Cutting off the negative energy

They say that when it comes to hair, there are two kinds of women: the ones who see their hair as an accessory and change it on a whim, knowing it's "just hair," and the ones who see their hair as part of their persona, their signature, their "thing."

I am definitely the latter.

I have worn my hair pretty much the exact same way for about 10 years (well, there was that crazy experimental phase in which I threw in some longish bangs, but I was hormonal and pregnant so really, I wasn't myself). I can recite an endless list of things I would gladly change about my physical appearance, but my hair has been my ever-loyal sidekick. Other than an unhealthy obsession with Elnett Hairspray (trust me: it will change your life), my hair was pretty much wash and go. It was like if God said: "Okay, I'll make you a deal. I'll give you hips that will drive you mad your whole life, thighs that will never be slim no matter how many squats you do, and your mother's lack of skin elasticity, but I'm gonna give you This Hair." With little to no effort, I could wear it up in a sleek ponytail or knotted in a messy bun. I could wear it tame and soft with Kate Hudson-like beach waves, or big and intimidating with Shakira-like attitude.

But, like any other kind of relationship, if you don't tend to it, if you are careless and negligent, if you abuse it, even the most loyal of partners will begin to show wear and tear.

It was time.

My once golden locks had turned brassy and cheap-looking, like I'd been using Sun-in rather than a spectacular colorist who flies to New York on occasion to work Fashion Week. And the last several inches had dried out into a brittle handful of straw. My look had become more singe than signature.

Once I had committed to the idea (and printed several pics of a tousled Alexa Chung), I became completely and utterly excited by the idea. A new look. Chopping it all off. Going from an all one length mane of hair to a messy uneven short cut. I realized that I was desperately in need of a change. Over the last few months, I'd had a string of bad luck; nothing serious but enough little issues to have made me stressed and frustrated and a little depressed: sinus infections, bronchitis, adult-onset asthma, a minor neck injury, some "female" drama....the list went on, and had gotten chronic enough that some people were asking me if I'd consider seeing some kind of witch doctor or mojo-cleanser to un-jinx myself. (It's amazing how, regardless of the culture and religion, every group has some sort of voodoo/luck/energist/superstition type of thing.) And, I admit, I did start pondering....after all, what could it hurt to wear a special little black bead to ward off the evil eye, or bathe in a little milk and honey cleansing bath....?

Many of these little roadblocks had kept me from working out, and so, between the doctor's orders and summer being summer (hello, wine and beer!), I had also put on some weight. When you mix all of this stuff with a person who already has a propensity for mood swings, and throw in some hay for hair, you get a very unhappy and unpleasant Liz (and Liz's Hubby, I'm sure).

So when my friend suggested that I envision my hair cut as an exorcism of sorts, I was more than game. As I felt the cold steel of the scissors brushing against the back of my neck when she made the first snips, I envisioned all The Bad Stuff going with it. There, on her linoleum floor, mixed with the mounds of my hair, sat all my bad luck, all my days of feeling less than stellar, my chronic cough, my supposed asthma, my fourth (yes, fourth!) corneal abrasion. "Fuck you bitches...I got me a new hair cut!"

All three of my men loved it, too. Ben had initially wailed that morning when I told him I was cutting my hair: "But Maaaammmmmaaaa, whyyyyyy? I loooove your hair looonnnnngg!" But when I got home, he did a double take and smiled: "Wow, Mama, you look so pretty." Even little Aidan had something to say: "Mama, I like your hair like dat!" And Hubby, absolutely loves it. "I love that you look different, and I love how you feel with this new look."

Hair.
It's "just hair."
Funny thing, though...for some of us, it's not. It's a piece of our Selves.
I can't hide beneath my mane anymore. I feel purged. I feel lighter and excited, and the weirdest thing is that although I look totally different, I am feeling a little more like Myself than I have in a long time.

Welcome to the inside of my head

So, after nearly two years, this blog finally looks like Me.

When I started out on this little writing/techie journey, I barely knew what a blog was, much less how to design one. And here I am, li'l ol' technologically disabled me...changing background colors, rearranging fonts, and finally using the header photo I had dreamed up so long ago (thanks Gil, photographer/friend extraordinaire!). And although, thank God, we no longer use baby bottles or pacifiers in this house, and a couple of those shoes have since been handed down,that photo really does capture what this blog started out like for me: the needs and demands of my boys scattered about my "real" life...the one I fought so hard not to lose, the one which, eventually, has adjusted itself to my "other reality"...Glamour Girl and Mama can co-exist after all.

