conked out again. Only, this time...she drifted off in our bed (like she’s done since she was born - after which I would transfer her to her bassinet without any problem), and, um...I didn’t move her back to her room. Yeah, um...I didn’t even move her to the bassinet. I snuggled with her until 8 this morning. (Bad, Mama!)
Jane has always slept well. Even in the early days when it went against every natural instinct of mine to wake a sleeping baby to eat. (Would you want someone to wake you in the middle of the night to ask if you cared for a snack?) But, I did just that (it took a month rather than 2 weeks for Jane to get back to her birthweight) because my pediatrician told me to.
I tell ya, though. Had I let her, she’d have slept halfway through the Today show. I know that because one night I forgot to reset my “maternal” clock and slept through the night myself...and my girl just sawed her own logs right along with me.
Now, I am reading more. And listening to more moms. WHOA. The topic of sleeping can sure drum up some controversy! Every mom tells me to do it her way (and usually when that happens, I take Krissy’s advice: Smile. Say “Thank you.” Do what I want). Ay, but here’s the rub: When it comes to sleep training, I don’t know what I want!
First of all, I KNOW I am already doing something wrong, letting her stay up late with us. I finally understand (or at least, I think I do) that when she’s fussy at around 9 or 10, it’s not gas (like we always have suspected), it’s that she’s overtired and begging for sleep. BAD, MAMA [Take 2]!!!
So, not only is she sleeping in her crib again tonight...I started to put her down at 6pm.
She cried for 3 minutes.
I went and rubbed her head (a standby for our family, it seems. I STILL ask my husband to “play with my hair” and I fall right asleep), and “shhh shhh shhhed.” She calmed down. I left.
10 minutes later, she started wailing. Sticking to my guns, I let her cry 5 minutes this time, went in and soothed her the same way, she quieted, and I left.
5 minutes after that, and she started screaming. The difference was, in those previous 5 minutes, I had read some opinions on the internet and had convinced myself that I was “the worst kind of parent.”
I caved. I ran in and got her and started apologizing. NOT because I was trying to “sleep train,” but because I had tried a month too soon, according to most pro-sleep training sites I had read.
I kissed her a frillion times, changed her diaper, and rocked her for all of a minute and a half before she had fallen to sleep in my arms, and I just transferred her to her crib before running here to ask you, dear readers, what to do.
She’s stirred a few times, but now has been quiet for 15 minutes...
Damn. I should have poured myself a glass of wine before writing this.
(See? I can’t even leave it at ONE heated topic? I have to add a boozy breastfeeding mom into the mix. EN GARDE, internet!)
What did you do with your kiddos? What do you think you would have done differently,? And for the love of all that is holy, am I doing anything right?
*Lest you break out the tar and feathers - The baby pictured was napping on an adult’s chest, not on her tummy at night.

NEW YEAR. NEW ROLE.

Wed, 20 Jan 2010 18:52:26 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

One of my resolutions was to post more regularly on this site...so, how’m I doin’, internet?
Yeesh.
Obligatory New Year post? Meh. You know, I always have resolutions – my birthdays, primarily, are when I set specific goals for the year. But every December 31st I think, “Be a better wife, daughter, sister, and friend. Do more for your clients, do more for others, say ‘thank you’ constantly for all your blessings, and spiff your spiritual self up a little.”
What I am struck by, however, is not what resolutions people made, but rather how soooooo many people talked about how glad they were to see 2009 end. Ok, I get it. Sure. The economy is in the pooper and the job market sucks. The world, overall, is fraught with war and corruption, and the slanted media is [groan] sensationalizing everything they can to scare the bajeezus out of everyone. Trust me. I understand. Last year, both my hubs and I took jobs we were exponentially overqualified for in order to achieve some of our goals after moving our lives across the country, and for all intents and purposes, started from scratch. Wanna’ talk scary?
Personally, though – this was a banner year for our household. My husband did extraordinarily well in his classes while maintaining a full time job and continues to grow into a better man than I think, even he previously knew he could be. I managed to set up a little cottage industry consultancy, and am really proud of the results I helped to get for my clients. I am also getting referrals now, which feels...wow. I can’t really describe it. I liken it to that scene in Jerry Maguire after Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character does something fantabulous and everyone starts calling Jerry to be their agent. It shor’ do feel good.
And, we became homeowners. For those of you who are familiar with being a Manhattanite (and know how renting is the norm and space is a luxury) you can really sink your teeth into just how big of a step that was for us. I catch myself waltzing around the house and revel in the sheer openness of it. And it’s 2000 sq. feet. Small by most homeowners’ standards. HUUUUUUUUUUUMONGOUS to me. Finding a perfect table lamp and organizing closets have, honest to God, gotten me more excited than the Spring Clearance sale in the Saks shoe department used to.
Most exceptionally, was the arrival of our sweet little girl, Jane Scarlett. My pregnancy and her birth were really enjoyable, for the most part, and in retrospect, both events coincided with some of the more stressful times in our life together, so far.
Go figure.
Thing is – my husband and I waited a relatively long time for each other. Neither one of us settled for the first (second, third...you get the idea) loves in our lives, and so we were pretty set in our individual ways when we met and when we married. That’s why it’s even more impressive (to me) when I realized how we both struggled to reinvent ourselves in 2009. That can be hard to do while still continuing to build a partnership. To encourage your spouse at the same time you are starving for support, yourself. But we did it. And I am more in love with (in awe of/proud of/intrigued by) him now than I ever thought I could be.
So, yeah. This year was one of the most transformative ever for our little 2 (make that 3! THREEEEEEE!!!!) person sphere, and so...no. I wasn’t longing to see it end. But, man oh man...I am so eager for everything this year has to offer, and I am ready to be better.
And this time, I get to add, “Be a good mama” to the list.

HAVE BABY, LIFE, JOB...HAVE IT ALL. JUST NOT ALL AT ONCE.

Fri, 4 Dec 2009 16:56:18 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Oh, internet. I have so many wonderful things to share with you. I had a baby! The sweetest, cutest little bundle of adorable you ever did see. And I want to tell you all about it. About the delivery (well, not ALL about the actual delivery), but the highlights, for sure. And I have to tell you about the incredible outpouring of generosity from friends and family.

And we moved! Into a HOUSE! US! Can you even? Manhattan apartment dwellers move to Austin and get their own little slice of American dream pie. How very Green Acres of us. Except instead of a pig, we have a baby. We win.

I want to tell you about all of that. But I am just trying to find time to breathe right now. Because I also work. I mean, yes, mothering of the stay-at-home variety is work, (Hoo, boy! Is it ever.) but I was referring to the raddest bunch of clients in whose favor I would like to stay. And yes...like every woman ever in the history of the universe (well, at least the ones who tell the truth) I am trying to find the point of divine equilibrium.

Right now, I am typing with one hand. (Hence the typos.) After I fed the baby...again...which really, seems like all I do, I tried to get her down so I could work on a campaign and do some copy-writing. But then my husband called to tell me that our bed was being delivered, and the guys were just around the corner. So, I go strip the loaner bed and answer the door to let the guys in. Baby cries. I go tend to baby. Husband calls. “All ok?” Assure him. Tell the guys what to do. Calm baby. Let the guys out. Get forgotten clothes in washer into dryer before they mildew. put baby in swing. Text husband to pick up sheets for new bed that HELLO, haven’t even gotten correctly sized sheets for yet. Grab computer. Get 3 sentences written for client. Baby cries and won’t stop after short “wait and see if she settles back into a nap” period. Soothe baby. Figure out way to hold baby and type with one hand. Deduct a frillion hours off invoice b/c I would rather way underestimate the time they owe me for since I can’t scrounge up a solid 2 hours anywhere and have resorted to writing times like I am punching in and out of the brewery a la Laverne & Shirley. Type 2 more sentences. Husband calls. “Sheets on sale but the wrong color ok?” Sigh. Give him complete sheet-buying authority. Baby really fussing now and starting to suck on hand. Arrange pillow mound to support baby and computer on the couch, Feel pity for starving child who is forced to eat off own appendage. Begin to nurse her. Start typing like Frankenstein speaks. Stop correcting typos and tell self that taking time for corrections loses and ignoring stupid Virgo-type neuroses wins. Husband calls. Asks “Why are you acting so dejected?” Roll eyes and say whatever will get me off the phone the fastest: “No reason. All’s well.” Baby still acting hungry. Nurse again. Laugh out loud at the resonating flatulence emanating from oblivious child. Stop and stare at beautiful blue eyes staring up at me and decide that her gaze is too captivating to ignore. Shut computer and squeeze her a little closer.

THE PROOF IS IN THE PLANNING

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 18:57:01 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

I LOVE to cook! I love the challenge of trying new recipes and ingredients.
BUT
I HATE asking "what's for dinner" - the question that plagues most households, especially now that our family contains a toddler who could give a flying fig about the new artisan cheeses at HEB.

So, together with a friend, I created a monthly menu plan. I planned a meal and side every day for four weeks. Like most of you, I don't cook every night so my planned week gets me through a week and a half to two weeks. My month plan ends up lasting close to two months which saves me tons of time AND more importantly, money!!

The first time I did this, it took me a while because I created a spreadsheet for the menu so that I could see a month at a glance. Then, I had to pick the recipes to fill the menu. Finally, I created another spreadsheet (within the same workbook in Excel) for the shopping lists for each week. The planning, now that everything is set up, is much faster. I can get it done in less than two hours. That might sound like a lot to some of you, but remember this is for almost two months of meals!

Let me go into a bit more detail on the recipe selection. As I mentioned above, I enjoy trying out new recipes and have subscriptions to a couple of cooking magazines. I also watch Food Network a little more than I probably should (staying at home has its occasional privileges). Anytime a recipe catches my eye, I try to mark it in the magazine or bookmark it on my computer. Then, I scatter these throughout my month - typically three a week. I also put in a no-brainer for each week (think spaghetti, chicken and rice, steaks, meatloaf...) where I typically don't need a recipe. I also try to include one fish meal a week and the rest I balance between poultry, pork, red meat, and vegetarian.

Once I've gotten all my recipes compiled and chosen for particular days, I scan them all in and keep them saved in a folder (I'm on month three of doing this, so my most recent plan is titled plan three - creative, I know). I also print the recipes out and they are hole punched and put into a binder.

Finally, I create my shopping lists for each week. Each list is divided into categories like produce, dairy, meat... for quick shopping (remember that toddler). I print out each week's list and it goes in the binder along with the menu for the month.

The beauty of this plan is its flexibility. I rarely go in order that I've planned the meals for any given week, but rather pick what sounds good for that night (out of my seven choices). At the grocery store a few days ago, I purchased all of my shopping list items for week two. I spent $122 and that included wild salmon, specialty spices ($10), and a few other items not on the list. I feel pretty good that this will cover our dinners for around the next week and a half. If I'm cautious, I can easily spend $300 or less on our groceries for the month and know that those meals are balanced and nutritious.

The other great perk about having a monthly plan with shopping lists already created is that you can buy all the non perishable items and meat that can be frozen for the whole month in just one shopping trip! This is such a great time saver! Even though you still have to get fruits, vegetables, and perishables on a weekly basis, those trips take less time.

I love doing this because I NEVER ask "what's for dinner?" anymore! I feel more relaxed about meal times and have found that in a free minute I can chop some vegetables that I need for dinner in the next few nights or just prep a recipe (measuring out ingredients or just gathering what I'll need on the counter). Then, at 5:30 everything falls into place and I can pretend that I'm just that good!

YOUR DAILY PRETZEL, HEAVY ON THE SALT

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 14:41:05 -0500

By Sarah Wells Kohl

Yogi, Yogini, Yoga Teacher, Yoga Instructor, Mat Whore - whatever you wanna call it, that's me. I've been doing yoga for 15 years through thick, thin, and all things in between. Hell, I even rocked a pretty amazing Eka Pada Rajakapotasana when I was 9 months pregnant. I love everything about it. It's a part of me, this yoga. It's who I am. I twist and bend and breathe and move and meditate and stretch and search my soul every day. Patanjali and his Sutras are my constant companions. I believe in the Yamas and Niyamas, the 8 limbs of Ashtanga, the Buddhist 8 fold path. I practice, I teach, I live my yoga. But I also live in the real world.

And the real world can be a total bitch.

I often feel as though I am expected to be this vision of euphoria, this Zen sage of peace, the ultimate living breathing definition of serenity. The the truth of the matter is that yes, I do have moments of that, but I just as often have moments of thinking, "OM, Motherfucker, I said OM!"

It's yoga, people, not a tab of ecstasy.

