Technical Difficulties

Ok, after 30 something posts, this is going to be a blogless day. I am in NYC with my BU girls and am in no condition to write, edit or post. I will say that this country girl drove into the city (more times in the last few years than the first 45) through the rainy traffic, west side to east side, cut off cabs, almost side-swiped strollers and parked at my current location. Been laughing (and drinking since), however, I did hang a large wall mirror first(they put me right to work). I am very proud of myself. So thanks for understanding, hopefully it will be worth the wait. To be continued....

Color Me Beautiful

Yesterday was hair color day. Sad to say, but now that I'm on this road to 50, hair color day is coming much more often than I like. If I look at the monthly cycle, First week: Heaven, Second week: Is that gray already?, Third week: Holy crap!, How am I this gray after three-weeks, Fourth week: Back in the chair. I’m getting the distinct feeling that it will soon be a much tighter turnaround; can it be that I only last 21 days without silver highlights?

I don't even want to think about the dollars involved in keeping me a youthful chocolate brown, nor do I have any interest in embracing the "silver fox" hiding just beneath the surface. Don't get me wrong, some women, well at least the "mature" magazine models and maybe Dame Helen Mirren (when you have a title you can probably get away with anything) look sophisticated and even a little sexy, but this is not a look for me. I am also not attempting to transition slowly to blonde. I don't think they have more fun, and my attempts at even a Halloween wig were highly unsuccessful. If I remember correctly, and I do have photos in the basement to prove it, all the women in my family for many generations started as brunettes, and yet when they journeyed to 50 and beyond they were all colors of the rainbow, except brown. My grandmothers both went the "frosted" route; I'm guessing something similar to lowlights and highlights, and very big back in the day. First of all, the only frosting I want is on a cupcake or straight out of the bowl on a giant spoon and secondly, it never produced a color or pattern that existed in nature. My 96-year old Mama Nona (she preferred the Italian version of "Bubbe" when first becoming a grandma at 45), spent many years as a redhead and it wasn't a bad look for her, she does have crystal blue eyes. That is, until her husband (my step-grandpa) insisted that they could color at home and it would be cheaper. Cheap red is, well, cheap red, but she is always beautiful (don’t think she's reading the blog, but I'm covering just in case). In the last few years she has gone “au-natural” and she really is a silver fox. On a side note, I will tell you that she still drives herself to the beauty parlor (licensed renewed for the next decade I think), lives alone as in "not assisted”, and has a French manicure weekly (sometimes with varying colors on the tips). I’m off on a tangent for a change, back to hair color. My own beautiful mother (who is "following" my journey) is a gorgeous blonde, not done at home and suits her perfectly. I hardly remember the raven-haired days and her fair complexion was apparently destined for blondeness (no, we do not look like mother and daughter).

Most of my peers (fellow women creeping around 50) have stayed fairly true to their birth shade. There are a lot of highlights, and a tone or two up and down, but mostly we haven't totally succumbed to the gray. I do notice that the blondes get much blonder and some brunettes attempt an auburn hue (I get very cranky when I sense red is appearing; separated from a few stylists who didn't get that message loud and clear – also lovely on others, just not me.) I also think that there comes a time when no matter how inky black your pigtails were (and I was quite dark) you have to stay a few degrees lighter than Morticia and please, don't attempt the eggplant tones, purple is not a natural hair color. I did experiment with henna in the college years, not in a Goth way, just in a darker than nature, doesn’t look right way. It was also self-applied; ruined a few towels and bathroom rugs in the process, but I was not emotionally or financially ready for in-salon color.

