Fashionista 5.0

Fashionista 5.0

When I found out I was pregnant, after the initial “when are you due?” always came “well, what do you want, boy or girl?” Of course, my diplomatic answer was that what mattered to us most was that he or she was healthy. And, of course, that was the number one prayer. But, deep inside, I also followed that prayer with “God, please give me a girl…puullleeeasseee.” For what would I do with a boy? I am a girly girl through and through. I was picked last for all sports teams. I followed every fad in high school (Madonna, check. Flashdance, check. Bouffant hair like the latest country western star, check). I ran for campus activities chair freshman year in college so that I could be the hostess with the mostest. I have spent the equivalent of a down payment on a car in my lifetime on silly products and although not necessarily proud of that fact, will admit it.

So, after our first ultrasound when they said they thought it was a boy, I gulped and pushed my shoulders back thinking to myself, “you can do this, you can do this.” I rushed to the nearest shopping venue and immediately purchased the most adorable baby blue outfit for the little one to try to get into the spirit.

Thank my lucky stars (and certainly those prayers must have had something to do with it), they called me at 16 weeks following my amnio to tell me it was a healthy little girl. Hallelujah! The ultimate prize for the ultimate girly girl: a mini girly girl companion.

Now, fast forward five years. You get what you ask for. When the temperature plummets to zero degrees, we spend 30 minutes begging our little sweetie to don a pair of pants to keep her legs warm. For ski school last year, she insisted on a skirt over her snowsuit. Only recently, have pants entered the picture and that is largely due to her love of horses and riding for which pants are required.

Getting ready to go out is an exercise in style. Necklace, check. Hello Kitty chapstick/lip balm, check. Hair coiffed and styled, check. Snazzy shoes to match the outfit, check. Some mornings I sit back and wonder how this happened. I mean I was a girly girl but I don’t think I ever even thought about my outfit until like sixth grade!

Tonight, I received the ultimate confirmation. I have raised a fashionista. As background, I broke my toe a few weeks ago and found out that according to the orthopeds it is a “rare break.” Translation: surgery likely impending as well as the continuation of wearing a beautiful orthopedic boot shoe. So, I am standing in the background donning a cute little black dress and I utter to myself, “oh, where is the special shoe?” Immediately, the fashionista interjects, “oh, Mommy, how embarrassing. Do you really have to wear that?” Embarrassing, have I said that? Where, oh where did that come from? Then, “Mommy, what is that purple stuff on your towel?” “Oh, honey, that is the shampoo they gave me at the salon to try to keep my golden locks from being too golden.” (For those of you who don’t know, I spend a great deal energy turning previously dark brown locks into a more platinum shade of blonde.) “Well, Mommy, I think your hair looks the same. I would just tell them that there isn’t any reason for you to continue using the blue shampoo.” Well, thanks beauty consultant. I then head over to put a small coat of make-up on my face and as I go to shut the drawer, I hear “Mommy, I need to be powdered too.”

Ok, now I know that I have probably introduced too much princess stuff in her life, but there is NNOOO way that I have taken things to this level. This has got to be genetic. Her Auntie is also very girly so maybe it was a combined dose of she and I that led to this result. Or, maybe God is playing a funny joke on me. Regardless, as Tony toils over the retirement planning spreadsheets that have recently entered our lives, I think I had better have him insert a row entitled “fashionista support” because I can already tell that this little lady is going to be begging for Sevens instead of Levis and Juicy instead of Gap.

Nordstrom, here we come.

Getting My Man - The Sequel

Several weeks ago, I blogged about the drama surrounding five year olds and romance. Well, things have progressed. First of all, Mallory is not going to marry T-Man. She is going to marry K-Man (I believe unbeknownst to him) and was recently very concerned about A-Man. You see, Mallory was under the impression that A-Man was after her and wanted to marry her. She was so upset that she broke down before an outing in which she would have to drive in A-Man’s car. It went something like this:

“Mommy, I don’t want to marry A-Man. He follows me everywhere and I don’t like it. I don’t want to drive in his car for the field trip.” “Well, Mallory, it is only for 15 minutes. Why don’t you talk to A-Man during the ride about how you feel.” “OK, Mommy.”

Mallory proceeds to climb in A-Man’s car and get buckled in. Just five minutes out of the neighborhood she turns to A-man and says, “A-Man we need to have a talk because I need to tell you how I feel.” A-Man looks at Mallory with a 4 year old quizzical face probably thinking she is going to tell him about the ice cream she had for dinner last night and ask him his favorite type when he hears, “you see A-Man, I don’t want to marry you and I don’t want you to follow me around anymore. I am going to marry K-Man.” Mallory sits back with a sigh of relief after finally getting this off her chest when all of a sudden she is shocked to hear a voice say “I’m not going to marry you. I am going to marry Alise my neighbor.”
Well, after that, Mallory and A-Man fell right back into routine however Mallory now is just fine with A-Man following her around. We better just watch out because before long that old rule of wanting what you can’t have may come into play and the tables might be turned. Keep vigilant A-Man.

Oh, and as for my little angel and her fascination with T-Man…..she told me the other night that she in fact is not going to marry T-Man. Rather, she is going to wait until she gets older and seek out the biggest guy and that is who she is going to marry. Hmmm…well, honey, we will need to talk about those criteria in a few years. But, for now, big is good. Smile.

Getting My Man

Note: names have been changed to protect privacy

It may be as the result of too many Disney Princess movies. You know….girl always getting her guy. Or, maybe it is one of the rites of passage of turning five. (Keep reading as I am going for option A. I mean we are talking five!)

After a night out with Daddy at soccer at which many of her little friends were in attendance, my little girl bounces in to see me and plops down for a snuggle and a chat. Conversation ensues about who was there and what she did. She then quickly declares that she is going to marry a little boy who I will call T-man (and really he is “the man” with this group of 5 and 6 year olds). Well, for the past year and a half, she was always going to marry another little boy who we will call “M-man.” She used the word “marry” but it was never clear if she knew what that meant. I instantly question the change of heart. “Well, Mommy, you see Mallory and I like T-Man.” Hmmm…I start getting the picture.