While it's true that yoga has healed long festering emotional wounds and it has slowed my roll more than a little bit, I'm still human under these roll-top pants and racerback tanks. I get upset, I get angry, I get frustrated, and I get downright snarky from time to time. I don't always use common sense, I don't always count to ten, and I don't always see the beauty in the Universe trying to teach me tolerance by sticking me behind someone driving 45 mph on the FREAKING INTERSTATE, thankyouverymuch. I digress...

The good news is that those moments of unbalance *cough*have I entered the asshat dimension?*cough*, yes, unbalance are brief now and I don't make an asana out of myself as often as I once did. I am much more centered, I do feel alive and aware. I do feel connected to all the energy that has come before me and feel certain that my energy will be felt years after I have left this body. I am certain that I am still married and still maintain custody of my children and haven't landed in jail for some inane thing because of my mat. I work my shit out there. Actually, it's more like I work my body and my mind works out my shit while I try not to fall. Life on and off the mat ... it's all about the balance.

So while I may not leave lotus petals in my footsteps, I'm also not leaving landmines, either.

And that is some tasty yoga.

SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS

Thu, 20 Aug 2009 18:09:19 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I have been having cuh-razy dreams. (Crazy good, people. If you know what I mean. Wink. Nudge. And P.S. Dad, stop reading.) Some people tell me it’s the “pregnancy hormones,” and if that’s the case, then it’s about damn time those things did something I LIKE for once (other than, of course, providing me with you, Baby).
My husband is almost always in them, many times as the one and only leading man, so let’s not book time on the old therapist’s couch just yet. But, quite often, one or all of my ex-boyfriends are involved as well. And by “boyfriends” I may mean anyone who I had multiple-year relationships with or (Earmuffs, Baby) “that guy I made out with at that bar that one time.”
Who knew that all those those very-limited-in-number guys would get along so well together? One even high-fived my husband in an episode like, “Hey. Well done on scoring that slice of perfection/the one I let get away.” (Yes, I call them episodes. Like I have my own “Julie-centric” show. With a following! Let’s hurry up and go to sleep to see what scandalous situation she gets herself into this time!) Point is. They all come to the party. Guest of honor? Me!
It’s pretty rad for the ol’ ego. Even when that dud of a guy I was fool enough to date for over a year (Two? Honestly, I can’t remember. Telling, huh?) shows up. Eh, he just stands around without any dialogue or participation anyway. Kind of what it was like in real life. The year (or two?) of yawns. But, I digress. For the most part, it’s still a show I want to watch.
Sometimes an ex just makes a cameo appearance. Like when I am traveling around in my house-plane (like a houseboat, but flying the friendly skies) and talking to my husband in Mandarin (because, duh – what language do you NOT know fluently at all that you speak in your dreams?) and all of a sudden an old boyfriend (or a future ex-boyfriend like Daniel Craig) walks through the aisle dressed in a steward’s uniform and asks me if I’d care for a beverage.
“Oh, a beverage?” I think as I cock my eyebrow. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”
Then, maybe we’ll land and Hugh Jackman will meet the plane. “Care for a swim?” He’ll ask. “Oh, a swim?” I reply. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days?” (Note to self: Work on your sexy comebacks. They’re a whole brand of “movies from the 40s” kind of lame.) Anyway, we saunter over to the pool that’s right there on the tarmac and jump in…you know…like you do.
Anyway, there are those dreams – the ones that, for a moment, kind of tiptoe around the raging hormones…they’re like the earlier HBO or Showtime series which I have dubbed “good-girl porn.” And then…well, then there are those that don’t tiptoe at all. They couldn’t care less about tip-toeing. Tip-toeing to them would be like Mary-Kate or Ashley (whichever the fat one is) winning an Academy Award. Not going to happen. No. Instead, they do a pretty good 37 person, chain of interlocking arms, Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance, brick-heeled jig right on top of the hormones, and I wake up chewing on my pillow.
But, in all fairness, I think that’s what causes the “glow” that everyone says pregnant women radiate. It’s waking up after some quality R.E.M. and the blush you get while smirking to yourself about the pseudo trysts that occurred the night before.
So when you think about it, what a bitch naughty little prankster Mother Nature is…getting us all hot and bothered whilst making us look (or feel like we look) like Shamu’s older “not cute enough to be in the show” sister. But our skin looks like J-Lo’s on Oscar night. So there’s that. Uh huh. Awesome.

LOSING THE EXPAT CUPCAKE

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 11:46:58 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

Now that we’ve moved back to the states, our budget lost quite a bit of her expat cupcake (picture a muffin top, but worse). But, I’d like to see Ms. Budget drop a few more pounds so that she can wear her skinny jeans and still feel good about herself! I’ve come up with a few money saving tips that I think will help us get rid of that last bit of excess waist (I mean it just like I typed it you grammar monkeys).

1. One of the biggest savers is creating a monthly or weekly menu plan. Mine is on a spreadsheet with a main dish and side listed for every day. Obviously, I don’t cook every day, so the monthly planner gives me about a month and a half of meals. I try to schedule a beef, poultry, vegetarian, and seafood meal for each week. I create grocery lists for each week and buy the pantry/non – perishable items whenever they go on sale because I know they will be used. I also try to stay flexible. For example, if pork tenderloin is on sale and cheaper than the chicken I had planned to cook, I will use the pork instead.

I’ve found that this helps me adhere to my shopping list and avoid extras. We also are eating healthier because everything is planned in advance and I’m not saying “what’s for dinner?”

The plan will take a bit of time to create, but you’ll save money and time in the long run. You won’t be running to the store for 2-3 items, you won’t have to buy items full price because you know what your plan is for the month, and you won’t be throwing away unused or expired food.

To save time at the store, I organize the grocery list into sections (produce, dairy, canned, meat…) and put the sections in the order that I walk through them at the store. I can easily see if I’ve missed produce before I leave the produce section.

2. Instead of buying microwave popcorn, I buy popcorn kernels and pop them in a pan with some ghee. Just make sure you cover the pan! The popcorn flavor is then entirely up to you! Saves at least a couple of dollars. Also, you determine the portion, not Pop Secret. I’ve made homemade caramel before to put on top of the popcorn. To…die…for!

3. I rarely buy prepared salad dressings anymore. I make my own with oil, vinegar, and herbs and it tastes much better. All you need is a whisk.

4. I try out non brand items that I purchase consistently and compare the taste to the brand version. My son doesn’t care if he’s eating Honey –Os or Cheerios. So far, Ro-Tel has been one of the items that clearly tastes better than it’s no name counterpart.

As our waist/waist diminishes, I’ll keep you posted on the budget diet tricks that worked for us! Please share any tips that you use!

WOULD YOU LIKE SOME HIPS WITH THAT?

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 12:49:53 -0500

By Andrea J. Shipman

I have work. Piles of it really and yet I can’t get one thing out of my mind.
Crunchy.
Salty.
Deliciousness.
CHIPS.
And salsa – oooh spicy salsa.

Even though my jeans are tight today.

Sure, I can blame it on the dryer and how I didn’t hang them to dry. But let’s be honest – I’ve been trying to “stretch” these jeans out since yesterday. Point in fact, I DIDN’T wear them yesterday b/c even after 10 minutes in them I decided that my semi-shaved legs could make it one more day in shorts.

This morning I deluded myself into thinking the “stretching” I did yesterday would be sufficient. Of course I would be fine later on in the day – they will totally fit by then.

Or… not.

Every time I get up they are tight on my thighs and on my soon-to-be-never-seen-again waist. Yeah – whole lot of stretchin’ going on today.

I shuffle back and forth in weight. Never really enough to alarmingly tip the scales (which I never step on) just enough to start me in the downswing of self-hatred. Yes, I am fully aware that I should love myself, love my body for all its foibles and lumps, adore my huge ass that never fits into pants…blah, blah, blah. Oh I’m sorry. I grew up with a grandfather who would comment, “Andrea – tienes caderas bien grandes.”

Translation: “Andrea, you have very large thighs/hips.”

After snorting back a giggle, my mother assured me this was indeed a compliment.
I make sure to return the compliment to my mother as often as possible. They were a gift from her gene pool after all. She may as well bask in the glory of the WORLD’S LARGEST THIGHS now with BONUS HIPS.

How could I tell her that the much lauded Sweet Valley High twins did NOT have “caderas bien grandes”? You know who else lacked the overly-complimented caderas bien grandes? Winnie Cooper that’s who. Neither Winnie Cooper, nor Blossom, not even Kimmie or DJ. And never ever did you hear – “You know what that Jessie Spano needs? A nice honking set of thighs with an extra-serving of hips.” PS – the next time someone calls Giselle curvy I will have their head on a pike outside my home to make an example of them.

Let me step back here to a few months ago. When I was also unhappy about my weight, the sudden pile on of poundage on my once flat stomach created a nauseating roll of smushed fat over my jeans. Cruising towards 30ish and painfully aware of the inevitable slowing of my metabolism, I was trying to eat well, go to the gym often and avoid looking at my naked form in the mirror at all costs. One night my husband (who thinks I am gorgeous then, now and every single premenstrual moment in-between) grabbed said roll of flopping fat hanging over my jeans in a playful making-out moment. Mortified, I shrank away from him as much as possible. I actually tried to hike my pants up OVER the fat – as if it would magically disappear beneath a denim overlay.

“Babe – don’t pull your jeans over your stomach!”

“I’m not,” I lied red-faced and feeling like an orca.

“Honey, why don’t you just join Weight Watchers? Wouldn’t it make you feel better?” He’s still holding on to the abhorrent fat now, his hands like huge pinchers.

The mood in the room raised an eyebrow at him and wheezed out it last lingering breath.

I got up and huffed my now gargantuan-self up the stairs to get ready for bed, hurt and very embarrassed.

Fast-forward a couple months when my best friend visited 27lbs lighter and my husband gushed over how great she looked. And she did. Teeny-tiny. Then we went shopping. I browsed and rejected to the tune of… “I think I am in between a 2 and a 4. I mean sometimes I can be a 2 but it really depends on the store.” I imagined a pair of my HUGE size tens jumping up and eating her whole or making her into a belt. But mostly, I considered killing her and dumping her on the side of a deserted NC highway. Oh shut it. You’ve been there.

And before you all get haughty, let me say that I am very happy for her. VERY. In the few months since I have seen her she’s completely quit smoking and taken up early morning running. Also, her arms no longer look like pixie sticks. What? Too much?

Women do this to themselves constantly. We compare, we pick apart, we judge and then we eat [insert food that substitutes for your feelings here]. And then the cycle starts all over again – compare, put down, eat feelings.

Julie just asked me: Well how did you resolve it? All this BS and now what? Sigh. I have tried to start walking earlier in the day with my husband with decent results. I have tried to acknowledge stress/PMS before diving head first into that bowl of chips with err, negligible results.

But do we ever resolve the BS yammering in our heads?
Do we ever watch the Victoria’s Secret Runway show and not cringe just a little inside when Heidi (constantly-pregnant-yet-always-lingerie-worthy) Klum struts her stuff on that runway?

I’m going with no. But feel free to correct me in the comments. And then I will judge you.
Sigh. See?

F...IS FOR FIRST DATE

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:36:06 -0500

By Allison Carlsen

I should be doing work. I should be writing for school. I should be learning new music. I should be doing many many other things right now, but I needed to write this down. While it's still fresh in my mind. Cuz I don't know what it leads to or if it will just be one of those awesome snapshots in time that I can think back upon and smile, but it deserves to be written down.

I feel kinda' bad now because I made it into quite a big deal and made the poor guy completely nervous. We eased into our first date by making plans for us all to go the movies. I am not sure really how loudly we actually made that announcement, because in the end it was just me and him. Which is exactly how we wanted it anyway. And then we decided on a night. Tuesday. It was the one night of the week that I knew I was free. I wouldn't find out until later that he actually had plans that night that he blew off to be with me instead. You may already be able to see where this is going and therefore why I think it's so important to get these thoughts down on something concrete. Because I'm not. On concrete. Not really, anyway, I'm kind of floating above it...looking up at the sunshine and smiling. *spoiler alert* What do you mean, too late? Shut up and listen...this is a good story.

Later, after we'd taken it upon ourselves to decide that no one else would be joining us and which night to go, he turns to me and says "we should go to dinner before." Yes! We should! So, dinner and a movie. This sounds like a date.

We'd known each other for a few months and over the course had become friends. We chatted and flirted until one evening all the walls came tumbling down and we...sort of...found each other. And so we went on a date. A first date. And it goes a little something like this...