Nothing like a bloggie make-over to perk a girl up...

Visiting a friend with a tribute to Ms. Bradshaw

Simone, at The Bottom of the Ironing Basket, invited me over to guest post on her amazing blog, which is always a parade of beautiful images: celebrities, fashion, landscapes, quotes...

A click over to her always make me feel inspired or relaxed, or both! Check out my guest post over there (it's a recycled one but one of my personal faves and perfect, I though, for her site), and then dig around her in her laundry basket...I'm sure you'll love what you find!

Frivolously Unapologetic

The scene in my bathroom an hour ago: Tattooed, shirtless, long-haired, hot guy holding a Crayola-brand paintbrush dipped in fuchsia hair color, meticulously applying it to a one-inch section of my blond hair and then carefully wrapping it in foil.

Now that's love.

I've got my streak back. After debating it for months, I decided I missed that peek-a-boo pink so much that I had to go for it again. After all, it is summer. And that means I'm off...glory and hallelujah!!...all summer to roam the beach, barbecue by the pool, and use those Crayola paintbrushes (for what they were really intended for) with my 2 little boys.

So after consulting with my stylist extraordinaire, she told me what I could do at home to replicate what she had done for me repeatedly last year (she's pretty awesome that way). And Hubby? He's always game (he's pretty awesome that way, too).

I debated for a while. I mean, really, I know.

I know.

I'm a 37-year-old mother of two.

Hanna Montana (and every other teenager in the mall) has sported the look.

I kept worrying: What if I look like I'm trying too hard?

But here's the thing...

I love my flash of color. Literally and figuratively.

It makes me happy.

And so, if I know I'm not actually trying at all, who the hell cares if everyone else thinks I am?

Welcome, summer.