Now as background, it is no secret Mallory has a crush on T-man. It really came to light during a recent school camping trip. First, you must picture T-Man. He is a miniature Indiana Jones complete with the hat, boots, swagger and confidence. He comes by it naturally as his parents are awesome; each also have a myriad of talents including dancing (we affectionately nicknamed his Mom "Dancing Queen" at our last party) and singing (the Dad entertains us with a smooth voice as he strums the guitar around a picturesque campfire).

Anyway, there we were on the playground, T-man surrounded by a gaggle of little girls oblivious to his obvious effect on them. He decides to head down to where some of the daddies were playing basketball and as is typical, three of the older 6 year old girls were flanking his sides. I swear it was Danny or Kenickie from Grease with the Pink Ladies following every move. Then, running as fast as her little legs would carry her, comes Mallory screaming “Wait for me T-man, I’m coming.” Finally, bringing up the rear was my little angel who was also screaming at the top of her lungs almost the exact same thing with one small difference: “Wait for me Mallory, I’m coming.” A pent up sigh of relief had emerged my lips as I realized she was still my little baby and unaware of romance and crushes. Or so I had thought.

Back to the post-soccer chat. “Well, honey, I thought Mallory liked T-man.” “Well, I like him now too Mommy.” “So, sweetie, is Mallory going to marry T-man too?” “No, Mommy, she says he is already going to marry someone else.” “Well, who would that be honey?” “Oh, one of the older girls.” “So, if Mallory can’t marry him and he is already going to marry someone else, how are you going to?” “Oh, Mommy (and I think I almost heard the word…Puuullllease…), I will be grown up then and I will find a way so that he doesn’t marry those other girls and chooses me.” This is all said with the utmost in seriousness, positivity and determination. There is no question that my little angel believes she is going to marry T-Man no matter what.

I sit back at that point and try to analyze how I should feel about this exchange. On the one hand, I am proud of the confidence, determination and security she is displaying in going after what she wants. On the other, is that manipulation, disregard for others’ feelings, and ego creeping up? Oh, Mommy, you think too much!

Well, it just so happens that T-man was with us last night and I had the opportunity to get his feedback on this new development. “So, T-man, my daughter told me that she is going to marry you.” He looks at me quizzically and responds, “No, I don’t think so. I am going to marry Le-Ann.” There is no doubt in the response. I could only think at that moment of all that T-Man will be learning over the next twenty-five years about the whiles of women. Watch out T-Man….little angel Afshary has set her sights on you. Reminds me of one of the great movie heroines of our time:

Scarlett: “Rhett! If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?”

Rhett: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Scarlett: “I can’t let him go. I can’t. There must be some way to bring him back. Oh, I can’t think about that now. I’ll go crazy if I do, I…I’ll think about that tomorrow. I must think about it. I must think about it. What is there to do? What is there that matters?

Scarlett: "Tara! Home. I'll go home. And, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all, tomorrow is another day!

Mommy School

Last night, my daughter and I were preparing dinner and a conversation ensued about learning. I was trying to instill in her the importance of school and practice in order to learn a new skill. And, she quickly responded, “yes, just like you did to be a Mommy.” Ok, this was news to me. “Honey, do you think Mommy went to school to learn to be a Mommy?” “Yes, Mommy.” “Where is Mommy school honey?” “The gym.” Huh? “You think Mommy goes to school at the gym?” “Yep, come on let’s check on how the pizza is doing.” Well, I had to chuckle. Mommy school. Don’t I wish.

Mommy School

Before having a child, we think we know a lot about what there is to know,

We quickly realize that indeed it is not so,

For with a child, the real learning begins,

It will keep going I am certain until our time reaches an end,

Joy is watching our little ones laugh, jump, sing and run,

Happiness is being together for a day of fun,

Patience is a deep breath as they challenge the boundaries we provide,

Frustration is asking to clean or pick up more than ten times,

Panic is when they slip from our sight for an instant that seems like infinity,

Relief is discovering them around the corner – pure divinity

Sadness is watching them hurt by a friend,

Restraint is not interfering and letting a lesson ascend,

Pain is seeing them sad, hurt or ill,

Wonder is the concentration they exude perfectly still,

Pride is watching them excel at a task of their choosing,

Or smiling at the journey even if they are losing,

Peace is their tiny hands wrapped around us and a whisper in our ear,

Love is indescribable, unconditional and able to draw a tear,

It is thanks that I give for the angel who gives us love and laughter,

My prayer to be the best Mommy I can in this life and the thereafter.

Green Beer

Today marks our annual celebration of St. Patrick on which we all don our bit o’ green and those not nestled in with little tikes, head out for an evening of green beer and rowdiness.

Saturday, as was noted on my FB status, we headed out a few days early in hopes of being able to find an Irish bar at which we could a) bring our children, b) have a good meal c) pretend we were really a part of the merry making and d) have green beer. It didn’t quite work out that way. A) the bar we chose at 5:45 p.m. was already gearing up for a big night and resembled the beginnings of a frat party B) the beer was served in red plastic cups and was not green C) they were only serving a few menu items which did not include chicken nuggets, hot dogs or any other kid related fare D) our friends called to inform us their daughter had just thrown up all over herself in the backseat of the car. They managed to get her cleaned up and we did continue with our evening, however it turned out a bit different than intended: pizza and Fat Tire at California Pizza Kitchen. We had a great time and as far as the Irish aspirations, oh well, we tried. Slainte!