We met in Bryant Park. He was waiting for me, looking down at his phone, looking very dapper in his mint green shirt and non-prescription sunglasses. There were a few tentative moments before he confidently swept my hand into his, and we settled in for a stroll through Bryant Park. I was suddenly the goofy ingenue in a Nora Ephron movie. I decided to play my part to the hilt (all the while mocking myself ever so coolly because helloooo) and waved to the Empire State Building winking down at us. We wound our way through the people and the traffic to Times Square, crossing right through the middle of where we New Yorkers normally dread to go and usually avoid like a plague. We walked up Broadway while talking about Broadway (I just puked a little tiny bit. I know...you did, too) to Columbus Circle, past the fountains and the horse-drawn carriages to (get 'em ready, folks, seat pocket in front of you. There you go) Central Park. We strolled and talked and walked and held hands and laughed and joked. It was a cool, beautiful evening, too. Go ahead, take a knee...I'll wait.

We exit the park at Tavern on the Green - I'd be willing to bet we were both silently wondering if we'd ever have occasion to dine there together - and through the Brownstone lined streets of the Upper West Side we walk. Plenty of time to kill before the movie, but not enough time for a meal, so we go to one of my favorite places for a drink. And wouldn't you know it, karma ladybugs had just made available a table for two right next to the window. I swear to god, I am not making any of this up. This really happened. *floating*

The thing with the guy is? Conversation never stops. Ever. And it's always smart...and almost always funny. (Give me some credit people. I really do try, and I really like this guy, and he might actually read this, so could you please help me out a little here? Thank you.) So, BECAUSE we're both so funny (*crickets* thank you) we're usually laughing all the time. And kissing. Where we lack in absolutely anything else - Japanese, swordfighting, humor- we MORE than make up for in kissing. Oh. my. god. Chills. Chills, people. So yeah, there's talking and laughing and drinking and kissing and then it's time to go to the movies.

We saw Star Trek in IMAX.

(Stop! Where are you all going? No...wait! I am telling the truth! Don't be like that. You guys stuck with me through the Mexico trip and the Italy thing. Don't give up on me now. I KNOW my life is ridiculously, ethereally fantastic...I fully admit that. But you can't blame me for it. Okay? Okay. Thank you. Better now? You gonna' sit down and let me finish my story? Thank you. Now, where were we...)

Yes, Star Trek in IMAX...(*crickets* cool). In a completely packed theatre, we found a seat at the end of the row - but not like all the way against the wall - and with a handrail in front of us that we used as a footrest to tangled our legs up in. And there was no one on either side of us. Thank yooou, ladybugs. We curled up against each other for the whole movie, he rubbed my arms to keep them warm. Movie great. IMAX fun. So far, we're like 10 for 10.

And now we're hungry, so he gives me his coat (yes yes yes...yes, seriously) and we head the rest of the way uptown to my neighborhood and stop at my favorite pizza place which is yay! still open. Grab some slices, head home. We not watched tv on the couch and ate our pizza and talked and laughed and laughed and kissed and laughed and talked and...

I am not going to go any further because you guys are nosy and tried to leave earlier, so I am cutting you off there. I would just like to say that it was. the. perfect. first. date. Like, ever.

Meg Ryan, eat your heart out.

BIGGER

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 17:16:38 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

When I was a Junior in high school, I played a role in a production that required me to stretch my physically comedic muscle by wearing that pregnancy prosthetic that maternity clothing stores keep in their dressing rooms. I remember getting into costume, looking at the reflection of my 17 year-old self, seemingly knocked up...and was horrified.

My boyfriend at the time responded in a way that left me flabbergasted.
“Awww. You look cute.”

( I know. Sweet, right?) But, um...yeah. I didn’t feel cute. I didn’t feel more feminine. I felt...panic-stricken, and not because I feared a birth control malfunction, but rather because I didn’t want to see myself...bigger.

I mean, it was just that little belly. My face wasn’t bloated. Every other part of my body still looked like it belonged on the healthy teenager I was, and I knew that a relatively flat stomach hid underneath the faux belly bump, but still...I remember how strongly I felt a rush of dramatic discomfort.

This last February, when I found out that I was (forreal, in the flesh, IT’S-ACTUALLY-GOING-TO-HAPPEN) pregnant, I can’t tell you that I was all that jazzed about the prospect of getting...well...fat. My body has always been a source of emotion for me. While I have mostly felt confident in my curves, and actually perhaps borderline arrogant where a couple are concerned (My 31 year-old rack still sometimes gets accused of being bought rather than genetically bestowed, thankyouverymuch), like most women, I usually thought that if I could juuuuuust lose 10 pounds, or if only my thighs were a little more toned, if I could just get my [fill in body part] to respond to the hours I spent in the gym, that I would be somehow...better.

So, it was genuine guilt I felt when I admitted strong anxiety about my body changing so drastically, especially since this was something I had virtually no control over. I was so lucky to be healthy! That my body was doing what it was built (Honey, if you saw these hips, you’d know they were never just made to do the hula) to do! That I never had to struggle with infertility issues! And that this body of mine has actually carried me through some pretty serious accidents and illnesses with barely a scratch!

And then, it started happening. My shape began to transform.

I sooooo wish I could tell you that I didn’t maniacally jump on the scale every other morning. I wish I could tell you that for the first few months, when I was hurling my guts out, that I didn’t think more than once “well, at least my weight is staying lower for now.” I wish I could tell you I didn’t eat up the “You’re HOW many months? You’re not even showing!” comments.

But, then it happened. One night, while in bed, I felt the flutter. I placed my hand on my slightly rounded belly, caressing its curve, and after a few minutes, noticed the movement again. And I started crying. Why had I been so concerned about myself when this incredible little being was just doing the best it could to grow the way it was supposed to? Something clicked. I had to enjoy this. I should enjoy this. I WOULD enjoy this. Every pound I naturally gained meant that our baby was that much healthier, that much closer to its arrival.

After my shower the next morning, while my husband and I were getting ready, I walked around my apartment naked, just like I used to do, without even thinking. I stared at myself a long time in the mirror and...smiled. My husband told me (like he has almost every day since I met him) how beautiful he thinks I am.

I not only believed him...I agreed with him.

Admittedly, I know I am just vain enough to try really hard, after I deliver, to get “back into shape,” but whatever that shape is, I am going to be joyful about it. (Come on, look at the trade!) And until then, I have to say, I am enjoying the almost daily physical changes I am going through. I love feeling our little Miss practicing her breakdancing moves, and I close my eyes and envision that the rounder I get, the more she is developing into the perfect little creature she is...and will be.

So this weekend, as I flaunt what I got at my baby shower, while surrounded by many of the amazing women who I am so incredibly lucky to have in my life...the women, many of whom share in this specific kind of sisterhood...I am going to celebrate the most spectacular one of all; the one I have yet to meet, but feel every day. The one who has made me more beautiful than I have ever been...and bigger than I have ever been...in the most important sense of the word.

*Please know that I am pulling my dress taut in this pic - Even though I dig my prego shape, I don't want you to think I walk around in dresses so tight you can see my cami grasping for dear life around my mid-section. Or hell, think what you want...as long as you know I am wearing the most kick-ass shoes to compliment the outfit. Please. I’m still moi.

IT’S A WORLD OF PURE IMAGINATION

Tue, 7 Jul 2009 17:08:30 -0500

By Heather Feeler

I've always had an active imagination. Lately, however, it's turning out to be more of a problem than a fun, creative personality trait. Ever since my body started falling apart at the age of 30, my mind has been in overdrive.

A pain on the lower left side. Ovarian cyst. Three sneezes in a row. Swine flu. Dizziness right before a meal. Diabetes. Ugly mole on by butt. Skin cancer.

It would be comical, except it's absolutely true. I've started obsessing over minor aches and pains. It has to be something bigger, something worse. Instead of having a doctor confirm that I'm fine physically (a tad crazy mentally, of course), I starting researching all these symptoms online. I just Google it, forgoing any official medical site. You can imagine what pops up. You got it......I am one sick puppy!

I wish I had never read the article that said after the age of 28, your body and health start to decline. Before I had time to shut the magazine, I was older. I'm older just writing this and, honestly, it pains me. I'm young, but already fearful of growing older with all the ailments that come with it. I'm afraid of being sick. I'm afraid of pain. I'm afraid I might die young, or old, or without my consent. I'm afraid of the not knowing all there is to know.

I am absolutely frozen surrounded by all this fear. I'm stuck. Sadly, I know I'm not the only one.

How do we stop measuring our life by the number of years and start counting the worthwhile moments? When do we realize that a great tragedy (a chronic illness, divorce, loss of a loved one) can turn into a triumph when we come out stronger, more aware of the world? How do we turn off the screeching voice of worry?

If you find the answers, could you drop me a quick line? You're the best.

SPIRIT CLUB

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 11:52:25 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

My father once told me that at one point during my adolescence, he was worried I would decide to become a nun.

I’ll go ahead and pause for a second to let those of you who know me laugh about that. Yeah ok, that’s enough.

Actually, I was rather “into” my religion at the time. While my mother had always provided a home full of magic and love, we definitely went more than a few rounds with insanity. Divorced parents who may not have known the best way to deal with their anger and hurt. An unstable step-father. You know...the kind of disfunction that most families have.

It was especially during that time that I found a huge comfort in going to church...well, since my mother had converted to Catholicism when I was 5, we went to Mass. Anyway. Kids like boundaries and routine, and feel safe within structure, so I am sure that weekly dose did a lot to calm what seemed chaotic at home. I found joy in the music, loving to harmonize while singing the hymns, and because one of my talents has always been to remember dialogue, I relished silently reciting the “script” in my head while the priest performed the service.

We usually went to Central Dairy afterwards to enjoy some full-fat ice cream, so it is a safe bet those visits literally and figuratively “put the cherry on top.”

But, it didn’t stay that way.

As I grew older and discovered the hypocrisies that emerge within every religion, the fundamentalists in every sect whose actions contradict the exact message of their faith, the idea that men wrote all of these mythologies to teach us social mores and that didn’t mean that my version of God handed them the pen...well, I just decided to be the best person I could, and my time in a traditional Cathedral just sort of...waned. I took some Theology classes and really enjoyed them. I read about other religions and pelted my friends of other faiths with questions about their traditions. I considered the discovery of every similarity that shows up in organized religions a victory. We are all more alike that we are different.

And since then, I have grown more connected, more loved, more loving, and more aware of my spirituality...more conscious of doing what I can to uncover my divinity and the divinity of others. Call it whatever you want, but I just mean that everyone has something beautiful and special in them, and I think we are our best selves when we recognize those qualities in each other.

I completely respect people of faith who go to church/temple/services...when they seek their truth, and do their best to live in a way that is tolerant, forgiving, non-judgmental, and loving (because that is what I think the central themes are in every religion). And, I don’t get people who aren’t religious and mock people’s beliefs just because they think they know better.

I don’t think any of us know better, really.

I have been thinking about spirituality a lot lately because several of my friends are facing challenges in the midst of this recession, and just cannot see the lessons they could be learning right now. That only from adversity do we grow as people. That every challenge is a blessing that will hopefully make us more compassionate beings. And while sometimes I submit to my more human nature and become afraid or stressed...truly...truly I know...though my divine self...I will always be ok. I will always be provided for. That I have everything I need, and that I am so lucky to have the wherewithal and abilities to always be blessed with happiness and abundance.

I hope that for you today.

I wish you bluebirds in the spring
To give your heart a song to sing
And then a kiss, but more than this
I wish you love.

And in July a lemonade
To cool you in some leafy glade
I wish you health
But more than wealth
I wish you love.

I wish you shelter from the storm
A cozy fire to keep you warm
But most of all
when shadows fall
I wish you love.

ULTIMISH PROGRESS

Thu, 21 May 2009 00:00:00 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

So, I really didn’t see much difference until earlier this week...
I can’t decide if I look pregnant or if it just seems like I need to lay off the french fries.

Here I am at 8.5 weeks. Geez, Jules. Clean the mirror much? Here’s a fun, and yet slightly geeky trick: Squint your eyes a little and it looks like I am doing some sort of sorcery. Also, I am barefoot, unintentionally fulfilling the hick stereotype, but hey, isn’t that skirt (Anthropologie, circa 2007) cute?

Here I am at 10 - almost 11 weeks. Look, I should get some credit for this picture for the mere fact that I stopped throwing up long enough to put on something other than just panties and a tank top. You’re welcome. Note to self: Nix the cargo pants that makes it look as though your ass stops a mere 2 inches above the back of your knees.

Finally seems real. 16.5 weeks. But, sweet baby jesus in a manger...I SWEAR I Windexed that mirror not 2 days prior! This was before I attempted some yoga, hence the Texas tee shirt/cropped pant ensemble, and although not the best photo of the bunch, I had to include it because if you look really closely, you can see my kitty, Gracie peeking out from under the bed to observe the not-so-great-with-the-self-portrait skills.

More to come, ego permitting.