Which brings me to the hidden truth of beauty parlor application (when did “beauty parlor” become politically incorrect and re-name themselves as “salons” or “spa” in my case). If the paparazzi want to get some embarrassing celebrity photos, they should stop going to the beach looking for cellulite shots, they should stake out the stylists chair and wait for the color to get applied. This is a woman’s lowest beauty moment, almost as if we have to suffer total humiliation in order to walk out the door feeling good about ourselves. The application process seems innocent enough, the brush slowly painting the magic potion on to your roots, not the best look, but not completely depressing either. And then the waiting begins. I am left with a stack of magazines and a beverage (I now focus on my iPad, really falling behind on recent issues of Cosmo and Us weekly). A casual glance in the mirror and I tumble into my worst self-image nightmare. In my case, my hairline has now turned a deep, dark color of asphalt, which extends a bit onto the forehead. The blondes are more of a tawny, curry-like color (they are not spared this experience). The un-applied areas have puffed up in fear of the liquid tar and I look like a dark-haired Albert Einstein (minus the brain power and the mustache). As a brunette, I am at least spared the added level of ugly; the silver foil. For any men out there who haven't stopped reading yet, if the lady in your life has multi-dimensional blonde locks (like an adorable blonde child after a day at the beach), it happens in a disturbing ritual of bunches of hair brushed with color and then tightly wrapped tinfoil packages which completely encircle the head, and it stays that way for what seems like an eternity. My hour in transition is far from stunning, but I do not look like I am trying to communicate with space aliens. Not surprisingly, we all do our best to avoid direct contact with the mirror, which is not easy in a room with wall to wall mirrors combined with thousands of wattage of "flattering” fluorescent lighting. The ladies who wear glasses are the luckiest; if they are removed for the process, they are staring into a blurrier picture of horror. The rest of us do our best to look away, concentrating intently on our reading materials and avoiding interaction with other patrons. All conversation is limited to the stylist who occasionally stops by to make sure we are cooking with appropriate speed and coverage.

Finally, the egg timer hits zero (or someone remembered that I was done) and I am escorted to the sink. All painful memories are washed down the drain and I am rewarded with an excellent scalp massage while lounging in an electric, massage chair. Thankfully, the shampoo girl does not completely soak whatever clothing I am wearing under the stylish polyester cape. I do have to endure the less than pleasing hairline scrub of leftover dye, pretty sure I am losing a few skin cells in the process.

My return to the chair slowly rebuilds my self-confidence and soon enough my mahogany brown locks are unveiled complete with a professionally blow-dried youthful bounce. I pay the “bounty” for my temporary beauty and tip generously for the opportunity. Back in the car, I adjust the rearview mirror to evaluate my renewed hairline, and promise myself to never again let it get to the "oh my g-d, I'm grey already" stage. I won't write about this every three weeks, but you can be sure I will be in that chair again too soon, fighting Mother Nature, one follicle at a time.

Fall-ing Apart

For some reason, every year as the cool fall weather rolls in, I forget that "back to school" does not equal "back to normal." In fact, this season is perhaps the most off-kilter. The first few days trick me into believing otherwise; up early, busy all day, sit down for dinner together, homework, and in bed by 11. It is a reliable, workable system that has been in place for over 20 years in our household, but September - November challenges the plan. The changes come in the first stacks of mail (both snail and electronic), at home and at work. The universe was on summer hiatus and now it has come back to life with a vengeance. My empty calendars of July and August are suddenly double and triple booked, and the task of coordinating even my current household of 4 seems like running a small third-world country.

First come the school announcements; parent’s night, SAT scheduling and after school activities. Next, my outlook agenda is flooded with meeting "invitations" (invite usually implies there is an option not to attend, which is really a misnomer at the office). When I have to build in travel time between appointments, the stress level is already too high. Add to that, every community organization, volunteer commitment or board meeting that took the summer off rushes to schedule the “let’s get back to business" gathering and there is barely an empty block on the monthly view. As the workplace is shifting into high gear my engine is already running on empty.

As a Jewish mom I have the added element of "the holidays." I love the Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur stretch, but my warm, fuzzy feeling can quickly turn to hysteria when I realize that briskets and bagel orders must be worked into the to-do list, which is already at a "won't get to most of this" level. I love the way the house smells with a Kugel in the oven, but not as much when it's midnight. Setting the table and polishing the silver are both labors of love, but a bit less so at the end of a 12-hour day. This year, when my first holiday e-mail came in August (my sister-in-law is very organized) the panic set in. My “people” have a bit of a reprieve this year; holidays are routinely identified as "early or late (in the season)" and this is a "late" year. I also have a personal bonus, both of my Rosh meals will be sister-in-law hosted (two different ones); I get an assignment and arrive on time. The close of the Yom Kippur fast, Break Fast, will still be at my house, as it has been for 13 years. This dairy extravaganza is by far, exceeding all others (secular and not), my favorite holiday meal. It was the first event held here when we moved in 1998 and the last one with my father in attendance. I will break my fast in this house for as long as my family will let me or a future daughter-in-law makes a good Kugel.