The really interesting thing happened when I logged into Facebook when we got home. As I mentioned, I had updated my FB status to read “Green Beer bound.” A couple of people “liked” (the new easy way to comment on FB) this and a couple liked it so much they commented. I quickly informed them that the “green beer” did not happen and sat back to peruse the happenings of my friends. One of my college buddies quickly wrote back with “Hil-you are so funny!! Fat Tire IS green beer. They are the first wind-powered brewery in America and they are local for you. How much more green can you get?? ok put some green color in it but no...” I think that was her way of saying politely that I was clueless…smile. I went to bed chuckling at the irony of my attempt at being cool and witty about drinking green beer ending up an education in sustainability!

With that, I wish you a very Happy St. Patrick’s Day and give a special Slainte shout out to Alicia who has now educated us that there is a new way to celebrate being green on St. Patrick’s Day! Excuse me while I go to the fridge for my newest Irish green – Fat Tire Ale.

20 to 40 with Casanova 9.0 and Wall Street 2.0

This weekend, we went to Vail. For those of you unfamiliar with Vail, it is one of the “THE” destinations for skiing. Great mountains, great snow, great food and quite the scene.

Our Saturday started out like most when we are in the mountains. A “discussion” with our daughter about ski school. We, like many CO parents, want our child to love skiing. I think at times we are under the impression that she was born with skis on her feet. A bit unrealistic but nonetheless. That morning, we partook in the usual encouragement to get her to promise to stay all day in school. The rewards: a donut and a dip in the hotel swimming pool. After a few sniffles, she went forward with the instructor and we did not get a “dreaded” call all day.

We took a sigh of relief, quickly donned our skis and headed for the gondola. We had perfect timing – blue-suited ski instructors were corralling their charges in as well and we were ushered in with a small group of two instructors and three young boys for our ascent up the mountain.

It was quickly apparent that we were not in the company of three “normal” 8 and 9 year old boys. The minute the gondola doors closed, cell phones popped out and a French-accented “Check out my new I-Phone” reverberated in my ear. Now, I-phones are a hot topic in my house right now. My husband got one not long ago and has been known to approach strangers at birthday parties to show them the “coolest” features. When my phone literally fell apart a few weeks ago after being dropped probably one hundred times, I decided I would also join the I-brigade. Well, it was not to be. I had until July until my upgrade was available and $399 was not in the picture for me. So, we trotted over to Wal-Mart and I purchased a $19.99 Nokia which is working out just fine.

Anyway, I turned to see who was the owner of both the accent and the phone and was met with the eyes of an adorable child. Well, adorable is not quite the word. I think I was looking at Casanova as a 9 year old. This young man was short, dark and cute (not yet tall, dark and handsome) and was donned in the most premier of ski gear. He proceeded to pull out his Samsung Smartphone with his I-Phone and then explain to everyone in the gondola that these were two of his four phones. Two for France and two for the U.S. Ok, who was this kid? “Where are you from,” I inquired. No shyness here. “I was born in St. Tropez but I live in Miami Beach.” I then blurted out what was in my head (which often leads me to foot in mouth disease), “what child has four phones?” I looked to the ski instructors who were I think a bit amused by this whole interaction and asked them if they had I-Phones. I was hit with a “What do you think lady, we are snowboard instructors.” Ironic – snowboard instructors who hob-nobbed with the elite
every day but couldn’t afford an I-phone.

Back to Casanova. We kept chatting and I declared that my daughter was not going to have the latest phone technology at nine (I say this now). I was judging the kid a bit by this time (see my personality profile posted previously) until somehow the subject of my age arose. I told him I was old and he immediately slipped into the persona of a 25 year old. “No you are not.” I asked him just how old he thought I was and when he replied “24” with the ski instructors nodding (likely politely), I nearly bowled over. Until I remembered this was a clueless (although probably not) 9 year old child. I don’t remember much more of the conversation as I was back at “24” and loving it.

The story could easily end there but it doesn’t. We had a great morning of skiing – that
“24” put a “spring in my ski” and after an incident while traversing down what seemed to me to be an ice cliff but was merely a small icy hill (after which I had acquired two new bruises), we headed in for lunch.

The place was packed. So, after getting our $45 lunch (that is counter service for three of us) we settled in sharing a table with three guys. Another enlightening conversation. Turns out two of them were Wall Street casualties living off of severance and unemployment. They actually were doing rather well. One had just gotten a job so would be double dipping severance and salary for a while. I then inquired if they were married; “No, do you have any friends?” Well, I knew that I was beyond their years so once again I found myself replying “I’m old.” This was met with an interesting question from one of them. “Well, are we talking cougar here?” “Well, I am 40 now so…” “Yep, cougar it is.” Unbelievable, I had gone from a mid-twenties something to a cougar within a couple of hours.

Although I am not usually a “cup half full" kinda gal, I decided that I would dismiss the cougar remark and hang on to the 20s for the rest of the day. However, remember that “spring in my ski” – well that was gone. I took one giant catwalk down to the hotel after lunch and spent an hour napping before picking up my little sweetie from ski school. You can fool the mind but the body is a little harder. Just another cheers to turning 40!

Boss or Leader...

Yesterday was my turn to be after school play-date host/gymnastics chaperone with three little darlings. I thoroughly enjoy these afternoons as a) my little one is occupied with fun for four hours straight b) I am able to observe the delightful and sometimes bewildering behaviors of three little four year old girls and c) I actually find time to fold the laundry that has been sitting in the basket since the previous week.