GETTIN' MY GREEN ON

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 16:11:41 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

On two separate occasions this week, I have had dreams about this. (In case you don’t want to click the link, I’ll just tell you. There is a mass of plastic garbage the size of TEXAS floating in the Pacific Ocean that sometimes runs 90 ft. deep...and there is a mass like this in every ocean.)
I saw it on Oprah, (FINE. I admit I watch Oprah. Do I think she’s preachy? Yes. Do I still watch her? Yup. Do I sometimes roll my eyes and say, “Oh shut up already, Oprah?” Sure do. But, there you go. I’m not made of steel.) and ever since then, I am so conscious of how much trash we...how much I...generate.
Have I seen things like this before? News reports about the environment and the landfills and the never ending flood of garbage? Yes. I don’t know why this affected me so much this time, but I’m glad it did.
My older sister, Jill and I were talking the other night about Mad Men, one of our shared not-so-guilty pleasures, and she had just watched the episode when Don Draper gets a new Cadillac. Don and Betty take the kids to picnic, and when they were getting ready to leave, Betty just shakes out the blanket, letting all the trash just fly away. Jill watched that and thought exactly what I did when I saw it: Whoa. What? No wonder we’re in the mess we’re in. Our parents’ generation littered like crazy!
But what will our kids think about our habits when they inherit this ungodly mess from US?
You know, I’m really not trying to be soap-boxy, or even “hey, look at me, trying to save the world over here” martyr-like, because I am certainly not even close to being off the grid, but I have made **little changes. I try to follow my friend, Erin’s example. If I go to Starbucks or any other fine purveyor of caffeine (thanks, Allison), I bring my own cup. (Can you IMAGINE the difference if we all just did that? How much less garbage there would be?)
We’ve had several days here in Austin where the thermometer has risen over 85, sometimes even 90, and we have touched our thermostat maybe 4 times since we moved here in December (for heat or cooling). As a matter of fact, it’s over 85 right now, and our ceiling fan is on and the windows are open. I’m perfectly comfortable.
Anyway, there is no real point to this. I guess I’m just curious about how you get greener. Because whether or not you think Global Warming is totally legitimate or if it’s hogwash COUGHit’stotallyrealCOUGHCOUGH…you have to at least feel a little responsibility about not being so…trashy. (Come on, you know what I mean.)
So, what are you doing? What have you been doing? What can I do to make any difference at all?
*The picture above is a sea turtle that got a plastic ring (found on pop tops and milk cartons) around his little body as a baby, and this is how his shell formed when he grew...
**Edited to add - Here is what I currently do: I have the canvas bags for groceries, we separate glass, plastic, and carboard/paper for recycling, stuff we learned as kids like turning off lights and the water faucet, we use tea towels for napkins and have nixed bottled water by using a filter and our own washable water bottle...still looking for more ideas, though. AND I LOVE HEARING THAT YOU ARE ON BOARD! Maybe that will decrease my insane dreams. That or more therapy. ;)

BABY, I’M MOVING ON

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 09:05:14 -0500

By Heather Feeler

I cleaned out the nursery tonight. Sold the crib. Packed away the baby clothes. Looked through the photos of when my boys were born. Swept up all the remnants of baby and brought in something new.

The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.

I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.

Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.

It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:00:00 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

A little less than a year ago, I was living in New York City with my husband of 10 months. I was meeting friends for drinks. I was just starting a friendship that would prove to be one of the best of my life.
A little less than a year ago, I was getting into the best restaurants and getting comped meals by my clients. I was rolling my eyes at these people…in person. I was hailing cabs, and going to shows, and wearing high heels…a lot.
A little less than a year ago, I wouldn’t have gone more than 2 weeks without a mani/pedi, I wouldn’t have (literally) bumped into fewer than 2 people on the way to the grocery store, and I wouldn’t have walked 2 blocks without looking down at the pavement and wishing for a patch of lawn.
We decided a little less than a year ago that we were going to do everything we could to set the wheels in motion to move to Austin. To be closer to family and to start a new chapter. To enjoy some sunshine. To get that patch of lawn.
I couldn’t wait.
Since then, my husband and I have done it. We moved across the country into new roles, into a new community, into a new pace, into new jobs, and into a new life.
Rather unexpectedly, we fell even more in love with each other, and about 2 months ago, we learned that a little less than a year from now, I will take on the role I have wanted since I was 4 years old. The role of mama…
I can’t wait.

DREAM ON

Thu, 2 Apr 2009 09:35:27 -0500

By Heather Feeler

Every spring, I go into a frenzy to get organized. I have this urge to get rid of clutter and re-arrange everything in my world. Give it away or sell, I don't care. I just need a new perspective.

In the midst of all this purging, I came across an old notebook from college and my early married years. The pages had random notes of inspiration, journal entries and even a few poems tucked in between pages. It was a time warp back to a girl I once knew. The poems were, at best, morose, somewhat psychotic and over-the-top dramatic.

The crazy part is that I fancied myself a poet. An undiscovered, eccentric, extremely talented creator of poems. That's me. Apparently, I even saved a bunch in case my poetry gift was discovered posthumous. But tonight, when I'm reading those poems, a moment of truth flickers in my mind. I only imagined myself a poet. These poems will never take flight, I can almost guarantee you.

It's hard to let go of what you've dreamed yourself to be. When I think of myself, it's not a vision of dirty laundry, screaming kids and soccer practice. It's sitting in a coffee shop, black coffee in hand, cigarette burning and poetic words laying themselves down in perfect form on the page. I wear my beret, reciting my poems with an accent and people love them. People love me. They want to take home these words I've written and place them somewhere important. I want that for them, too.

I then start to think of all the people I've sent these poems. I was so full of myself that I put them on Christmas cards, gave them as birthday gifts and made friends read each line while I stood there waiting for their accolades. I even mailed a poem to my sister-in-law in the midst of her long, lonely semester in the Philippines. I thought it would provide comfort. I realize now it may not have been comforting, but extremely funny. She said she lost the poem before she made it back home. Coincidence? I'm wondering.

When a dream is ash, I guess you just keep moving on. It also helps to be honest when you were just too proud, too confident, too full of yourself. We've all been there. I'm sure I'll even step through that door again like when I realize I might not be a professional blogger. It takes me awhile, but I'm learning.

THE MRS. MISSES

Mon, 9 Feb 2009 11:58:36 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I have been working. A lot.
Aaaaaaand my husband has been working. More than I.
The last few weeks have served as a lesson on how to adjust, (to a new home, new city, new jobs, and a new lifestyle) and honestly, I don’t think I am as quick of a study as I usually tout myself to be.

I came home yesterday and passed out on the couch while my sweetie was massaging my aching feet.

What’s worse, tomorrow is his birthday, and I have...what? Plans to make a cake? A dinner date idea? The wrench in the works: he has a late class on the night of his birthday, so I don’t exactly know when this mini fete will take place.

So, I don’t know. I am feeling a little lower than the domestic goddess status to which I aspire. And I do take pride in that...being available, mentally, creatively, emotionally, and physically to my husband. Lately, though, I zone out when he’s talking and just want to close my eyes, not because I’m not interested in what he’s saying, but rather, the fact that I have yet to master this physical exhaustion.

Seriously. Even my skin is tired. And that’s no good...not for him. Not for me. Not for us.

How do y’all do it? Especially those of you with kids? How do you balance work and life and children...and still feel energized enough to be a great wife/girlfriend/partner?

AND SO IT BEGINS

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 09:51:11 -0600

By Heather Feeler

Technology hates me. Okay, not true. I'm the one that loathes technology. I guess I'm never sure if it's worth learning because, quite frankly, it will be gone tomorrow. I don't text. I don't Facebook. I don't even Twitter. I hear about all these wonderful tools from friends who have learned to stay e-connected. I still write them letters because I feel bad.

If I'm missed on the world wide web, no one has mentioned it. I have kind friends, I know. After all this time, I've decided to start a mini blog and a friend even sent me a link on how to get started. I'm not even sure what will happen when I hit "publish post." And I guess if blogs are out by the time I figure it all out, I'll just move on. It's the writing that matters most.

I asked my four-year-old what I should title my blog. I was at a loss on how to put an umbrella on all these ideas I might be generating on my 10-year-old computer. He said, "battery brains." What?!? "Well, I got no ideas right now because my brains are out of batteries."

Oh, well, that makes sense.

Moms are the same way, I think. We organize the entire world and we are often scattered. When we finally use the last minute of our day to do something for ourselves, we're often at a loss. Words fail us. Thoughts fall away. Our brains are simply out of batteries.

I can't speak for every mother, but I miss that spark. I miss it so much that I feel sadness when I think of its going. So, I'm recharging, folks. I'm re-emerging. I'm sending something out that may have no return except the satisfaction of knowing it's mine. I own it. I keep it safe. I strike the match.

DEAR UNIVERSE

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 10:14:07 -0600

By Andrea J. Shipman

Dear Universe,  Hi! Just a little note to say thanks for all the good stuff you've sent to me lately - the good husband, the decent job (with benefits!), the layoff dodge, Barry O and the Lucky Brand sale. All of it. I love it. THANK YOU!  Howevs, one small thing to discuss. All that baby stuff? You know the stroller client we are pitching, the overwhelming baby-centric storylines in my favorite shows, my friends' newborns and their pregnancies? If those could...um stop. Or not become so prominent that would be great.  No, no - don't get my wrong. I love it when my friends have gorgeous babies and good pregnancies! Please continue all the goodness there. They are happy and that's lovely.  It's just... I would prefer to not be reminded constantly of the looming biological clock. And really, you're super not-so-secret agents are totally doing their jobs. Namely in the form of my family or my in-laws. They rock their arms in my direction, do the whole wink-wink nudge-nudge thing, using cute words like bambinos (always plural). That I can handle and truthfully, expect. I am fully aware that after a year of marriage the questions come. Unless you're my uncle who gets drunk and slurs into the camera at your wedding, "Stop all that talking and go upstairs and make babies." But I digress...  Truth is Universe and Fates, I now kinda want a baby then I start making plans - Greece, beach getaways, quick romantic weekend trips, booze. I can't DO THAT with a baby. And I like those things! A lot.  So stop making babies cute. Um, newborns should NEVER be cute. They are to be cone-headed and look like little rats. Babies should be yelling and crying and drooling. I should look at them with slight disdain and exasperation, not with cooing joy and yearning.  You're awesome. A*

LEAVING ON A MIDNIGHT TRAIN TO?

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 09:29:18 -0600

By Michelle Gutman

In all my review and more review of my romantic pursuits in New York, I've come to believe that the universe has sent me very weak and confused men as a good-old-fashioned sign. I am ready to accept the obvious message, always flashing more boldly than any Broadway billboard, calling me to look inward to develop my potential as an independent woman, and to let that potential take me to wherever that is for me.

It's almost like I've been presented with men so sordidly inverse to me spiritually and morally, like proverbial sirens demanding that I invest in the strength and talent that is already within me, spinning like a quiet yet inevitable tornado. And in the sirens' echoes there is a relentless clamor, nagging and egging-on, insisting that I kick relationships completely to the wayside, like a superfluous pebble.

I finally feel liberated by the idea of an existence built by me, and only me, on my very own terms, weighing it against no one's fickle perceptions of me or of relationships, or whatever other intangible circumstances I never have the opportunity to learn about with the men who radically appear and disappear before me like magic rabbits. I am the magician now.

TODAY

Thu, 8 Jan 2009 09:07:09 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Recently, I have been noticing moments in my everyday life when I am doubting myself. Not my abilities, but my self. I am trying to make some changes to encourage my well-being so that I can project my own little light and contribute more to the lives of those I love. Sometimes, though, I feel like by trying to improve myself, I come across as...I don’t know. Hokey. Corny. Righteous.

I start to rethink my decisions, my words, even my personality. But, today, I am getting rid of that behavior. Really. That’s useless. Because it’s none of my business what other people think of me. My opinion is the only one that matters.

I hope that today you honor yourself. Your self. That you highlight all the characteristics that make you the unique soul that you are. That you look at the quirks you may feel insecure about at times as the real stuff that makes you beautifully, and imperfectly...perfect.

JOY!

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 20:47:14 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Merry Christmas, Internet! Mama is here, in our new home with us tonight, and just as, I am sure, tradition calls for in most homes, I am busy drinking egg nog and posting a little cheer on the web, as I watch her draw me some pictures (what else do you do when your daughter tosses you her sketchbook and demands, “Make me some art, woman!” as she gestures to the massive and, as yet, unfilled wall space in her new apartment? I tell you what. You make with the colored pencils.).

I can’t get off the couch. Mainly because every time I move, my husband calls in from the other room, “Where are you going?! Don’t come in here!!” Hmmm...I hear a lot of paper rustling in there, too. I wonder if he’s working on a top secret mission and can’t re-fold the map marking the rendezvous point. Anyway. I’m fine here. Couch. Nog. Good.