What I Learned from Carrie Bradshaw

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When it came to "Sex and the City," I was a late bloomer.
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At the time, I didn't have HBO...
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...or a life.
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I was married to an incredibly repressive and dull man. I wore beige a lot. I didn't go out and I owned a couple of "proper" heels.
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My friends at the time were rabid SATC fans (as were most women). I finally got tired of sitting with them at lunch and trying to figure out who this "Big" was and why he was, depending on the week, either an incredible asshole or the man of their dreams.
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So, eventually, when the show was probably on Season 3 or 4 in "real time," I borrowed Season 1. And here is where the old cliche comes in: and the rest, as they say, is history.
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Carrie Bradshaw instantly became My Favorite TV Character Ever. I loved her quirkiness, her honesty, her flaws. I loved the way she'd muss up her already unapologetically frizzy hair when she was getting ready to walk into a place. I loved that she was a writer...that she sat down every day to write something that was honest, funny, poignant, and completely irreverant within its significance. I loved the way she strutted down the street in her stilettos, fur coat hanging open over a perfectly mismatched over-the-top outfit, a seeming powerhouse of self-confidence, yet floundered every day as she tried to figure out who she loved and what she wanted.
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Shortly after meeting Ms. Bradshaw, I found myself standing in a dressing room with my mother, trying on dresses for a very close friend's upcoming wedding. Everyone I knew socially and professionally would be there. I was trying to choose between two dresses: a lovely and safe little black number and a red, sparkly show-stopper.
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They both looked good, but the red one..? It was like no dress I'd ever seen before. It was delicate, unfinished layers of tulle and sequins and hand-beaded flowers. When I put it on, I felt like a cross between a ballerina and a princess.
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"I love this dress," I sighed longingly, trying it on for the third time.
"Why don't you get that one, then?" my mother asked.
"Because people will notice me when I walk in."
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People will notice me when I walk in.
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I didn't even think about it before I said it. It just came out.
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My truth.
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I didn't even know I felt that way.
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And I knew, instantly, that I had to have the dress. I had to wear the dress. I knew it was something Carrie would wear.
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That dress, that moment, was a turning point for me. And although I can happily say it is now 3 sizes too big, it still hangs in my closet. It still sparkles. It still makes me smile. It still makes me feel strong and pretty and confident. It still makes me want to be noticed.
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But Carrie Bradshaw didn't just teach me how to rediscover my old self, the one who liked colorful clothes, big hair, and stand-out outfits. Fashion was definitely an important cast member of "Sex and the City," but the show was really about friendship. Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha were four very different women. Whenever they sat down for breakfast at the diner or cocktails at the bar, they disagreed about a lot of things: Miranda's cynical practicality was a stark contrast to Charlotte's idealistic optimism, which went totally against Samantha's independent promiscuity. Yet, through every situation, they supported, understood, accepted, and embraced. Each woman was who she was, unapologetically and elegantly. And that, in turn, is how their friendships were: unapologetic and elegant.
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"Sex and the City" never celebrated the too-often seen and accepted bitchiness among women. The four of them respected each other...even when they were disagreeing or fighting (remember when Miranda found out Carrie was leaving NY to move to Paris with Aleksandr?! or when Charlotte initially refused to offer Carrie money to help her with her apartment?!?). They were honest, though. It was not simply acceptance with silence. It was acceptance with attempts to understand (or sometimes persuade in a different direction).
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Women everywhere have watched this show and wanted to be like these four women. But it's easy to charge in the three digits for a pair of designer shoes, or to make plans to go out for Cosmos with three fabulously dressed friends. It is not so easy to truly be those women: strong, independent, supportive, loyal, honest, and respectful towards each other.
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And, of course, in addition to the fashion and the friendship, there were the men. Every one of us who watched the show had a favorite. Personally, I was always more of an Aidan-kinda-girl. I have never been into men with Armani suits and perfectly coiffed hair. But in the end, even I had to admit that Big was the man for Carrie. No matter how nice (Aidan) or wordly (that hateful Aleksandr) the men were, she needed to be--as all of us should--with the one who understood her, who let her be Carrie, and who loved her for it.
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"...the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."
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That man I used to be married to went out with the beige wardrobe. I am happy to say that I found my Big...although he owns one suit he'd rather not wear and his hair is more Aidan 1.0 than ever coiffed or cut, he loves the Me I love. And I know I could never have settled for less.
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So yes, Carrie Bradshaw has been a fashion icon and a source of enormous entertainment for many of us. But for me, and I am sure for so many others, she (and the other characters on the show) taught us a lot about life, love, friendships, and ourselves. As I get ready to slip on my Jimmy Choos (still haven't managed to get a pair of Manolos...) and go have a Cosmopolitan before watching the SATC sequel, I think of all I have learned from this fictional character, and tonight, I will raise a toast to Carrie and her friends for having taught me about so much more than just great shoes.

Going (almost) "commando" (Updated: the winner is...!)

Once, while getting my hair highlighted, I announced to my stylist that my husband "doesn't let me wear Spanx."

The woman sitting in the salon chair next to me, who apparently decided that if you are getting your hair done at the same time then you are entitled to participate in each other's conversations, piped in with: "Oh honeeeey, and you let your husband tell you what to do?"

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Now, anyone who knows me...or more importantly, knows my husband...would scoff appropriately here.
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Fortunately, my hairstylist did.
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It's not that Hubby does or doesn't "let" me do anything. That's not the kind of relationship we have (nor the kind of people we are), but it is true, that there are certain things he feels really, really strongly about, and Spanx is one of them.
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Do you know Spanx? Perhaps you own several and are already planning the persuasive comment you will leave for me after reading this post, telling me what I'm missing out on. For the rest of you who may not be so sure what I'm talking about, let me give you the short version. It's a high-end designer girdle. There are various styles and they all do essentially the same thing: suck, smoothe, and shape. Every time Kim Kardashian steps out for the night in one of those incredibly tight and slutty dresses of hers? She's got one under there. For sure. They really are supposed to be magical: they suck everything in (think: cycling spandex shorts made for any and all parts of your body) and eliminate all lumps, bumps, dimps, and rolls. They make you look thinner, tighter, leaner.
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So why, I am sure you are wondering, wouldn't I want to wear one of these contraptions for Hubby so I can look oh-so-much-hotter in my date night dresses?