However, after one of these days, my house looks as if a hurricane has ripped through it. So, I declared that evening that Mommy was not going to do the clean-up alone. So, Mommy quickly finished her duties and retired to the couch. As the clean up continued, she heard the tones of what appeared to be a stressed out drill sergeant barking “Ok, get that one in the basket. Now that one. Come on. Faster.” This went on for about a minute when I absentmindedly spoke out, “It’s ok Tony. Just let her go at her pace. She is taking away from her tv or playtime if it takes a long time.” Well, the intent with which that comment came out was not what was received. Mommy, type A, control freak, had once again butted in where she didn’t belong. STRIKE ONE

Bedtime came and it was Daddy’s turn to read. Did I ever mention, my daughter has been in a never-ending “Mommy’s girl” phase? It makes bedtime twice as hard for my angel of a husband. Last night was no different. During the first phase (first book read, potty and teeth brushing), I escaped for a nice hot bath. I couldn’t hear a thing. I settled into bed to watch reality tv and I begin to hear “What are you doing, come here…where are you?” As the inquiries drone on, my little one pops into our room for her good night kiss; this always follows phase one. However, the inquiries are getting louder and I haven’t had the chance to give the hug and kiss so I loudly exclaim “Tony, she hasn’t gotten her kiss yet. Can you wait a minute?” It probably came out more aggravated than meant. And, then it was as if the umpire shouted…STRIKE TWO. I hear the grumbling from the other room. Unbeknown to me, my little sweetie had been messing around for several minutes in the family room before coming for a kiss and type A had once again negated “Daddy.”

Luckily, I did not hit a strike three last night. I immediately went after the bedtime ritual to apologize. My husband was slightly annoyed and despite my best defense, he declared “you know, you are the boss of this household. And that is ok. But, with that job comes quite a bit of responsibility and decision making.” Hmmm.. ok.

Now, I know that I am a bit of a boss. It didn’t sound too good when he said it and I was taken back to an hour earlier in the evening. Right before Phase I, I decided to open up one of those sweet little applications I am invited to join several times per day on Facebook and found myself taking the Myers Brigg personality profile test. I have taken the test before and, I have always known that I was one Extraverted, Intuitive, Judging individual. (Translation: In Your Face, Know It All, My Way or the Highway, Bossy – Well, You Can Guess the Rest. A bit hard to swallow, huh?) But I always had that F in there for feeling. (ENFJ) I could always justify my, ahem, take charge persona knowing that I balanced it with a true regard for others. But, now that “F” had turned into a “T” – thinking, which meant that I was not only the In Your Face, Know it All, My way or the Highway, Bossy, You Can Guess the Rest, but I had also left all consideration of feelings to relying upon the cold hard facts – and oh my gosh, I’m now an In Your Face, Know it All, My Way or the Highway, Bossy, Just the Cold Hard Facts, Well You Can Guess the Rest…. Whew, how will I live with myself?

Luckily, I take these things with a grain of salt. I mean after all, the “What Drink Are You” test declared that I am a “wine cooler” when I know for certain I am at least an “apple martini with a special sour apple candy ring at the bottom" gal. Cheers! Oh and btw, ENTJs are supposed to be great leaders both at work and at home. I wonder if I can convince my wonderful husband that I am not being bossy, but simply demonstrating my leadership capabilities? Smile.

What does your personality profile say about you?

Pole Dancing 102

Epilogue to Pole Dancing 101 posted on Tuesday:

A day after our pole dancing exercise class, I received the following e-mail in my inbox. Check out the picture before reading the body. Quite ironic I must say.

(Note from parent to teacher upon viewing artwork)
Dear Mrs. Allen,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer.

I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it. Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot.

From now on I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Jacobs

Pole Dancing 101

That's an attention grabber!! Well, read on…

Every month, a group of women from my neighborhood get together. Now, this is not a women’s group in which we get together to talk about our kids or the latest new release deemed by Oprah to be a superb choice of literature. This is a once a month gathering to have a drink, catch up on the latest neighborhood happenings, and partake in whatever the host has chosen as the activity du jour.

One of my best friends and I agreed to host for the month of February and way back in late 2008, whisperings began about doing something wild for Valentine's month. The egg was laid and we were going to hatch it. Pole dancing, here we come!

Now, I believe Denver is a great city. We love it! Culture, great architecture, awesome people and plenty of good shopping and restaurants. However, it is not New York, L.A. or even Scottsdale for that matter. So, it was quite a shock to me when I began researching venues for pole dancing to find that I had more choices than will fit on one hand. I uncovered that pole dancing was quite the trend in exercise. Several local news stations had done features on it and you actually received a menu of erotic dance choices for which you would like instruction.

In mid January, the Evites went out. We really thought we would get a huge response but it appears that even the idea of pole dancing was a bit intimidating. However, by the big night we had a group of 10 daring souls ready for a night of leaps and bounds (literally).

We pulled up to the place and almost missed it. There was literally a door sandwiched between two storefronts in a dark mini-mall. We went in and immediately descended down a small stairwell into the “cave” of a studio. Was symbolism at play here?

There was a small seating area surrounded by clear plastic platform sandals, boas and other erotic dance wear. Our first sight scared us a bit. A 50ish lady wearing nothing but a tight tank top and a pair of purple lace boy short panties paraded in front of us as the previous class ended. Hmmmm. I looked down at my long black leggings and newly purchased cutesy t-shirt “Are you a good witch or a bad witch” from Target which at the time seemed witty enough to go with our event, and decided I may be out of my league. However, the teacher then bounded out with the energy that I quickly found out was needed for pole dancing and immediately set us at ease. She wasn’t wearing much more than the other woman but somehow her demeanor exuded a different aura.

Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I get right to the heart of the matter. "So, are you the owner?" "Yes", she replied "How did you get this started?" "Well, I used to take my clothes off for a living and this was a natural progression. I now do this and body build." Ok, so this was the real deal. Bring it on.

We started out with some simple pole moves. I say simple with a wicked smile. These moves were anything but simple. As I heaved my body up around the pole, I vaguely pictured what I must look like. It was not the graceful, sexy image of a well toned dancer but rather the awkward, petrified look of a cat clinging to a tree as a dog barks loudly beneath. I literally clung to that pole for dear life. “Hilary, plant your feet on the ground and ease up with the buttocks out suggestively.” Who was she kidding?