Wishing y’all the happiest of holidays. I hope you all eat a lot of full-fat goodies, hug a lot of friends and family members, and of course, get your home decorated for free by artsy, maternal types...just like, I’m sure Bing sang about with Rosemary.

TA. DA.

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 08:37:21 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I am so smug right now. People, the move went really well. REALLY well. And I was skeptical, because driving 2000 miles...that’s lot of room for hiccoughs. Our biggest problem? Moving to an apartment that is double the size of our NYC dwelling, we needed some more furniture, you know, to sit on.

And, hey! Did you know that the economy is kind of in the pooper? You didn’t? You haven’t seen the 18 frillion talking heads blabbering on about the economy the economy theeconommmmmmmerghhhhh...??? Ugh. Yah, about that. During Christmas. Suffice it to say, I’m not exactly ordering Smithers to bringthecar’round so I can trot my well-clad ass to Neiman Marcus, yippy purse dog in tow, to furnish the new flat, dahling. We’re all “tightening our belts” and “cutting back” and “trimming the fat.” However, I prefer to think of myself as super enviro-forward 1) so I can fit in to this new Keep Austin Weird culture and 2) it sounds better than “scavenger-y.”

So, my dad had some...um...older furniture that he did not use in his home, at which I jumped and said, “I will take that!” while my husband gazed at me with a look that, if given a voice, would have said, “Really? This is our new style? We lived in Manhattan for almost 10 years and this is the aesthetic you think fits us?”

But, no! I did not listen to the imaginary questions from his raised eyebrow! I convinced myself that now was the time when I must channel all the hours of WISDOM I ingested while watching home design show after home design show, and make lemons into friggin’ lemonade!

BEHOLD!

Before:

After:

And I have TWO of those chairs! I furthered my GREEN ENVIRO-FORWARDism by recycling the fabric from my old West Elm Duvet cover as the fabric for the chairs. (How very Scarlet O’Hara a/o Fraulein Maria of me.) Y’all. I’m proud. Off to go design the shit out of something else.

A SIMPLE PRAYER

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 07:53:30 -0600

By Heather Feeler

Cooper, my four-year-old, is learning to say the prayer before each meal. He relishes this opportunity to be center stage and, of course, get praises for doing a great job. Unfortunately, you never know what will come out of his mouth while praying. In mixed company this can be very dangerous.

On Sunday, he says, "Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this food; thank you that we could get a dog for Christmas (the dog has already arrived and awaits scraps under the table); and thank you that you gave me a baby, Tuck, and that you gave me a mommy and daddy; thank you also for me, Cooper. Amen."

I was touched. Many in the world don't have food, or a dog, or a much-wanted baby, or a mommy and a daddy to love them. Some don't even love themselves.

My four-year-old has figured out what it's taken me 30 years to truly accept. The Lord loves us all, crazy journey and all. Be thankful for this day.

IN 6 DAYS

Sun, 30 Nov 2008 14:13:12 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

In 6 days, if all goes as planned, my husband and I will be finishing a 3-day excursion across the country, from New York City to Austin.

And the best part is, this isn’t a visit. We’re moving there. Moving back.

A few years ago, before my now-husband and I got engaged, I told him that unless he thought he could consider moving to Austin one day with me, we should probably cut bait. That’s how much I wanted to go then. That’s why we’re heading there Thursday morning.

I cannot tell you how excited I am to be closer to my family. I cannot tell you because, yes, it is an immeasurable amount, but mainly because my brain is fried. I am trying to convince my body it is not getting sick, while at the same time, trying to encourage my ass to get up off this couch, that my “little break” is over, and I need to get back to packing.

What I can tell you, is that while wrapping up glassware and digging through mementos, it occurred to me how silly I had been, bargaining with my then-boyfriend/later-fiance/now-husband about one day, taking me home.

This little New York City apartment has been home for quite a while. I have been at home here because he has been here with me. And I’ll be home next Sunday morning in Austin for the very same reason.

WOMEN WEIGH IN

Wed, 5 Nov 2008 12:33:34 -0600

By The Contributors of Ultimish.com

From Allison Rae Carlsen:

Witness to Hope

I woke up on the morning of November 4, 2008 feeling hopeful. I saluted the Statue of Liberty with camera raised as she floated past me & my family as we rode the Staten Island Ferry. We smiled and made peace signs in front of the Hope Garden, and stood somberly reading the plaquard describing the eternal flame. We took pictures of buildings whose windows were eyes looking down at the hole left in the earth on 9/11 and held signs calling out for change.

I watched 100 hundred friends –or more! - donate their Facebook status to change. I read a constant, endless stream of discussions, exclamations, and declarations about voting and hoping and believing!

I saw people high-five in the streets. I got free coffee and free ice cream. I saw people smile at each other. IN NEW YORK.

Through tears, I saw the signs flash from “Vote ‘08” to “Barack Obama – President Elect” in Times Square. I heard a city – a nation – a world cheer in unison, “yes we can!” I stood in the middle of Times Square – in the middle of it all - and watched as history was made and Barack Obama was declared our next President.

I woke up on Election day feeling hopeful…and I fell asleep that night feeling even MORE. I am proud to say that on that day, finally, I was a witness to change. A witness to history. A witness to hope. You betta’ TESTIFY!!!

From Julie Sutton-McGurk:

I don’t have children yet, but if I am blessed with them in the future, I hope to be able to influence the people they become by setting a good example.
I want to show them that principles are easy to say you have, but mean nothing unless you live by them in times when they are put to the test.
I want to show them that believing that being a good person will bring good things to them does not make them silly, but enlightened.
I want to show them that offering someone a positive possibility is much more empowering than trying to scare someone by telling them what negative things could happen if they don’t agree with you.
I want to show them that you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, and that it’s never conscionable, intelligent, or fair to determine someone’s abilities or character by the way they look.
I want to show them that our world is a beautiful place, and we should do everything we can to protect it.
I want to show them that kindness begets kindness, acts of compassion lead to increased joy, and they will always get more by giving to others.
I want to show them that love is a verb, and that if they find a partner who will actively love them, and if they will do so in return, that they are blessed to have found someone, no matter if they are different in race or religion or of the same gender.
I want to show them that it is just as important to fight for the rights of those who don’t agree with you as for your own, and that promoting the advancement of one group of people advances us all.
I want to show them that it is more satisfying to act gracefully when it would be easier to be mean.
I want to show them that any experience is available to them, and that any dream they have is theirs if they are willing to work for it.
I want to show them that change only happens when civilized people with varied points of view, varied backgrounds, and varied ideas decide to compromise and collaborate.
I want to show them that anything is possible in the country we live in, that we are all more alike than we are diverse, that their voice matters, and that humankind is generally good.
I want to show them all of these things, but I am so happy that I can show them the footage of November 4, 2008, when The United States of America elected President Barack Obama, and when I do, I’ll be proud that my fellow citizens and my new President, set the same example.
If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Want to change the world?
There's nothing to it.

From Erin Fitzgerald:

Over the past week Hope has moved into my life and it seems to have taken permanent residence for the forseeable future. Keep in mind this is not a bad thing, just something I've noticed.

I see hope almost every day, and it takes many faces. It may be as insignificant as a move to a new apartment or to a new city even, where a new career waits or opportunities to finish something started long ago are limitless. This past weekend I watched as more than 38,000 people ran across a city in one afternoon. They ran for a variety of reasons, because that's what they do, or in memory or honor of another. Maybe they ran because they wanted to get in shape or because the prize at the finish was a really sweet sweatshirt; or because they wanted to be skinny. I don't think one of those people didn't say "I hope I finish."

I've learned a lot in the past few days, about New Yorkers and the people who visit here. People who cheer for themselves and for their friends and for strangers. I thought for a while that it was only in an arena of sport that could inspire people to support others in such an open and selfless way, but after watching the Election coverage last night, it really hit home that hope unites us all. And that people are a lot more amazing than I had ever given them credit for.

Today, I am proud. Proud of America. Proud of the people who live here. Proud of the people who learn from mistakes and take action to be proactive in their fate. I have great admiration for my peers and today I am excited for our future and for our 44th President, Barack Obama.

From Andrea J. Shipman:

History

Historically, the black vote wasn’t counted.
Historically, black people weren’t counted.
Historically, women’s votes meant nothing.
Historically, the minority Hispanic vote went to the Republican Party.
Historically, young people were apathetic.
Historically, North Carolina stayed solidly red.

Welcome to a new era, ladies and gents. Because all of the above is in the past, today marks a new time. An uphill conversation about war, the economy and this country starts in January. Nothing will be easy these next 4 years but today? Today is easy.

It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life. And I’m feeling good.

From Leticia Acosta:

This native Texan, and political junkie, couldn’t help but shed a couple of tears last night after watching President-Elect Obama’s speech. Living in a red state where every statewide office is held by a Republican, I knew my vote for Obama would not have as much of an impact as a vote in Ohio or Florida. Despite this, I can say I voted in the most historic election our country has ever conducted. As I dressed my sour month old daughter for daycare this morning, I told her that she was born the year the United States elected its first African American president. I told her that one day she could become president too, although I hope we don’t have to wait over 35 years to elect a woman. Not that race or one’s gender should be a factor in deciding who to vote for, but knowing that a candidate of any race, gender, or religion could be a viable candidate to lead our country. The sheer possibility warmed my heart, and made me proud to be an American.

More to Come!

How to YOU feel about the election results? Weigh in in the Comments Section!

VOTE!

Tue, 4 Nov 2008 17:47:50 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Happy Election Day, Everyone.

I hope you got as high as I did after voting!

We’ll be watching the coverage tonight while enjoying some homemade Tex-Mex. That’s right...HOME. MADE. By my husband. Because as far as marriages go, I am positive I voted for the right guy.

A SINGLE CENT

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 11:26:41 -0500

By Andrea J. Shipman

My 1¢.

Let me be the first to say I am over politics, political ads and the threat of BIG OIL. I am sick of looking at Obama and McCain. I am tired of bios and People magazine covers. Oh God and REALLY?! Sarah Palin?! Really? Enough of you. Shoo… go shoot a pig with lipstick or whatever.

But sometimes the fracas just looks too fun to not jump into. Oh sweet melee of drama and finger-pointing, can I join you?

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

So here’s the thing, I don’t get a lot of politicky speeches, policy and bills. What I do get is this – my dad could lose his job if Bank of America says so, my new promotion did not come with a raise and too high of a percent of my household paycheck goes to f*cking FICA. And you know what? If the people who really needed the money - to feed their kids, pay their heat bill and get treated for their ills - got the money I would gladly give it up. Let me reiterate: The parents who are working 3 jobs and can’t get their kids healthcare or new socks, they don’t fucking get the money supposedly set aside for them. Never mind that they’re paying taxes too and don’t even get their own money back.

If any single person can guarantee that those families, who are doing everything they can for minimum wage and still missing the rent, are the ones getting my hard-earned dough I would vote for them today.

But guess what? No one can make that promise. Because policy-making becomes a shit storm of: Let’s form a committee! Let’s write a bill! Let’s talk to Congress! Let’s decide who’s worthy! And five years later a family with almost college-aged kids is still struggling because about a million things have happened during the committee-forming, smoke-up-everyone’s ass blowing time. And that doesn’t include what the economy’s got going on.

You know why senators point fingers at each other saying so-and-so voted against happy children? Or that Joe Schmoe sided with big-business on a certain bill? Because when a bill gets started is about one thing – Autism, Recycling, the Environment, Nuclear Bombs, Toupees – but by the time it gets to the floor it’s about ALL OF THOSE THINGS and then some. People hang amendments, treaties, addendums on every single bill so that when a representative votes against spreading joy for all humankind while voting for big business getting their nuts blow-dried every other Tuesday they don’t even know what they are voting for. Sure they guy who added the nut-drying addendum to Paragraph 4012; Article 217; Section 11; Part Y is all for it but not necessarily for, oh I don’t know – Autism research.
And it works both ways.

The bill starts at 50 pages. By the time it goes through we are looking at upwards of 1500 pages. Is anyone going to read through that to get the nitty-gritty of the entire bill? Not so much, no. And yes, I realize School House Rocks! never taught us the finer points of policy making on Saturday mornings.

One of my favorite bloggers has discussed this topic at length; saying more than once that she would gladly give over her money to help those who need health care for their kids. And she totally would. The comments she got on that particular post irked me. Fellow readers slammed conservatives who bring up what the “liberal agenda” would do to their paychecks. Um, I am sorry but what kind of paycheck do you get that you can point the finger at others who would like to see more in their pocket and less wallowing in Washington D.C? Really, we all want larger paychecks and less bullshit so cut the crap.

But the more important point, what have you given to charity? Goodwill? The homeless guy on the street you walk by and pretend to not notice? Yeah, I am talking to you.