Socially, the easy breezy summer schedule of back porch margaritas is swiftly replaced with wedding and Bar Mitzvah invites (which I love, don't cross me off the list). This, in turn, means I have to build some shopping time into the agenda. I am willing to admit that my closet currently holds enough cocktail attire to attend an event every weekend, but I have to cross-check each garment with which group may have already seen it at a previous function. You may not remember (unless it was really good or really bad - hopefully not the latter), but I know and that's enough. Not to mention that this also involves working in appropriately timed hair and nail appointments. I am stressed thinking about it.

And then there's football season, not on TV and not because my children play. This one is all Jeffrey, and isn’t over until after Thanksgiving Day. For more than a decade Jeffrey coached Youth Football, for all 3 boys (and once when no Z’s were even eligible to be “youth”). He served on their board as treasurer and attended more meetings and practices than I can count. When he realized that the other (i.e. younger) dads were stepping up to replace him, he found another way to be on the field. He donned the black and white stripes and became a licensed referee at the high school level, and he loves every whistle-blowing second of it (and he looks kind of cute in the uniform). That being said, he is running back and forth down the gridiron from late August through the championship games in November, sometimes 3 games a week. Andrew used to be a willing dinner date for Friday night games but I’m beginning to notice that he’s probably looking for a companion more his own age (even though I pay).

So here I am, 2 weeks into fall and I can count on one hand the times I have cooked dinner and we all sat down to eat it together.  That may not seem unusual for some, but I am a product of a dinner-table childhood and have done my best to continue the tradition in my own house. I did eliminate the half-grapefruit (sometimes with a maraschino cherry) that my mother served before a meal (must have been a 70’s thing).  I do set the table; complete with placemat, napkin etc. and make a balanced meal including protein, veggie and a carb (doing my best to stay away from the complex ones). We do not include dessert unless there is company present. I make more than enough for any family to eat in one sitting (always paranoid that if we finish everything, I didn’t make enough), and more often than not the leftovers sit in the fridge until garbage day comes or mold grows (whichever comes first). I am not proud of the amount of takeout that has been served in my house of late, even if it comes from Whole Food$. Healthy or not; its not very "homey" to eat out of recycled cardboard containers.

I would love to say its going to get better soon, or that I’m going to prepare food in advance so they’ll eat home-cooked, but I would be lying to you. As you can tell by my tardy posting the last day or two, my candle is burning at both ends at the moment. Hate to say it, almost criminal on a beautiful day like today, but December sounds kind of nice. Right now, it feels like I’m Fall-ing apart.

Nap Time



Yesterday would have been a great day for a nap. It was 4 p.m. on a nice, quiet Sunday afternoon. I took a long hot shower, Jeffrey was still out refereeing a football game (will be discussed in a future blog), and I had no need to shop or cook for dinner (going to my sister-in-laws). I was looking at a good 2 hours of free time with no real motivation to do anything useful (i.e. Closet cleaning, laundry, bill paying) and my bed was looking prime for a nap.  To clarify, when I nap, I am a bed napper; not on a couch or a reclining chair. If I'm getting shut-eye (even in the afternoon), it's in my bed and under the covers. I won't turn on the TV and hope and pray the phone doesn't ring. But, alas I did not slumber. I was first distracted by my iPad, which leads to responding to Facebook messages, which leads to checking emails, which slips into recreational on-line shopping. At that point, I was down to a potential 45-minutes for sleep, and for me, that is a “nap tease.” Some people can take the “power nap”, restored and refreshed in 20-30 minutes, but not me. If I have less than an hour I’m still tired and more than an hour and a half, I’m groggy and done for the day. I used to be better at finding the perfect window of opportunity, but lately I am failing at all attempts at a siesta.

I don't remember being much of a napper when I was a kid, seemed like punishment back then (talk about hindsight being 20/20).I'm sure the stubborn (but otherwise perfect) child that I was, I would fight sleep just to prove to my parents wrong. In the summer camp years, I think "rest hour" was supposed to be pseudo nap time, or digest lunch time or write home to your parent’s time. I most certainly spent the duration talking, did not have much lunch to digest (tiny back then) and I doubt much correspondence went home. College rest time was more about sleeping till noon or banking a few hours sleep before we stayed out all night; more about recovery and prep than getting any needed rest. The pregnancy years were made for lying down. Any chance I got, I was in bed. Even my doctor told me that I should take advantage while I could, “probably won’t sleep much for the next 18 years” (apparently he was telling me the truth – and underestimated the timeframe). If I was smart I would have hibernated for the entire 9 months (well more like 10 in Jill gestation). I’d still be catching up, but it would have given me a head start.