We went through a variety of moves including the Fireman (almost like a run, jump and slide down the pole with both legs tucked suggestively under you to one side) and the ballet dancer (I can’t even remember it except thinking to myself that with my strong ballet background I should be able to nail it and was quickly disappointed). There were others but all I remember is the fear that I was going to fall off the pole as I tried to maneuver my body in suggestive poses and land on two feet.

Our 47 year old instructor with a body that doesn't quit) did not let us off the hook after we mastered the pole. Rather she led us through erotic dance moves – there we were on the ground like washed up jellyfish our spindly tentacles flying around in the air following her every move. I remember looking out through the V created by my legs thinking that I looked anything but sexy at that moment. That was followed by lap dancing instruction during which we were supposed to take on the role of seductress swaying our hips and gyrating in and around our partner (one of the other mommies) while she wished she were somewhere else. I just couldn’t do that one. It was all just a little too much.

Finally, after about 60 minutes of some of us heaving and panting (and others gliding and glistening – I swear some of these gals could have tried out for the next Cirque du Soleil), she gathered us for a group photo. I would post it but I won’t do that to my fellow pole dancing girlfriends. I can tell you though that there were some subtle differences in the before and after. What I walked in with was a group of carpooling, soccer toting, goldfish dispensing Mamas. What I walked out with was a harem of confident, sashaying, into their-own women who will be forever bound by an experience that only lasted an hour. But what an hour it was. In the words of Henry Adams, “friends are born, not made.” I am glad we were able to “hatch” some new friendships during a night of merry-making.

Mid Week Funny - Preoccupation Pottyitis

We all pray for the day – the day when our little angels can use the potty all by themselves. We all expect it to happen in one day just like Dr. Phil said it would if we followed his potty party in a day philosophy. Well, I can tell you folks, it ain’t always that simple. For us, the day was more like two months but once she got it, she got it. No more pull ups, no night-time accidents and hallelujah, no more diaper bag. Well, hold on there, almost.

We still deal with what I am terming “preoccupation pottyitis.” P-squared for short. This is a self-inflicted illness that commonly occurs in toddlers and small children in which playtime or some other mind inhibiting activity causes the child to wait until the very last second to rush to the potty in hopes that he or she will make it. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. It typically occurs following an hour of an adult asking the child every 30 seconds, if she or he needs to use the potty.

Preoccupation pottyitis struck us last week. We were in the mall play area and my daughter looks up with that panicked look mouthing the words, “I’ve got to go potty.” You would have thought that Nieman Marcus was giving away free Chanel bags if you had seen me grab her hand and tear through the mall at speeds unheard of in the posh Cherry Creek Mall. We rounded the corner where the sign points to the restroom and the big W comes into view. I crash through the door without a glance in either direction with my eyes like laser pointers to the first stall door I could find.

I knew time was of the essence so I pulled down her pants and placed her on the potty. Whew, we had made it. However, as is typical of our visits to public potties, a conversation ensued between us about avoiding germs, not touching anything, etc. Once we were finally put back together, our exit took place in a much calmer manner. I slowly opened the door with my eyes ready to take in the environment for the first time and what the heck???? What’s that guy doing standing in the ladies’ room? A quick glance to the left. Urinals. What? In the ladies room? A slow realization came over me. OH. MY. GOSH. The race was on again. I grabbed Eva’s hand and she was practically flying as we sprinted out of the MEN’S ROOM.

As we exited, the shoe shine gentleman looked our way. I almost burst out laughing but figured I would try a dignified approach. “Um, I think we went in the men’s room by mistake.” He started laughing. “Yeah, I kept thinking I was hearing women’s voices echoing out through the door.” It was at that point that I became oriented with the TWO doors that seemed to be located under the W sign. Had I looked more closely I would have, of course, seen the M that was more prominently placed near the door we had entered, but hey, I had a full blown case of preoccupation pottyitis on my hands.

We did go into the women’s room to wash our hands. It was lovely in there. Mommies and children talking potty. Plenty of nice scented soap and towels. And, it was pink. Hmmmm..I think.

As we exited again, all three men sitting in the shoe shine seats stared and chuckled as we made our way past. In my 20s, I would have been horrified. 30s would have brought embarrassment. 40 – what the heck. It isn’t every day you get to see the inside of the men’s room.

Love is in the Air

Love is in the air… you know what I mean. For some of us, it is in the air all day every day all year long. But for the industry of love, it comes but once per year. The day on which we shall declare our love to those whom we hold dear through flowers, chocolates, jewelry; well, you know the spiel.

I will partake. I always do. And, I like it. I love holidays. I love the opportunity to go shopping (another excuse) or be crafty to create the perfect declaration for my beloved. But, I know, as most of you that those trinkets do not really represent the depth of our feelings. I have just fallen for the racket. And that is ok.

This year, however, I have been having a bit more reflection on this holiday. Personally, it has been a year of growth and awareness of what is most important to me. I feel so blessed and happy for my family, friends and wonderful life. Valentine’s Day is one more opportunity for me to tell those close to me how much I care.

Beyond that, this year, more than ever, is a time to reflect on broader declarations of love. Fear is running rampant in all corners of society. People are stressed and anxious. Editorial Columnists are writing about it every day. They are encouraging hope and faith. I particularly liked the message of togetherness communicated by one yesterday. She didn’t sugar coat it. It sucks. She did however point out something very simple but profound – we are in this together. Just like we are in this life together, on this planet together and when we die we will also join together in that.

What better time than on the upcoming day of love for us to open our hearts beyond our sweethearts, children or friends. What better time to focus love on our fellow travelers, our planet, ourselves. Now is the time, if we have not done so already, to begin the practice of unconditional love. For any of you familiar with A Course in Miracles and its interpretation written by Marianne Williamson, you know that now more than ever we must let go of all of the fears that grip our conscious and unconscious selves and begin the practice of love. Love is the true healer of all woes.