Obama has one thing right: giving starts at the community level. He dove into the down-trodden districts of Chicago suffering from a wretched economic downturn and said, “How can we make this better?” He started out making a difference. How can you not respect his level of commitment to a district that everyone walked away from? Listen I am not saying Barry O is Christ himself. Or that he will make a great president, just expressing my respect for what the man has done which begs the question: What have you done for your community lately?

My husband always says if we had more, people would give more.
He’s not as cynical as I am. Many of us have plenty – even with the huge portion of our salaries pulled out.

Let me be the first to say: We don’t give more. You know what we do? We have a HUGE TV, an Xbox, 4 iPods between the two of us, two cars and food that GOES BAD on a weekly basis because there’s no way we can eat it all in a single week.

And I know we are not alone.

So you want to give to those people who need it? THEN GIVE. Volunteer. Give money to a local shelter, sign up to buy a Thanksgiving dinner for a family at your local grocery store, donate your good clothes – just GIVE. Stop depending on politicians to do it for you. Newsflash: They haven’t done it yet and they sure as hell ain’t going to start now.

SPACE INVADERS

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 17:07:49 -0500

By Allison Rae Carlsen
I live in New York City, so space is literally always an issue. Basically, there is none. Storage space, parking space, driving, walking, thinking space...all rare and all at a premium. Me? I'm a tall girl, so I like space.

I will tell you one thing I do in the city to give myself some breathing space. I go to the Park. Central Park, mostly, but any park will do. My cubicle at work is small. The subway is packed body-to-body-to-body (when it bothers to run...another issue entirely its own). The sidewalks are crowded with peoplepeoplepeople. The buildings are close and high. And everything is moving fast.

In this city, there is no space...except in the Park. I go to Central Park almost every day at lunch. Sometimes I take my lunch, sometimes I just lay in the grass and sleep off the night before, sometimes I just sit on a rock in the sun like a lizard and bake. Even though it too is often crowded with people, I can walk one block into the park and lose the noise of the city. I like to wander off the paths and get grass between my toes. You can look up and see trees and blue sky there. It's my happy place.

But now it's getting cold, so my lunches in the park are growing scarce. And I feel the walls of this city closing in on me again.

A friend of mine is vacating this godforsaken mousetrap in a few months and heading back to the Midwest. We spent the day perusing craigslist apartments for her - $590 a month for 2-bedrooms, laundry, and a garage. In the pictures, there are patios. Grass. Shutters. Built-ins. CARPET. Oh my god, is that a dishwasher? And around the edges of each of the houses you can see sky.

Times like these - when the night falls heavy and fast and life squeezes all remaining space out of this city - even I might consider Ohio.

Hell, at least I know my vote would make a difference.

OCTOBLUR

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 22:17:15 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Oh my God. It’s OCTOBER. WTF?

I saw a friend the other day who I hadn’t seen since I left the “ad biz,” and she asked me how my summer had been.

I blinked a few times. Um...summer? What summer?
Huh. Ok, then. On with the new, I guess.

So, now that I am officially an old fogey that laments how quickly time passes, I guess I’ll go ahead and set out some hard candy on the coffee table. I may just be a few moments away from holding restaurants’ menus farther away from my face. And GODDAMNIT if our downstairs neighbors DON’T TURN THAT MUSIC WITH THE HEAVY BASSLINE DOWN, I WILL GO DOWN THERE!DON’TMAKEMECOMEDOWNTHERE!!!!

(That last one is totally true.)

And hey! Since I am short an actual topic and SEVERELY lacking in the logical segue department...looky there over on the sidebar...

That’s a link to buy Halloween Costumes! Your kid can be Darth Vader! Or let’s be honest with each other - you can go to that party as the slutty nurse. Or trampy policewoman. Or whorey pirate wench. (On second thought, who needs a party? Maybe you could surprise your honey with a little dress up, and it just happens to be October.) You could even go the creative route, which I favor, and pick a real costume that isn’t just an excuse to show some cleavage and wear more eyeliner. Because you know, for some of us, the holiday that warrants that is called...Tuesday!

Anyway, if you click on that link and happen to get a costume, then well, you understand that the ads on the sidebar aren’t for decoration, and I’ll set out some extra candy corn and homemade popcorn balls for you when you come trick or treating. Just give me some time after you ring the bell. I’m still waiting for my Lil’ Rascal to arrive and these ol’ bones don’t move as fast as they used to!

BE MARRY

Sat, 20 Sep 2008 10:36:34 -0500

By Amy Hutchins

“….Be Marry (Merry), And Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

It’s true indeed. We’re getting ‘Gay Married,’ as Jennifer’s brother, Dan puts it.
This will soon be my ‘official’ Brother-In-Law. It’s funny, the language and traditions of Americana…straight Americana anyway. You know, people that are allowed to get married on paper so that they may be joined in debt, discomfort, name-swapping, and nuptials….’til death do they part.
By the way – 60% or more of the time it’s divorce that parts them.

A few weeks ago, I was at the Travis Co. Courthouse on 11th street, running around like a crazy person with forms and manila envelopes and my giant communism bag (From Beijing – with Mao on it). I had to go through a security checkpoint twice. I actually had a box cutter on me! The dykey security guard gave me some shit of course…and searched my bag. OOH. Of COURSE I came in to slit the 1pm divorce court judge’s throat. Yeah! That’s it! C’mon sister – you’re supposed to be on my team!

(And then I think of the scene in the 40 Year-Old Virgin where the fake gangster kid comes into Smart Tech and gets all fake-gangstery on Jay what’s-his-face ‘We fuck dwarrrrves in the aaaaasssssssss!’)

But no matter! I’m about to march up to the clerk’s office and legally change my name!
(Insert Howard Dean “YYYYYYYYYEAHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA!”)

And for about $300 people…so can you! All of you…as long as your new name doesn’t contain ‘cuss words.’

So, then…if I can do that simple lil’ thing, why can’t I get legally married in Austin, Texas? Why then, am I taking a whirlwind vacation to San Francisco to get legally married in a state that will recognize it *(until it is possibly overturned this election day), unless I cross the border (which I will when I return home). Why the effort? What’s the meaning? What other national laws are applicable in that sense, i.e. once you cross the borders of states – things don’t apply to you? Can you even think of any, offhand, that are positive in nature?

When I went into the courtroom to legally change my name, I was the last to be seen by a judge who had just heard about 18 ‘amicable’ divorces from either a party of the un-marriage, or a lawyer. *By the way, there is a window of about 55 minutes during court sessions any given day where ‘amicable’ and ‘easy cases’ are taken care of. EASY AS PIE. “Yep! We didn’t work out.” (aka “Bitch cheated on me,” aka “I have someone else on the side,” aka “THIS is the American Dream!”)

CHOICES and FREEDOM...which ultimately re-translates to…“I fucked up and I was blind.”...and I TAKE my CIVIL RIGHTS for GRANTED.

Why can’t we join the multi-thousands of couples who can somehow manage to make it work? Do people you know, who are decent, honestly sit around and form arguments around what a ‘detriment’ to society gay marriage is? How it would fictitiously ‘cost more’ or how it would ‘tarnish’ someone’s red-necked grandmother’s vision of our impending hideous future - with all these faggots running amuck?

I wonder if the latest figures on long-term gay couples’ economical impact on the US would sway them, or if they would just consider it more CNN/Liberal ‘propaganda’ to convince everyone to ‘get along?’ P.S. CNN isn’t our fucking ‘friend’ either.

What about our style? Everyone knows the reason anything is cool in any given store on any street anywhere you can consume ANYTHING is backed by a bunch of queer designers. There’s no denying it!

So, I’m sorry – This soapbox is hard to stand on.

We are traveling to California before November 4th to become a part of history – that will certainly leave a bittersweet taste in my mouth…of course after I eat at the (alleged) best Chinese restaurant in the country, go roller skating, and visit Alcatraz at night…and have champagne and fruits at our gay bed and breakfast in the Castro district.

Our wedding ‘appointment’ with the SF County Judge is at 10am ,October 23rd.

If the gay marriage ban is re-instated in California (Polls are unfortunately leaning towards maybe/yes) all same-sex marriages conducted from June 2008-November 2008 will REMAIN LEGAL. So far, this is the only state case where those documents and stats will remain legal, indefinitely…so…forever.

GO ARNOLD…you slack-jawed, juiced-up wacky republican you…I guess you CAN make a difference…yeeeahh but not really.
We shall see what Election Day holds.

For more information about California law, and what’s going on – please Google PROPOSITION 8 (voting NO is in favor of gay marriage).
Also, check out the HRC and see what news they are talking about.

This just came across my desk:
I know I don’t know most people reading this blog, but do me a favor…
read this link, amongst other interesting links you can easily find on the internets, and just totally…slap the shit out of the closest Mormon you’re near.

What is your fucking problem, people? It is you who should be living in a cave or a temple of holiness and staying out of OUR way.

What, don’t like the way that feels or sounds? Am I being prejudiced?

Leave religion, and gigantic, scary latter-day new religions and politics out of our bedrooms and personal lives! All of us – not just gay people.

Less government is BEST.

Please think about how and why you vote on ‘regulations’ of any kind.
They are never really a good choice….no one reads the fine print. But now, that print is burning a red hole in your retinas. They control our food and our climate at this point. They’re controlling your spouse’s destiny and rights – if you’re military. They’re controlling your menstrual cycle – if you undoubtedly purchase tampons, and they’re now controlling what you can watch and say – on the internet, in films, and in public in a public forum.

I’ve apologized enough. So, lastly:
Keep up on the news, care about your neighbors, live happy, and club an idiot who thinks that gay people are a detriment to society, TODAY!