When the kids were babies it was fairly easy; they sleep, I sleep. They were reliable 3 hour infants in the afternoon, and if they didn’t want to cooperate I had my methods (not Benadryl, stop assuming). The usual choice was the “drive around until their head tilts in the car seat”, and I’m good to go. Some trips were longer than others, I tried not to cross county lines, but we covered a lot of neighborhoods. The pacifier was an excellent sleep aid and I made sure to have multiples on hand in case one landed on the floor of the back seat (not so much for the cleanliness factor, just hard to grope around and find it while driving, easier to pop in another one).I know dentists and parenting purists everywhere are now criticizing my binky dependence, but it was cute and it worked. Think little Maggie Simpson, how adorable is her little plugged mouth? Luckily, my boys were all easy transfers from car to crib and I was parallel moments later for a few hours of blissful dozing. If I wasn’t in the mood for a leisurely drive or it was dark or rainy, there was always the baby swing. Punish me now, but load that swing, turn on the motor (it was next to my bed – I’m not a perfect parent, but I maintained visual contact) and the ZZZ’s were practically instantaneous. Of course the old standby, surefire, sleepy time approach is “lie down next to mommy and watch a video.” I always fell asleep, not 100% sure about them, but they didn’t bother me. Even now, if a vintage Sesame Street tape (back in the days of the VCR) is played anywhere in my proximity I will immediately begin singing along (“C is for Cookie, that’s good enough for me”). I am an expert in all things Ninja Turtles (teenage mutant to be exact). Donatello, Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo reigned supreme in my house for many years. I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the beloved purple Dinosaur, Barney, because “I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family." I have just clearly demonstrated how long ago I raised toddler males. Of course, while I was just singing that song out loud I had the best baby flashback ever; almost better than putting them to sleep was when they woke up; there is nothing quite like a half-awake baby lying on your shoulder. Their skin is warm and little damp curls of hair stick to their forehead, they smell like baby shampoo (maybe a little pee) and even better in the summer with a hint of sunscreen. Still too sleepy to move, those few precious minutes are indescribable. Then, they realize they are hungry or wet or both and the piercing cry snaps you right back to reality. As they got older, I did not need to drive them around to encourage sleep. Although, much like the early years, sometimes it seems they wake up just to pee and eat.

Well, I wish I had been successful yesterday, because I would have been better prepared for today. I was just notified via Facebook that at least one person out there is anxiously awaiting today’s episode of my journey – having “withdrawals” I might add (Thanks for noticing DSM). I have come to the conclusion, that unless I can kick the iPad addiction (not likely) or my DVR stops working (there is always an episode or two of Real Housewives I need to watch) I will not be taking forty mid-day winks anytime soon.

A (very) Few Words

I have no intention of being funny today nor will I attempt to explain or understand the horror of the events of a decade ago. I am visibly shivering as I listen to the  names of those who died so needlessly; at the podiums in New York, Pennsylvania and Washington, the children who have grown tall and strong, the widows that look older than their years, the siblings, the parents, the co-workers - each one still wearing the scars of that day. Since that morning, etched so deeply in all our memories, I have felt a bit of a kindred spirit with those who live with the pain of that Tuesday. I too, have woken up on what I thought was a crisp, blue skied fall morning, only to have my entire life change without warning hours later. No matter how many times you wake up after that, there is an instant, when you hope it was just a bad dream.

So I'll sign off for now, because there is no more to say. I will go to the JCC and light a yahrtzeit candle in memory of all those who didn't get a chance to finish living and pray for the family and friends who go on bravely without them.  I hope we all take some time today to remember the past, to be thankful for the present, and to be hopeful for the future; to contemplate that our world can turn upside down at any moment; don't leave anything unsaid.

"So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart." -- Former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins. 
Excerpt from, "The Names. “ A poem dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.

A la Mode?