It’s a simple practice really. Simple AND one of the most difficult. To think and act lovingly. To work towards eliminating negative thoughts and replace them with love. To think about why we do some of the things we do. Like gossip. Why do we do that? Or, despite our best efforts, picture ourselves better than another. Why do we do that? Or try to control someone else or a situation. Why do we do that? Or, question ourselves beyond reason to the point where we deduce our value. Why do we do that? There are a million more. I can’t answer each one except to say that from my experience, fear is usually at the root.

Some of us have the ability to start this practice at any point. For others, a little extra encouragement is needed like that of New Year’s when we take the time to make resolutions. There is no better day than Valentine’s to begin the practice of unconditional love. This practice does come with a warning however. Some may not be comfortable with this new practice (one of them being your Ego!). That is because they are still steeped in fear. However, love has a way of rubbing off. So, stay vigilant and there will be results. The most miraculous one is that you will actually feel better and more at peace. And we all need a little peace right now!

“Fear less, hope more; Eat less, chew more; Whine less, breathe more; Talk less, say more; Love more, and all good things will be yours”

-Swedish Proverb

The Fanfare of 40

I think 40 is trying to tell me something. It all started Friday – right before the BIG night. That little tickle in the throat that could result from a dry elevation with no humidifier or a precursor to other things. Not something you can do anything about and certainly not something that was going to come between me and my 40th birthday celebration. I downed a coffee to recharge and forgot all about it.

The limo pulled up promptly at 7 p.m. and we dashed out the door, our daughter’s screams echoing in our ears at being left with a sitter. After a quick photo moment, we pulled from the curb to pick up the rest of the crew. For a few minutes, the guilt of my child’s angst threatened to put a damper on the night but then the Cristal started flowing and I came to my senses – after all, it is only like the 5th time in 1.5 years we have left her at night with a sitter. I know, I know, we need to get out more.

The night was perfect and I give a big thanks to my wonderful husband for that. It had all of the perfect ingredients: great friends (we kept it small: three couples who are so close to us that I provide them as my emergency contacts; for those of you who don’t have kids, it’s tough to explain), quality champagne (Dom was added by our friends to the mix and for one night, all of us forgot we were in a recession), excellent cuisine at one of Denver’s best restaurants (including photo opps with the Anaheim Ducks – we were in a debate as to whether these very fit young men were in town on business or prepping for a bachelor party; of course, I had to find out – enjoying a healthy dinner sans alcohol before taking on the Colorado Avalanche the next day; btw, the Ducks won), dancing to techno (great reminder: I never want to be “out there” again) as well as some other unique entertainment. I would go into details but as the saying goes, “What happens in downtown Denver during a 40th birthday celebration, stays in downtown Denver.” We actually stayed out past the witching hour rolling into bed in time to get enough sleep before sunrise. I stayed true to my golden rule while drinking: downing plenty of water and two Advil at bedtime.

The room spinning should have been my first clue. The second, awaking prior to sunrise by no prompt other than my body screaming at me for inhaling probably a bottle of champagne. The third, well let’s just say that my stomach is still reminding me not to touch alcohol for long while. My husband, dear that he is, woke up quite refreshed and spent the morning occupying my little angel. By mid-day, I was actually on the re-bound and it was only then that the tickle became somewhat noticeable again. It was all downhill from there.

My actual birthday was spent in bed with a horrible migraine and a sore throat that wouldn’t quit. I was taken back to the days of adolescence prior to the tonsillectomy when I could have sworn someone had implanted knives throughout my entire mouth cavity. Aren’t tonsillectomies supposed to eliminate sore throats for the rest of your natural life? Ha!

The pain worsened and I finally drug myself to the Doc. I had an eeking suspicion it could be strep. It had been running rampant at my little lady’s preschool but luckily she had not contracted it. Or had she? Her teacher informed me she could be a carrier. A carrier? Huh? Sure enough, strep it was. However, the good news was the meds! They almost eliminated every trace of the illness within 24 hours. I almost am thanking the Lord that it was strep. Otherwise, I would probably still be squirting the Chloraseptic, popping Advil and Tylenol and lying in bed. I actually cooked for my family tonight.

Ok, ok, the story got away from the real question at hand. What is 40 trying to tell me? It came in with a bang and passed in a fog- hmmm... well, I am deducting:

• Enjoy life!; however, apply the wisdom obtained during the 20s and 30s to moderate just how much…ahem…
• The glass half full theory is the way to go. Strep sucks but having to live a whole day hearing a plethora of jokes about being 40 trumps it
• Eckhart Tolle is right…embrace the Now as we never know what tomorrow brings
• Suck it up, buttercup – you’re 40, baby, it’s time to let the good times roll!!

Midweek Funny - Pink Butts

Last summer was the summer of “pink butts” for us. One of my daughter’s best friends had visited the zoo and discovered the lovely pink bottoms of the baboon. She had come home and immediately began talking about their “pink butts” and then making a correlation between those of the baboon and her own little pink bottom. Her bottom affectionately took on its own identity as “my little pink butt,” We all got a chuckle out of it until finally her Mother declared that “pink butts” should no longer be a topic of conversation. It still occasionally crept in with the adults displaying that funny expression that ensues when you are trying to remain serious as you scold the children for saying “pink butt” while inside you are roaring with laughter.

Last week, during the heat wave that overtook Denver, we accompanied our friends to the zoo. It was not only a holiday but also “free day” and that combined with the 70 degree weather meant that everyone from Denver to Boulder and Colorado Springs was visiting the zoo. As we became a part of the human wave that flowed from animal to animal we finally came to the baboon area. Immediately, our adorable children began chanting “pink butt, pink butt.” My friend and I turned away for a second to hide our chuckling only to turn back around to see our “little pink butt angel” pressing her naked little pink bottom up to the glass of the baboon viewing area in an attempt to engage the baboon in a game of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She was positioned in complete mooning stance while my daughter stood seriously taking it all in beside her. “Pull your panties up right now” echoed throughout the area. The child innocently turned to her mother not fully comprehending the deed that had led to such a prompt reprimand.