Love, Amy Hutchins-Collins

IT’S TIME

Sat, 6 Sep 2008 14:08:53 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Ok.   I had started a little fluff about what to wear when you’re (ahem) 30. I also had the beginnings of a “financial-fitness” post because I am reaaaaaallly trying to stretch those muscles and get back into shape, so to speak. But, I need to write about something else because 1) it’s way more important…being that it’s you know, regarding OUR FUTURE WORLD and 2) if my husband has to continue to hear me spout non sequitur “points” about issues at inappropriate times, he may reconsider our sleeping arrangement.
Him: “Good morning, babes.” [Leans in for a smooch.]
Me: “And another thing! I guess naming Sarah Palin as his running mate is what he meant but outing ‘pork-barrel’ spenders. She’s asked for tens of millions of dollars in earmarks for a place that has fewer than 7,000 residents and as governor for less than a year, she’s asked for $550 Million. I guess we do know her name, though. We. Do. Know. Her. Name.”
Him: “Um. I love you, too.”
Disclaimer: I do not follow the “party line.” Any party line. I think that doing so makes no sense, whatsoever, and is a myopic and ignorant way to make decisions. If I don’t do every single thing my doctor tells me to do because I believe that sometimes, I can listen to my own shoulder angels, I certainly am not going to nod and smile when politicians tell me what to do. I think conservatively about some issues, liberally about others, and do not, whole-heartedly, identify with any political faction.
I agree with my dad when he says “It’s not our job, as Americans, to help people unless they are children, old or infirm.” I agree, albeit, semantically speaking, only. It’s not our job as Americans. It is our job as good people. As members of the human race. For me personally, as a person of faith and who tries to live by the Golden Rule above all else.
I believe, like most conservatives, that “big government,” in theory, is not necessarily a good thing. However, I also think that government, of any size, shouldn’t have a say in my bedroom, at my gynecologist’s office, or at the Marriage License window at City Hall. (That’s a Super-Size government as far as I am concerned. A government that is a fat bully who pushes the kid with glasses and steals his lunch from the kid with the inhaler.)
And, as someone that fundraises for private charities, who has heard the personal stories from the people who many Republicans mean when they disparage those who could use government assistance, I can tell you…there just isn’t enough help for the people who need and deserve it. There just is not. That could have easily been me. Or you. Trust me. It could have been. It could be.
It always seems the epitome of contradiction when the supposed “God-fearing” people of the Republican party write and pass bills that are in total juxtaposition with “lov[ing] thy neighbor” and “judg[ing] not, lest [they] be judged.”
And, ugh. The “I’m from a small town, so I have the values that matter” chorus that almost every single speaker at the RNC seemed to repeat, ad nauseam? Um. I am from a small town. I know a lot of people from small towns. But, I live in New York City now. You know what? Not everyone here eats human flesh and burns babies. I mean, no, I don’t see anyone carrying a fishin’ pole down to the crick or strolling over to Aunt Bea’s for cobbler on my lunch hour, but, conversely, almost no one flashes switchblades and starts a rumble on 9th Avenue, either. Nor have I ever have walked down the street and seen a row of hookers, ripe for the choosing. (And I have been on many a street. Late. At night. Pretend you didn’t read that, Mama.) In fact, the only time I saw copious amount of hard drugs (even though I worked at a Manhattan Nightclub)? At a Republican’s house. In Jefferson City, Missouri. Not necessarily considered the Paris of the Midwest and probably the most crimson town in a deep red state. Oh? And all my gay friends? Rarely ever make me hold the camera or fasten the constraints in their deviant sex-capades. Although, they have baked me cookies and one couple gave me a set of lovely cocktail glasses for my wedding.
(As a side note…I think it’s a safe bet Republicans love baked goods, too. Did y’all watch the close-up shots when the cameras scanned the crowds at the RNC? I caught diabetes just by watching it. That’s a non-partisan issue, I know, but still. Whoa. And I KNOW they like cocktails. Lots of red noses in that group. In both groups, really. Finally! United we stand. Over booze.)
So, what’s my problem?
I don’t have the time, nor the inclination to go “point/counterpoint” on the RNC speeches, but my major gripe is that John McCain said the word “change” 10 times Thursday night, and yet, we still all remember that he has been a part of the Republican-run (except the last year) congress for both of Bush’s terms, don’t we? And we all know he has voted with George W. Bush 95% of the time, right?
One of the most Republican men I know (and who is one of the most important people in the world to me) even admitted to me last night that Bush has “been a big disappointment.”    Then why vote to continue along the same path or God forbid, vote to go down a darker one?
By the way, I am not a huge Obama fan. I don’t think he was the best choice for the Democratic nominee. I think all politicians have skeletons in their closet and talk out of their ass. Every single one has flip-flopped. Yes. All of them. McCain. Obama. Palin. Biden. But the issues on which they flip-flop? Those are way more important to consider.
Sarah Palin may be a fantastic mother and soon-to-be grandmother. I applaud that she is a woman who is trying to maintain a career and a family, and I am not part of the camp that is bashing any of her choices as a mother or a wife. It’s a difficult journey for any woman, and as a woman, I say if it works for her family, awesome. (But uh, if you shout that preaching abstinence works and then show up with a pregnant teenage daughter...eesh. It isn’t really news that teenagers have sex. Her daughter got knocked up? Well, ok. You’d think that might be a BIG RED FLAG: Perhaps we should teach Sex Ed. It’s Biology, not the Kama Sutra.)
However, the mere fact that she has two X chromosomes doesn’t automatically make her a good Vice Presidential candidate, and it’s kind of condescending to a lot of people that the G.O.P. would think voters would focus on her ovaries rather than her politics. Additionally, everyone talked about what a great speaker she is. Well, Hitler was a great orator as well, so I think we can all agree that substance should prevail over style...and the substance of her speech was incorrect. The “facts” weren’t facts, no matter how good they sounded. From her speech alone, she sounds like a lying liar…who lies. I mean, she is a politician, but for me, that wasn’t a good first impression.
I try and remember a few things when I think about the coming November: Voting is choosing the lesser of two evils, our vote every 2 years mean more than our votes every 4 years, and our country right now, (of which I am proud to be a citizen) is in bad shape.
1)    McCain wants to continue to give tax breaks to big companies who send jobs overseas. (Again with the “party line” mentality.) Just because this is capitalistic, doesn’t make it a good idea.
2)    Building more nuclear plants and drilling more oil domestically still doesn’t fix our problem. It may save us money, but we the only way to get us out of the energy crisis is to stop using as much as we do. I am not a “crazy hippie environmentalist.” I am a realist. This rock will keep on spinning, but if we don’t pay real attention and fix what’s happening with global warming (Call it a theory if you want, but then also ignore the melting icecaps, unprecedented weather patterns, and shifting ocean currents that are in direct correlation to our environmental abuse.) we, the humans, will need to find a new address.
3)    Palin “urged students to pray for a plan to build a $30 Billion natural gas pipeline in Alaska, calling it ‘God's will.’” Wow.
4)    Pro-choice is not pro-abortion. Government doesn’t belong in any woman’s hoo-ha.
5)    Homosexuals deserve every civil right that heterosexuals do. Every HUMAN deserves the inaleinable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. To think otherwise isn’t just anti-humanity, it’s anti-American.
6)    Most importantly: We are at war. I support our troops. I can do that and still be terrified. We’re spending a fortune on a war we should have never gotten into. A war for which Sarah Palin, referred sending U.S. troops as a "task that is from God."
Yikes. I think we all know what can happen when God supposedly tells a powerful group to do something.
Plus, I don’t trust anyone to be God’s press secretary. Not my priest. Not George W. Bush. Not Sarah Palin.
John McCain (who was kind of foxy when he was younger) might very well be a decent man, on a personal level. Do I appreciate his war record? Yes. But he has been the dummy on Bush’s lap for a long time, and I personally believe we have endured 8 years of dangerous words coming from someone with a seemingly hollow head. It’s time to let the other troupe take the stage.

LIKE ME, DAMNIT!

Thu, 4 Sep 2008 08:02:28 -0500

By Candy Simmons

Unless you are a well-known name on the circuit, one of the marketing strategies fringe theatre festival performers depend on is the good old fashioned face-to-face. As folks buy tickets they line up outside the venues to wait until the theatre opens. Eager for a captive audience, we cruise around from venue to venue, show to show and give out flyers along with a brief pitch on our play/dance piece/happening. Over and over and over again. When I first heard of this practice I thought ‘what a freakin’ nightmare!’ I am not a super schmoozer, not sober anyway, so this publicist role I’ve had to take on is still a bit of an uncomfortable fit. But since it isn’t practical for me to throw back a couple of martinis before I hop on stage, it’s something I’m slowly learning to embrace. Okay, embrace may be a little of an exaggeration, but I am way less twitchy approaching people then when I began a week ago.

It is a time consuming way to build an audience, but as a newbie to this world it really is the most effective way to directly connect to the community. If people feel like they have achieved some kind of personal connection with you they are way more likely to buy a ticket for your show over the other 39 they have to choose from. It’s also been a wonderful way to find out how “AfterLife” is being received. On the second day of line-ups I was already hearing positive feedback. At least one person in each line either said, “I saw the show and you were wonderful” or “I heard about that play, my friend really loved it”. The next few days I got more and more of the same. Awesome. I’m awesome. The show is awesome. Right on. Then I get a very kind review in a local arts publication, 5 stars. I say, 5 stars! Seriously how awesome am I? Wow! This isn’t so bad. My confidence level soared and I just glided through those lines charming the bajeezus out of folks.

Then, well, it was bound to happen friends, I run into someone in the line up that says she saw the show and has wanted to “discuss some things with the actress” and since I’m here can I “clear up a few problems” she had with the show. I’m sorry what? You have a problem with how awesome I am? You must be mistaken. Have you talked to the nice couple in the back who said “AfterLife” was their favorite show so far, have the cute gay boys up front not recruited you yet for the Candy Simmons fan club they’re starting? I don’t quite understand what you are saying to me. You didn’t like it? At first I was rather stunned, but you know what, if I’m going to put myself out there I guess I’m going to have to expect criticism at some point, but talk about having your bubble burst. She wasn’t of the ‘woman of few words’ variety either. She wanted to have an in-depth conversation about what she thought about it, which is fine. I politely listened and tried to answer her questions, but the gist of it is that she just didn’t like one of my characters and no amount of my trying to dissect all of themes and subthemes of the play was going to help. I did manage to extract myself from the conversation, thanked her for her useful feedback, walked out into the rain and wandered around for a bit trying to reconcile all of her issues.

Now, all kidding aside, I by no means think any piece of art is everyone’s cup of tea; you’re not going to win them all. I know this, but why is it always the one bad review, the one person you didn’t win over that will drive you to distraction? And it did, it does. Its been driving me nuts. I like to be liked. I don’t like people to be mad at me. I want everyone to love this piece, because I love it. The problem with being your own publicist is that you don’t have the luxury of shutting out what other people think and just do your work. Let’s face it, I’m in a profession where there is a constant seeking of approval. When we actors finish with our work, we come on stage and take a bow. People applaud for chrissakes. Can you imagine an accountant jumping up from his computer after hitting the send key on a particularly difficult tax return and having his coworkers and the client running in to applaud and cheer? “Good job Rupert. No one can file that 1040 like you, man. Bravo!!” I know that in order to be able to continue self-producing I’m going to have to figure out some kind of balance, a way to keep a distance between my ego and folks’ opinions. But I have to say, at the moment I’m at a loss. What’s going to happen when a not so nice review comes out? Not just one smarmy lady in a line but one smarmy lady with an audience of thousands. Really not looking forward to that. And I’m not deluded enough to think its not on the horizon, I know its bound to happen at some point, I’m just hoping later rather than sooner for my sanity’s sake.

I had a not great show Thursday night. It seemed to be more about my headspace than what the audience saw. I heard afterwards from people that they enjoyed it, but in the middle of the show I found myself being pulled between what that woman thought and what the very kind reviewer thought. Who’s right? Rationally, I know it really shouldn’t matter. I’ve done the work, now I have to trust myself and let go. As a performer I know when I’ve hit it and when I haven’t, I feel it, I experience it. I know all of these things. But all the same, I allowed self-doubt to consume me and well, it just pissed me off. And the more pissed I became the more distracted and disconnected from my performance. I was an absolute mess up there. Countless times during the show I found myself speaking the lines, noticing the audience reaction or lack of reaction, rewriting the moments that didn’t work in my head, thinking about what Virginia or Chris would have had to say if they were there, etc. Now that kind of multi-tasking is either the sign of a sharp intellect or the onset of schizophrenia, I’m leaning more towards the schizo side at the moment. The whole experience was quite unpleasant. So, after beating myself up for the rest of the night I made the conscious decision yesterday morning to just have as much fun as possible for the rest of my performances. There. Problem solved. Tada! In my neurotic state of mind I honestly didn’t trust that this approach would work, but since the only other option was a repeat of the previous evening, I figured what the hell. Last night I think I had the most fun I have ever had on stage and the show, quite simply, rocked. And I even had a little epiphany. Do you mind if I share? Why, thank you. I’ve always felt like I owe it to the audience to work as hard as possible for them, I want them to know that I take my work, my art, seriously. But the thing is, no one wants to see that. They want me to find the joy, they want me to have fun. Huh, who knew it could be that simple. But you know what friends, that woman’s challenge made me work a bit harder. Because that is the voice I’ll hear in my head when I get lazy. Not the 5 stars. So, I guess I should probably be grateful for random smarmy lady. Probably should be. Yeah, you’re gonna have to give me a little time on that one. Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.

FAIR WEATHER FATHER

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 19:06:58 -0500

By Heather Feeler

I have a hard time talking about my dad. Sadness sticks when I do. I wish it was because my heart is so full of love for him, but that’s not exactly true. It’s hard to love someone you don’t know. He prefers it that way, not me, just in case you’re wondering.

My dad up and moved away when I was three. I’m fine with him moving away, really I am. It’s that he stayed away for so long that really gets my goat. He forgot he had a daughter. And since he and my mom were never married nor did she put his name on my birth certificate (due to thoughtful advice from her family), he had no obligation to me.

I only had one picture of him when I was growing up. He was 15. I used to dream that I would meet him on the street and, even though I didn’t know what he looked like as a man, my soul would sense who he was. We would hug, laugh, carry on and forget all the years of nothing. While I was having this great fantasy, I also became an excellent storyteller on the real playground----my dad’s away on business, he never comes out of our house because he’s scared of people, and (my personal favorite) he’s allergic to school.

I told one friend the truth, but it wasn’t until high school. She neither laughed nor pitied. After that, my family story didn’t come spilling out, but I offered the truth when asked. When I was finding myself in college, I finally searched for my dad and reconnected. A joyous reunion? Not quite, though I wish it had been. My soul did not recognize him nor did I feel that warm and fuzzy connection that I had dreamed about all those years. It was disappointing for both of us.

He rarely returned my calls after that first visit. When we did talk, it was tense. He talked a lot about my mother because, I guess, it’s the only thing we had in common. He made promises he never kept. I quit believing anything he said. Finally, in frustration, I told him that even though he never had a dad to show him the way, it was not okay for him to keep jumping in and out of my
life. He could either be a part of my life completely or stop knowing me all together. Silence.

We didn’t talk for many years after that conversation. Until last week. He calls. His mother has died and the world as he knows it has tilted. Sadness finally sticks to him, too. He wants to meet, if I’m willing. I open my mouth to cut him with some well executed words, but I find the anger and resentment have faded. Okay, I say. I’m willing. I’m scared, too, but we don’t know each other well enough for me to share that detail.

You just call me when you’re ready, Doug. I’ll be here.

NEEDLE EXCHANGE

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:14:56 -0500

By Amy Hutchins

I am a knitter. I’d say intermediate to advanced at this point.
Yesterday I picked up my new book ‘The Happy Hooker’ by Debbie Stoller (btw - who’s such a great kitschy book writer and craftster). It is apparently supposed to be the “crocheting guide even for knitters.” I have yet to grasp what that truly means.