It’s Saturday morning and I am tired even though I slept late, I am hot even though the house says it’s 70 degrees, and I am cranky even though it’s a beautiful sunny day; and I think I know the reason for all three. The blame here is going on last night's buffet dinner; I think unlimited eating should be eliminated or at least come with a warning. I will take some responsibility, after all I was not force fed. Seems I get confused and interpret “all you can eat” as “eat all you can.” After all, you can get too much of a good thing, and I did. A perfect night otherwise; great friends, a few drinks (maybe more), hysterical laughter (the kind that makes the other tables look at you), and total comfort to say and eat whatever you want (translation: I don’t have to watch my language or count my calories, because no one cares). Unfortunately in a buffet setting, this is the perfect storm.

My first mistake was in the anticipation; I didn’t eat much all day because I wanted to be hungry enough to enjoy dinner (it could be a little bit of “getting your money’s worth” too, remember my heritage). I have learned this lesson over and over again and for some reason it does not sink in; repeat after me: starvation leads to gluttony. My second mistake was comfort, I was dressed nicely but it was an un-tucked ensemble, which automatically means there is no visible sign I am eating too much. My third mistake was alcohol, which resulted in my fourth mistake, no shut-off valve, the little voice inside my head that says “you’ve had enough” was stifled by vodka. So taking all these offenses into consideration you would be safe to conclude that this was a first class food overload, and I am paying for it today.

My first punishment was not the alcohol, I stopped drinking early enough (or just ran out of room); I was happy intoxicated, not the hangover variety. The primary offender was the water, gallons and gallons of water. I am solely a water drinker anyway, all day - every day, never soda, just water and coffee. Add to that the glass after glass I consumed with dinner (salt and fat taste good and make you thirsty) and I am at least thankful that maybe I burned a few calories traveling back and forth to the bathroom all night. You would think that all that water would prevent all that food from taking residence in my body, but no, by the time that message got across, the damage had already been done. My second punishment is how I felt when I woke up today; like I was dragging the entire contents of the buffet in a weight bag behind me with every step. My eyes were swollen and I’m still thirsty (damn salt), my morning coffee felt unwelcome, and I struggled to swallow my beloved Fiber One bar. I am sure that my third punishment will come later when I have the “now my stomach feels empty” revenge and I will have to convince it that the extra space is unnecessary and if ignored it will go away again, hopefully quickly. Which brings me to my final punishment; this was supposed to be a controlled week, Thursday is dinner with the BU girls. This is not a crowd I need any extra sodium hanging out in or on my body; these girls do not fool around when it comes to health and fitness (some a little more obsessive than others – I am in the others category). Not to mention that there will be a lot of picture taking, which leads to a lot of Facebook tagging, and I can only “trash” so many before they remove my deletion rights. There is only so much “skinny” jeans and a good hair day can do, so I am looking at some major calorie deprivation days ahead – I am thinking Yom Kippur fasting prep (no time like the present to start repenting). Carleton Street girls, I vow you will see no evidence of last night’s transgression by the time we assume our first pose on Thursday. I will not be “ripped” or a size 2, but I will have maintained the 48 year old body you saw at the last dinner.

I will admit that if I can get back on the wagon today, it may have actually been worth the fall. The food was great, each and every trip back through the line (this was not Hometown Buffet, this was Country Club buffet, and I mention that just to qualify that these were grade “A” calories). The dessert was probably overkill, a Junior’s Chocolate Cake/ Cheesecake creation, which the waitress had to mention, was 1600 calories a slice (this was her “hint” that we should share). My friend (who makes any dinner a party) responded with the comeback of the evening, “Well then, can we have it a la mode?”

Calories be damned, I’ll still zip my jeans today and maybe I’ll walk tomorrow. I’ll take a night that ends like that anytime, and deal with the bloating later.

Ebb and Flow

Yesterday got me thinking about the expression "ebb and flow". Originally for the obvious reason of the sudden “flow” in my basement, but as it ebbed, I had another thought. Life itself is an endless ebb and flow. A current, in and out, of everything that’s important. People and things are always in motion, each has days and times when they are more or less the center of our attention. What seems most significant one day is almost inconsequential on another? Something trivial on Tuesday can be overwhelming on Wednesday. Up and down, back and forth; a constant seesaw of what is happening and how we respond.

The flooded basement, my literal example, filled to almost my knees with cold, brown water (not sewage I need to add), but by the end of the day it was only visible in the carpeting, now cut and rolled and waiting for the trash collector.  I was most surprised by how little it bothered me. Surely watching the water rise against the sheetrock and the remote controls float by had its shock value, but as I casually responded to the various Facebook comments regarding my photos, it's just stuff. Certainly in another time (like when it happened 10 years before) I reacted much differently. Even the basement, in the bigger picture, was more important when the kids were younger and their life revolved around what happened down there. I guess even a playroom has a cycle, and for now it plays a lesser role in the scheme of things. At this moment the bigger concern was not the Wii (which has said goodbye, but no worries, they are much more connected to the PS 3 upstairs), but instead the pieces of history stored on the shelves, where there is no carpeting, and nobody ever played.