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"Cause when I come home and want to take that dress off I don't want to be confronted with something a 60-year-old would wear. I don't wanna find a wet suit. The flaws you all obsess over? Trust me, we don't see 'em. And the ones we do? We don't really care about. Men know what you have under there, and we're just damn happy to be spending time with it."
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Hubby doesn't ask for a lot. He's not a demanding kinda guy. But he does ask that if I don't feel that I can wear the dress without something "minimal" (his word) under it, then just don't buy it.
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Esentially, if my outfit and my lingerie got into a fight, Hubby would be rooting for the undergarments.

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As much as this guy does for me, I can live with this. Believe me, I have been tempted. I have stood in the dressing room, a hot dress clinging to my 37-year-old Cuban Mommy body, and I have thought: "Oh, almost... If I could vacuum myself into one of those Spanx things, it just might work..."

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But then I remember his requests. And I remember my drawers full of lacey, flimsy, wispy nothings, and how the truth is, I do feel pretty sexy in them, especially on the days I don't stand too long obsessing in front of the full-length mirror. (And, if you've ever tried one of those things on, you know that whatever it's sucking in has gotta go somewhere, so you tend to have a bit of my-cup-runneth-over-effect, and I don't think I'm willing to create back cleavage in order to make my ass look smaller).
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So flimsy it is. And fortunately, I've recently found a whole new realm of flimsy: Cosabella. I'm not usually into the whole random product review or giveaways, but really, when a high end lingerie line that has a collection inspired by "Sex and the City" contacts me, I'm not about to say 'no.' And when my thong arrived in the mail that was promised to be the lightest, thinnest, best no-panty-line panty in the market, Hubby was not about to say 'no.' This thing was like the anti-girdle. And Hubby likey. And since it was comfortable, me likey too.

Source: Cosabella

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So I sacrifice celebrity-red-carpet-like perfection (as if!) so Hubby is happy when he comes home. I may be missing out on a whole lot of amazing outfits that I could've worn if only I'd given in to the miracle of Spanx, but at the end of the night, I don't think he's obsessing over my lumpy thighs or my still too-soft abs...at least not in a bad way.

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Giveaway! If you'd like to dare to strip away the shapewear and give some flimsiness a try, here's what to do: 1)Visit the Cosabella site and check out the goods; 2) Come back here and comment on your favorite item/s; and 3) Tell me why you should win a Cosabella Aire Set (Thong OR Hotpant AND matching Bra, valued at over $70). Deadline: March 4th.

Partyyyyyyyy! (Or go to sleep early?)

It is 8:27 pm on Saturday night and I just finished a cup of espresso coffee. Not a cup. A mug, really. Yes, a mug of espresso on a Saturday night. I love my caffeine, but I can't have it after 4:00 o'clock max, because I won't sleep. Today, I've had so much caffeine that my heart is literally pounding in my chest right now. For real. I am so hyped up, I can't catch my breath. Why, you might ask?

'Cause I'm going dancing, dammit.

Yes, dancing. 'Til all hours of the night...at a fabulous, swanky club on South Beach owned by Lenny Kravitz. I will be wearing my fabulous new sequined mini and my fabulous platform stilettos and my smoky eyeliner, and I will not, I repeat, not be too tired or too sleepy to go. I will not give up on the whole idea after I shower and just opt to stay home and go to sleep early. I haven't gotten glammed up and gone dancing at a nice place in a loooooong time, so no matter how tired, sleepy, or lazy I feel, I will go dancing tonight. Dammit.

Back in the days (read: no children) we used to go dancing often. We'd throw something on and just hit the town. Now? It's An Evening. So it'd better be good. And honestly, getting ready is half the fun, so what's it take these days? Let me share...

P.S. In case you're wondering why the hell I'm blogging instead of getting ready...Well, you see, if I just sit around and pass the time until "Appropriate Going Out Time In Miami" (no earlier than 11:00, and that's just to ensure you get in...it's not until midnight that it actually gets crowded), then I will surely give up and want to stay in!

The Perfect Woman

It seems that creating your "best self" is a recurring theme throughout many of the blogs I follow. So many of us are trying to find/create/recreate/improve/figure out who we are. In my constant quest towards self-improvement, I am occasionally inspired by those unreal women in the fantasy world of Hollywood.

I once played a game with a friend: "If you could be any celebrity, who would it be?" This incredibly shallow and unimportant question became surprisingly difficult to answer and the cause of much back-and-forth:

"Well, I'd like to be Fergie, but with smaller boobs."