Well, if knitters are supposed to be ‘fucking retarded’ then I’ve come to the right place!

I cannot understand it at all. I can chain - As in make 2 loops and pass one over the other. That is all. Last night upon trying to grasp the little cut-together before-and-after pictures of what my yarn blob is supposed to look like I had to just throw it down. Does that mean the book fails to teach even though it says right there on the label ‘even for beginner needlecrafters!’

Then I immediately thought of the Joe Piscopo/Stevie Wonder Canon Camera commercial on SNL “So simple – anyone can use it!”

Ok not really – because Stevie Wonder is totally happy in this commercial.
Me – I had dreams like being stuck in the mud running from Freddy or Jason, except the mud was a bunch of stupid yarn and crafts and money looming over my head while a second huge cloud of mediocrity loomed even higher and said ‘give it up, betch.’

Seriously, who has hourly dreams about how shitty their crochet experience was?

I will not give up, however. I am into so many things these days. I made my first quilt out of tee shirts from the years of roller derby travel and swag my girlfriend, Jennifer and I have accumulated since 2001. This January, I treated myself to a killer sewing machine that I recommend to anyone, especially beginners who are serious about attempting Project Runway from home but don’t even know how to hand sew.

Lately I’ve been making plushy animals and dolls – zombie bunnies, cats, carrots, whatever. Jack of all trades….you knows the rest.
Until I get it mastered….

(Editor’s note: Holy freaking shit, people. Amy got in touch with me via LINKEDIN, and 1) since then, we’ve been been instant messaging all damn day and 2) I can’t believe my little indie rocker badass friend went “corporate networker” and is on LinkedIn. But also - Ultimish! I was like “you wanna write something?” And tap tap tap...voila! She did! You should know that when we first met, before the first class on the first day of college, which you can read about in Amy’s bio, she was tres “late 90s” in her flowy skirt and baby-doll tee with Catherine Deneuve on the front and long red hair looking like she’d just gotten to UT by way of Greyhound from Manhattan’s East Village. And I...well, I was in a James Taylor concert tee, obligatory standard-order freshman khaki shorts, New Balances, and there could have possibly even been a ponytail/baseball cap combo involved, but I admit to nothing. There we were: Botticelli subject and...Forrest Gump. [Cue: The Odd Couple theme.] And we still became friends in less than 4 minutes. Don’t not be friends with someone because they look retarded, kids. Just don’t. Amy didn’t and look where she is today. - Mgmt.)

FIRST NIGHT JITTERS

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 17:30:34 -0500

By Candy Simmons

Ahh, the excitement of an opening night. All of the possibilities, the feeling of accomplishment, the nausea, the full-fledged anxiety attack(s). My one-woman play “AfterLife” opened on Friday night here in Victoria and unlike the majority of the shows in the festival (a good bit of them have been on the Fringe circuit all summer) this was a true opening for me. Moment of truth time. Will the audience get bored watching me, alone, on stage for over an hour? Will they get the jokes? Will they care about these characters that I love so much? Will I have an audience? You know those disgustingly, self-confident performers who say, “What me? Nah, I don’t get nervous.” Well friends, I’m sorry to say that this lady gets a little on the anxious side. In that terrifying moment before I walked on stage, right after I’d decided that bolting for the exit was probably not an option, I had two thoughts running through my mind, “RELAX GODDAMNIT” and “Aww man, I’m really hoping I don’t lose bowel control in front of all of these nice people.”

I’m happy to report that I did make it onstage, there was a nice little crowd, and there was no poop involved. As a matter of fact, it went swimmingly. The audience seemed to immediately fall in love with Ruth, the first of the three characters, and stayed right there with me the whole time. It was such a rush for me to finally be able to take off my producer/publicist/writer hats and do the thing I love the most, just settle in and tell these stories to people. That hour was also a fantastic reminder to me of how much of an ensemble work a solo show really should/could be. After rehearsing the play for the last couple of months either alone or in front of an audience of one, I had forgotten how much fun it is to have a fresh audience. If I could sum up the night in one word it would be ‘gratifying’. All of the not so fun business things I’ve had to do to get here seem like not such a big deal now, because now I get to play. It was by no means a perfect performance, but it was a darn good start and I feel very proud of the work that Chris, Virginia and I have done. And remember that tech rehearsal I was driving myself nuts about? Smooth as silk thanks to my dreamboat technician, Jason.

Since I was able to flow into the second night without all of my self-induced paranoia it went even smoother than the first and the audience was again terrific and attentive in a completely different way. So, now the pressure comes off the actor side, since I have proven that I can indeed still walk and talk at the same time, and moves back onto the producer side, namely, getting butts into seats. This whole marketing and publicity monster I’m learning to tame is a whole other post all together. But, hey if you happen to be in the Vancouver Island area you should swing by Wood Hall and check out this great little one-woman play…

EVERY FRIDAY NPR MAKES ME CRY

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 09:34:49 -0500

By Andrea J. Shipman

Every Friday NPR makes me cry.
Every.
Single.
Friday.

I haven’t always been a loyal NPR listener. For the longest time I didn’t get the draw, people talking at you all the time. Death, destruction, strife, shady politics - how could such sadness compare with the fluffy pop of regular radio? My constant excuse for not being an NPR junkie was simply that I didn’t want to know what was going on in world. Educated, no? And also, people nattering at my ear drums annoy me.
I love how I manage to make NPR about me.

After moving here, my husband turned on NPR wherever we went. After my initial resistance, the love affair started slowly – Car Talk’s hosts with their thick-Boston accents, Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me’s sheer irreverence for the Bush administration (actually ANY administration) and finally, This American Life and my secret-crush, Ira Glass. After two months of gentle prodding and soothing stories, NPR was part of my morning routine. In the shower I was updated via short sound-bytes on local, national and world news. The Today Show became paltry fluff – horrible interviews, crappy producing and the ever-present yelling crowd. I got REAL news with NPR. Plus, I actually knew the answers to Wait, Wait’s quiz questions.

One Friday I shaved my legs amidst the usual Barack and Hillary noise, weather reports and TarHeel updates then Steve Inskeep’s voice flowed out with the StoryCorps: Recording America. I have no sense of what story came first but every single one of them affected me in a single way: I cry; either with happiness and joy or with deep sorrow and more than a little bit of shame.

The man who sees his father for the first time in over 20 years; the widowed grandfather talking about his of 60+ years of marriage with his granddaughter; the 9 year-old interviewing his mom while living in the domestic violence shelter. These people are not writers nor are they storytellers yet they are more compelling than 90% of the best seller list. Each story takes about 3-5 minutes to unfold yet encompasses a lifetime of emotions. Regret, sorrow, happiness and hope folded together in teeny little life-nuggets. How can anyone not cry?

Bottom line: the stories make me feel. And lately I’ve been wandering around a bit numb. So every Friday I look forward to the pull of torrent emotions for those brief moments. They provide the perfect opportunity for to appreciate my husband, my childhood and where I am now. And sometimes, I just think “God, I want to be able to write a story like theirs” not realizing that life wrote those stories and who can compete with life’s prose?

AND AWAY WE GO

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 15:45:31 -0500

By Candy Simmons

As Miss Julie Laverne mentioned in her previous posting, “I’m in Canada for a month y’all!” The plan is to perform my one woman play, “AfterLife,” here at the Victoria Fringe Festival for the first half of my mini-tour of British Columbia and then move on to the Vancouver Fringe Festival and dazzle them there. And all it took for me to get here was a year and half of writing, workshopping, fundraising, a cab ride to a plane to another cab to a bus to a ferry then back on the bus and one more cab ride for good measure…PHEW…but I’m here friends and I am whooped. I know a three hour time difference isn’t enough to constitute jet lag, but mix that with the sleep deprivation gods conspiring against me having more than 10 minutes of sleep over the last 36 hours, and I think it’s safe to say that there’s some sort of lag going on up in here. I don’t do well with no sleep, never have, 8 hours please, or there may be an outburst of unpleasant behavior. That’s not a threat, just a friendly warning. I know my limits. Why, you ask, was it so hard to take advantage of the 5 hour flight and get some rest ya big whiny baby, well, since you did ask, allow me to explain.

I’m usually a champion sleeper on moving vehicles, out before the plane leaves the runway, the bus leaves the station, the car hits the interstate. Yep, that’s me, curled up in a cute little ball, covered with a blanket, all of those tall, long legged freaks eyeing me and wishing for once in their lives, “Geez I wish I had short little stubby legs like that midget because she looks so unnaturally comfortable in that airline seat.” The first indication that this travel experience might get a little ugly were the two infants I spotted as I boarded. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, no one should fly with a child under two years old unless it’s a) a medical emergency or 2) the child is a mute. Yeah, yeah, yeah I know, how dare I, but is it really fair for me to have to listen to your child scream like he’s being tortured for 4 hours? If you simply must bring Junior on board, may I suggest some baby Benadryl, a shot of Jack Daniels perhaps? It would make for a more humane flight for all involved. Junior doesn’t care, he’s obviously not digging the travel experience, I know for a fact he’d rather be unconscious.

Secondly, riddle me this, the flight was a red-eye, we didn’t even board until 11pm, why pray tell would I feel the need to eat an Asian inspired pasta dish at midnight? And no, if you ask me a second time nice, stewardess lady, I am still not going to change my mind. I’m sure there’s some good reason for this bizarre meal planning, along with all of the other great reasoning skills the airline industry utilizes to enhance our flying experience. But I was even more perplexed by all of the passengers who roused themselves from slumber to eat their “free” meal. Really, it’s that tasty? Anyway, that was a long ramble just to point out that if the screaming baby didn’t keep me awake, the nauseating smell of airplane food and the sound of my slurping neighbors drove me to distraction. Flightmare, but aside from being tired and whiny I’m here all in one piece.

Did I mention that lack of sleep makes me a little bitchy? So, since I’m cranky and in no shape to form many profound thoughts, here are my observations thus far:

Victoria is beautiful. All of the transportation transfers were all worth that ferry ride coming over from Vancouver. Gorgeous.
Canadians are nice. Seriously, scarily, humblingly, pleasantly, helpful people. Lovely.
Canadian men are hot. Just sayin’.
The only thing keeping me upright at this point is the absolute terror I’m feeling about going into my tech rehearsal Wednesday. You get three hours to jump into a venue you’ve never seen and make it all work. Umm, can you point that lighty thing this way? Yikes.
I should probably seek out a handful of Valium for the flight home, since you’re obviously not going to drug your child. Selfish.

‘LYMPIC FEVER

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 08:59:30 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I have three posts started, (I swear!) but the Olympics keep dangling shiny objects in front of me, diverting my attention.

It’s always been the joke that I was so (ahem) non-athletic in school, that I had a backwards “Spalding” imprint on my forehead until my first day of college. Me with the catching and running and throwing and dribbling? Not so much. So, it’s always a surprise to me how into the Olympics I get. After a good 10 minutes of watching any given sport, I become an expert commentator. “Ooooh, disappointing. Her height was good, but she overextended out of vertical and created a lot of splash.”

I jump up and down when the Americans win, of course, (Lord, swimming has been fun to watch - those relays!) but I get so wrapped up in the emotions of every event. How hard these athletes work. When Jamaica’s Shelly-Ann Fraser triumphantly skipped past the 100 meter finish line and flashed her braces-filled smile, I celebrated with her, and oh, I cried when Cheng Fei stumbled during her floor exercise last night. Real tears! Of course, my ever-sensitive husband did point out that yesterday I “started crying at air.” (Aren’t hormones fun?)

Also, I have been playing “Spot the Erin” as a good friend of mine (and ultimish contributor) is a Phelps family friend (say that 5 times fast), and every time they show a certain clip from the Athens games, I see my girl clapping and mouthing, “oh my God” before covering her mouth with her hand. They haven’t showed it enough times to constitute it as a drinking game, but it’s still fun.

I know I’ll get a lot more done when the games are over. Maybe I’ll even write something with a point. Right now, though, I just wanted to let you know that’s what I have been doing. The same thing as you. Well, maybe not exactly the same as you. I guess I could wax poetic about the meaning of the games and how inspirational the stories are, both valid and worthy subjects, but I’m me. I eat popcorn while watching the games, one HANDFUL at a time (because I am dainty), and provide my own dialogue when a coach pats his athlete on the back after a major fuggup. “There, there. It’s ok. No mattress tonight and 3 more hours in the field for you.” (Once, before Nastia Liukin won her gold, she fell flat on her back off the uneven bars, and my beloved pumped his fist in the air and yelled, “Nailed it!”)

Awesome. Happy ‘lympics to ya.