Relationships have their ebb and flow as well, high tide and low tide; the trick is getting in sync or sticking it out until you do. I have seen it play out with my friends, my family, my job, and my marriage.  It's human nature to go through phases but you have to recognize when you do or you end up missing out on the next level. In most circumstances, I feel the shift in the current and do my best to lay low and wait for the next wave. I regret the times I impulsively break away instead of treading water for a bit longer.

Friendships seem the most susceptible to the wax and wane. College friends and camp friends are the perfect example. Months can go by, and then one e-mail, phone call, even a Facebook post and we are back to nonstop chatter. We ease in and out of the relationship, with no hard or hurt feelings. No need to make excuses; I meant to call, sorry I haven't been in touch. It’s ok, we're all busy and we just pick up where we left off. The people in our everyday life are actually more complicated, because there is more room for error. The friend you talk to everyday feels more distant if 3 days go by; miss a few weekends or more with a couple you love to spend time with and someone ends up asking why. Proximity makes it harder to accept distance, when most of the time it's just the normal course of life that keeps us apart. I think we take for granted the people who we assume will always be waiting for us when we come up for air, and when they're not, it hurts. All it takes in most cases is one person, usually the one waiting for the phone to ring, to pick it up and dial. Maybe the person on the other end needs you to reach a little farther this time, and next time, when you drift away, they'll return the favor. Give and take, back and forth, ebb and flow.

Love is more complex. In a marriage or any relationship of the heart, we depend on the constant; peaks and valleys are scary. We want to be chased, but it's less exciting when we're caught. Insecurity makes us run when feelings aren't reciprocal, but maybe the other person just hasn't caught up yet. For some reason jumping rope comes to mind, Double-Dutch in fact (which I find fascinating to watch), the rope is spinning and two people wait to hop in; you watch them nod to the rhythm, and then the first jumper enters the cycle. They play alone for a while, keeping time and waiting to be a twosome. And when their partner is ready, it happens; up and down in perfect synchronization, like it was meant to be that way all along. The action continues; the more often they jump in and out, the better it gets. So maybe we have to bounce around a while by ourselves and wait for our mate to be ready. Even after 25 years of marriage (and probably because of it), I do know what it feels like to be “jumping” all alone for a time, waiting for the other person to hear the same beat. It's definitely frustrating and lonely, but I am certain that if each of us hadn't gone solo a few times we wouldn't have made it this far. Sometimes it's more obvious than others; easier to give space when a parent is sick or work is stressful and much harder when your other half is working through problems they can't explain and pull away while they figure it out. It’s hard to wait in the wings without knowing what’s keeping you there. My advice (which I can’t say I always take), be patient, some days we just have to go with the flow.

Same goes with the kids, I find myself bonding with one and feeling more distant to another on any given day, and just as quickly it will reverse and ease my worry. When my Ying is not aligned with their Yang I am relentlessly asking “what’s wrong, are you mad at me, why are you in a bad mood” (I think I do that with all the people I love). I need to accept that it's not always about me; I need to ease up and wait until we’re both on the same page. My maternal instinct makes it very hard to give them the "space" that they are very specific about needing; I'm learning that when I do, we end up in a better place together.

Work too, has its fluctuations. Some weeks offer constant reminders of why we show up every morning and then there are the days when the countdown to good-bye starts at minute one. A good week at work makes me feel needed and smart and successful and a bad one makes working at J.Crew sound pretty fulfilling. The littlest things can shift the scales in either direction. I am lucky to work in a place where a conversation with a grateful member or a visit to a toddler classroom for snack can put a smile on my face for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, it is also the place where we are asked to do things that sometimes don’t make sense and a long day can turn into a longer night if someone needs our help (which oddly enough can also make me happy). When I have a bad week, I fight the urge to run. I catch my breath and wait for my second wind, and I'm happy to be back in the game.

Blogging too has its ups and downs, some days it flows freely and other days I keep going back to the well. Today was one of those days, hope you get my drift.