"No, I'd like to be Catherine Zeta Jones, but with more sass."

"How about Sarah Jessica Parker with 5 more pounds and a better nose?"

Bottom line? We came to the conclusion that there are many facets to a woman that make her who she is, and the Perfect Woman is more a combination of ingredients than just one simply perfect person.

So...here's my combination of celebrity ingredients to make the perfect woman. Yes, I realize these are just celebrities...they are not heroes or our mothers or our closest friends. And yes, of course, I have fabulous women in my life--real women whom I admire and respect and emulate. But this is for FUN, people, just fun. So without further adieu, here is my version of

The Perfect Woman...

1. Scarlett Johansson's Body: That girl manages to be petite and voluptuous at the same time. Everything about her screams "Sex." Even in a t-shirt and jeans, she's the picture of Woman. No, she's not runway thin. No, she's not 5'10". But I don't really care to be either of those things anyway.

2. Drew Barrymore's Overall Quirkiness: She has this adorable lightness about her...this effervescent personality...and I admit I love that side-of-the-mouth thing she does when she talks.

3. Pink's Badass-ness: I know, she's kinda scary, but I sorta wish I were too, sometimes. I mean, you definitely get the impression there is no messing with this girl. She's the reason I often find myself singing "So what? I'm still a rock star..." really loudly inside my own head when someone pisses me off. For real.

4. Jewel's and Alanis Morissette's Writing Talent: Have you ever really paid attention to these women's lyrics? Brilliant for very different reasons. Jewel is soft and sensitive. Alanis is ironic and insightful. Some of their lines have gotten me through the toughest times in my life.

5. Shakira's Hips: Watch the video. 'Nuff said.

6. Sarah Jessica Parker's and Gwen Stefani's Style: If I can not have any of the qualities listed above, this one alone would make me a better person, I am sure of it. The frills and elegance of SJP's red carpet style and the everyday glamorous rocker-chic look of Gwen? Fashion Perfection.

That's it. All I ever wanted to be...with a dash of ME mixed in.

What about you guys? If you could be any celebrity, who would it be?

Cue the theme song from "Pretty in Pink"

The first day of 7th grade I wore a pink knitted top, stretchy jeans, and the most perfect pair of bubble gum pink pointy toe flats ever.


I loved those shoes. The whole outfit was based on the shoes. Those shoes made me feel special. And that morning as I walked out the door to catch the bus, I felt pretty darn cute for the first day of junior high...all because of my shoes. (See? The love affair/obsession started early...)


But then I got on the bus. And the teasing started almost immediately. The 9th graders who started snickering didn't even know me, but apparently, the fact that they were all in Keds and casual tops was enough to make me their morning entertainment. I did my best to hide my shoes under bus seats and desks for the rest of the day.

I never wore the pink shoes to school again, (although, truthfully, that didn't solve a thing, since those girls just found other things to harass me about), but I wore them so often everywhere else that by the time I got rid of them, the pointy toes were scuffed and peeling.


Fast forward 23 years.

I find these:
A few shades darker and a tad more pointy, but the minute I put them on in the store, I was that teenager again. The memories of that first day made me chuckle a bit and mentally sigh in relief: Thank God I didn't turn out the way I was as a kid...insecure, intimidated, and easily influenced.


Somewhere along my 30's I started to really fit in within my own skin. Some of it came with age and experience, some of it came from the sweat (literally) and tears (also, sometimes literally) of running, biking, and doing things that scared me to death, but some of it came with motherhood: I was so worried about losing Me when I became Mama that I ended up finding myself along the way. I found time to do things that challenged me, that made me stronger, braver, better, that made me proud to be who I am...and that person is not "just a mom."


Now, if I were to get on a bus filled with girls who are dressed totally differently, I'd sigh in relief, jump right on, and maybe even prop my pink pointy toe flats up on the seat in front of me.

I am so outta here...

Well, we are ready. No colds, no calamities (knocking on wood as I type). We leave in the morning. The boys' stuff is packed up for Grandma's. Our stuff is packed up for 4 nights of frivolity and indulgence. No crying babies or whiny toddlers...no diapers to change...no bottles to prepare or tantrums to ward off. Just Me and Him.

And because nothing makes me feel more like ME than my shoes, I made sure to pack the essentials:

My Summer '09 Steve Maddens...