As the seconds ticked away like hours, I glanced into the habitat to catch a glimpse of the baboon. I swear I saw him stick his gloriously large pink bottom up in the air in response to the scene before him and sashay away in a very arrogant manner that screamed “take a hike.” I probably just imagined that, but at that moment I wished that monkeys were a bit more like humans so that we could get his reaction.

With this whole episode, monkey see, monkey do took on a whole new meaning for us.

The Kindergarten Crusade

I had read about it in several light-hearted, comical novels, two come to mind: The Nanny Diaries and Admissions. At the time, I laughed at the hilarity, contemplated the reality and basically convinced myself that under no circumstances would I ever partake in the ridiculousness, even to a small degree. Of course, at that time, I had a baby or at most a small toddler. It was inconceivable to me.

I now sit here and ask myself: is this really happening? I mean really. Am I really stressing myself out about my child attending one of our two neighborhood public kindergartens. Am I really waking up in cold sweats after a nightmare in which she is behind all of her peers, doesn’t have any friends with whom our family connects and becomes a wallflower in the game of life? Well, it isn’t quite that bad but I have to tell you that choosing a kindergarten for my 4 year old is certainly not the piece of cake I expected. I wanted a simple chocolate cupcake with chocolate icing. Instead, I have turned it into a triple chocolate caramel pecan with dulce de leche double cream frosting.

And, it isn’t just us. It is the same with multiple of our friends. And, I am guessing, this is a contagious disease that pontificates the more true feelings are exposed. Last week, in an effort to give our children every opportunity imaginable, we trotted our little darlings down for a test for advanced kindergarten. One of my friends described the ascent into the building well: “Hilary, I tell you as I approached the door, my heart started beating fast and I could just feel the anxiety creeping up my throat. My pace quickened and I grabbed little Trixie’s (name changed for privacy) hand and pulled her faster towards the room entrance (embellished a bit to create a vibrant picture).” I knew what she was talking about. It was as if we were entering the courtroom for a trial which would determine the direction of our life forever.

We left the little ones in a room among their peers with a group of evaluators who would be overseeing a multitude of activities including what appeared to be color block matching, writing, coloring, counting and ABC awareness for the next hour to determine the fate of our children in the next year. Of course, the minute the facilitator asked the Mommies and Daddies to exit the room, my child burst into a helpless plea of “No, Mommy, stay…Mommy stay.” Immediately, it was as if super glue had been applied to my daughter’s arms as they quickly became attached to my legs. I tried to engage the woman assigned to my daughter by saying, “Look this nice lady is going to sit with you. Let’s find out her name. This is my daughter….” The lady had nothing of it. She didn’t even glance our way as she busied herself in making certain all of the tables were in order and children appropriately assigned. I looked around in desperation as the other test overseers sat and kindly approached their little students. One of them looked at me in pity and remarked, “She’ll be ok.” Well, I knew that, but it was just our luck to get the type A, process-oriented test leader who was distracted by her other test-related duties.

It probably really wasn’t that bad but as my child wailed amidst a sea of otherwise calm children, I perceived the situation as dire. I could just picture our chances of entering our school of choice dwindling to zero. At that point, I quickly employed one of my mothering tactics often criticized but secretly applied which I reserved for only the most critical of circumstances: “If you stay and do this, we will go for ice cream later.” That immediately lessened the degree of wailing and I was able to quickly dash out of the room. However, I only exited to the hallway as I had promised that I would stay out there until she was finished. As the other parents dashed to their cars to partake in a few moments of freedom and errand running that can only be described to those who don’t have children as winning the lottery, I sat firmly in place on the cold linoleum floor with the clock ticking away the seconds. I reached for the book in my purse only to find I had unloaded it to decrease the crushing weight of my purse (if you can call it that – I prefer to think of it as a “purcase” which if required weighing to board an airplane would probably waver slightly above or below the fifty pound limit).

I really was quite proud of myself. I allowed myself only two peeks in the window during the first ten minutes only to see my little angel pulling one of her usual avoidance tactics: head bent to the side with the look of a wayward puppy meaning that it was unlikely she was cooperating. I quickly scolded myself and developed the appropriate punishment – or maybe it was a saving grace: no more peeking in the window. Besides, I didn’t want anyone to catch on to just how neurotic I had become.

The other parents returned about ten minutes before the test completion and I became engaged in conversation with some familiar faces. By the time my daughter exited, my anxiety level had plummeted after discussions of the crumbling real estate market and other topics reserved for those few moments when I could be in a 1:1 discussion with another adult.

She approached me with a smile on her face, the first words uttered, “when are we going for ice cream?” She then proceeded to say, “Mommy, I didn’t know a lot of that stuff.” Well, believe it or not, I had spent the entire hour on that linoleum floor practicing Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now and had diffused some of my neuroses even if it was just for that day. The thought that advanced kindergarten or even a particular school would determine my child’s entire fate had diminished a bit although not enough for me not to ask, “Well, what didn’t you know honey?” I quickly found out that she didn’t know all of her letters, nothing that came as a surprise to me. After all, she is only 4. If you had asked her to recite the entire storyline for any Princess movie, should would have aced it but letters…hmmm.. not exactly the most interesting topic for my own little Princess. We exited the building in a much more relaxed state than we came in and after a quick stop at her preschool spent the afternoon doing Mommy and daughter activities – the type that bond us for life and are the secret ingredient that really determine the future fate of our little jewels.