My Nothing-Makes-Me-Feel-Sexier purple platform stilettos...

And the ones I lovingly call "My Cupcakes"...

Of course, I do realize this IS a cruise, so by day I will either be barefoot or in my Happy Havaianas...

And I made sure I have plenty to keep my mind occupied with absolutely nothing of importance...

I may need some warm chamomile to get to sleep tonight, and I may be quite stressed with the good-bye's and last minute tending-to's in the morning, but once I step on that ship...I am officially checking out of life. Just for a fabulous little while.

Dear Fat Pants,

Thank you for serving me so well. You have been reliable, trustworthy, comfortable, and--depending on what I paired you with--almost fashionable. We have been through a lot together: You were there for me during two first-trimesters, when the nausea and early bloating threatened to take over my life and general opinion on pregnancy. Even when I didn't button you, and hid you beneath too-long shirts, and pinned you with rubber bands and belts and maternity bands, you never complained. You waited patiently while I upgraded (or downgraded?) to full-blown maternity pants, and when I came back to you postpartum (both times)--ecstatically, joyously, thrillingly--I even started thinking of you for a short time as my Someday-to-Be-Skinny-Again Pants. But it was inevitable...a few weeks later, the dew was off the rose. You were back to being my Fat Pants. No matter how hard you try, you can't change what you are. You're just too much for me.

And this past weekend, I knew it was time. Some of your chic-er and more upscale cousins started to call to me...beckon to me...seduce me. "Give us a try," they said, alluringly. At first, I was afraid. Afraid of rejection. Afraid that, in spite of the hours spent at the gym and calculating Weight Watcher points, I would still not be worthy of the single digits. But I was. Oh, I was. And I'm sorry, Fat Pants, but now that I have gone back, remembered what it feels like to be accepted by The Elite, I just can't be with you anymore. You understand...I can't settle. And that is what I'd be doing with you. I mean, sure, I look fine when I'm with you. But that's not enough for me. I want more. So it is time to say good-bye. I know you will find someone else, someone who will appreciate you, be thankful for you, wear you with pride. I will never forget you.

Sincerely,
Me

Rock On, Moms

I'm a rock star. See? I've got pink hair. So I must be a rock star.

I've wanted a pink streak in my hair for years...way before Rachel McAdams and Avril Lavigne. In fact, I think the first time I saw pink hair and thought: "How cool would THAT be?!?" was back in the days when Gwen Stefani was just a broken-hearted rocker chic in a little band called No Doubt. But I tossed the idea aside pretty quickly each time. After all, I'm not a celebrity (at least not in the real world). And over the last few years, I became (gasp!) a MOM. Moms wear sweaters. Moms have neat, manageable bob hair cuts. Moms do NOT have pink hair.

And then I thought: And why the hell not? Since when have I ever participated in the "Supposed To's" of life?

Maybe it's the fact that Aidan Kai is sleeping through the night and behaving more like a funny little person than an infant, but I'm starting to feel like my Old Self again. The person I was before I became pregnant with Ben and was again before I got pregnant with Aidan. I don't know...but there's something about leasing your body out for 9 months to another human being that totally seems to suck the sense of self right out of you.

And when I called my hair dresser up, she totally got it. I admit, I was a bit apprehensive when I arrived at the salon. After all, as much as I may be, as she said, "the artsy, creative type," I'm also the "type A, slightly neurotic type." Before the color had even been wrapped in foil, I had already had the first on-looker reaction: an audible gasp followed by "Is it really going to be pink?" A few minutes later as I was getting shampooed: "What is this?" And then, my favorite reaction thus far...my mother-in-law who was pulling out of the driveway as I pulled in: "Ay! What happened?!? Is that permanent?!?" The funny thing is...the more people I startled and confused, the more I loved the pink streak. Yeah, I know, I need therapy. But I've always gotten a little kick out of shocking people just a tad. I've never been into blending in with the rest of the world.

A few ladies at the salon asked me before I left: "What will your husband think?" My husband...the true rock star of our household...is so comfortable in his own skin that he can not even begin to relate to someone NOT doing something for fear of standing out or being judged. He loves it and, to quote him, thinks I'm "a bad ass."

I'm not so sure I'm a bad ass, but I know I'm a rock star...at least in my own head. And really, isn't that the only one that counts?