I have to tell you that even after a relaxing weekend in the mountains that followed our little advanced K testing foray and much time for reflection on how ridiculous we have made this whole process, we still rushed home yesterday to attend an open house for a potential back-up school. And, I swear Grayer/Grover from The Nanny Diaries was there with his parents. Luckily, I had had enough reflection to actually enjoy the simple pleasure of watching my daughter twirl ferociously with glee smack in the middle of the parent Q&A. Concurrently, a ping of sadness ensued as Grayer/Grover in his perfectly preppy ensemble (think Ralph Lauren) looked at his parents longingly only to be met with what appeared to be a Botox-infused eyebrow raise which quickly pushed Grayer/Grover back into his cationic state. Hopefully the end of the Denver version of the story will mimic that penned by Emma Mclaughlin and Nicola Kraus.

I can’t tell you our kindergarten fate yet as we won’t know anything until March! However, I can tell you that I daily think about what others told me during my near brush with a full out breakdown during potty training: “Hilary, whatever happens, you can be guaranteed that she will not walk down the aisle or get her diploma in diapers.” My current translation: When she is 18, she will certainly have attained some acumen in reading, riting and rithmatic.

As an aside, as I was performing research for this story, I actually came across a book that is written to help you get your child into the school of their choice: The Kindergarten Wars: The Battle to Get into America's Best Private Schools by Alan Eisenstock. We will not be running out to purchase, however, I provide for your enjoyment. This is not an endorsement or recommendation of the book.

Midweek Funny

We have come accustomed to traveling on Christmas Day. Typically, there are fewer crowds, we can enjoy Santa at home and we still have the chance to spend time with family on this special day. This year, we headed out at about 3:30 p.m. set to arrive in San Jose at around 5:30 p.m. Our flight was fabulous; free drinks, quiet time for reading while Eva engaged in her DVDs. At the airport, our bags came within 15 minutes and skies were clear as we headed outside to catch the rental car shuttle. We re-affirmed our belief in Christmas Day travel.

We pulled into the rental car complex and headed straight for the car. Tony takes pride in his preferred membership which allows the simple luxury of bypassing the rental booth. We were feeling a special elation in the fact that we were getting a free weekend due to his past travel trends. With anticipation, we approached our row. What would it be this time. A Pontiac LeBaron, Hyundai Sonata, Ford something another (I know nothing about cars).... As our footsteps sped closer and it came into view, it was as if someone hit the slow motion button. Our strides become longer and the pace slowed to that of a turtle until Tony halted in an abrupt stop. A Crown Victoria, the ultimate in cruisers stood before us. "I am not taking that car", he stated. "What's wrong with it. It looks roomy and comfortable", I declared. I can't remember exactly how he responded. I'd like to say it was something like "It is a gas guzzler and I am not driving it," but since we own a Navigator purchased when we thought we would have two children and visiting grandparents to haul around, I doubt that was his response. To this day, I am not certain exactly why the Vic was rejected but rejected it was as he made his way in the dark to the rental booth. Eva and I hastily took cover in the car until he returned.

Now, for those of you who have never been to the rental car complex in San Jose, allow me to paint you the picture. First of all, it houses several car agencies so there are MANY car slots. Second, typically the lot is empty, except in economic slumps during which the high techs have cut travel allowances. Third, it is operated by gentlemen that I believe are of the Sikh religion and do not appear to be originally from an English-speaking country. I point out this fact only as it relates to the gentlemen running the car agency and their varying degree of competency with the English language (which will become important later :). They are always very kind but you aren't always certain they are grasping what you are saying.

After about ten minutes sitting in the deserted lot surrounded by what seemed thousands of empty cars, Tony comes trudging out not looking like a satisfied customer. "You aren't going to believe this. The only other car they have is a such and such." Well, at that I had to laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. There are like a thousand cars here. How is he justifying that," I bellowed. "He says they are all dirty." At this, I just started laughing. To me, it was comical. To Tony, it was not. He believes in loyalty and the perks that result and consequently, feels that only having two choices of cars in a lot of thousands is totally unacceptable. I saw his point but sitting in the dark, cold lot with a 4 year old was enough for me and I wanted to get the heck out of dodge. "Well, I took down his name and number. I have had it with this car agency," he declared.

We uttered not a word as we loaded our luggage into the new car and got settled. I for one thought the Vic may have been more comfortable but honestly I didn't really care. Tony continued to grumble about the experience and was not finished with his tirade as we approached the check out booth. Clearly, he was going to re-state his dissatisfaction and try to get the respect that a loyalty member perceived that he was owed.

The gentleman in the booth quickly took the paperwork to review the required information. Tony immediately begins his speech about loyalty membership and how "this is the worst experience I have ever had with a car rental agency." And, "how is that you don't provide greater customer service." And, "can you believe that I am being treated this way?" Clearly, Tony was looking for some acknowledgment and confirmation of our plight and how we of course were in the right as we were customers.

After about 30 seconds to a minute of one-sided dialogue with little to no movement by the gentleman in the booth, Tony looked at him and asked, "Have you heard a word that I have said?" At that, the gentleman turned to us and said, "Would you like the gas option?". For about 2 seconds, you could hear a pin drop; until I started roaring. Well, Tony is actually a pretty laid back guy and the roar became infectious. He himself quickly donned his most adoring smile, grabbed the paperwork back through the window and screeched out of the lot laughter filling the night. We are still laughing about it to this day.

Moral of the story:

"Don't take life too seriously; you'll never get out of it alive."
-- Elbert Hubbard

Politics Day - January 20, 2009

Wait - I don't mean it really. Allow me to explain. I had the deep honor of watching the history making inauguration today with a Kindergarten class from my neighborhood school. When I entered the classroom, to be completely honest, I wasn't thinking too much about today and what was happening in Washington D.C. I knew I would be able to catch up on the festivities when I got home through TV, Radio and the Internet (especially through my friends on FB). I was most concerned about what the school and the class were doing so that I could evaluate it for my little girl.

However, I had the superb luck to enter a classroom in which the teacher realized that today, a day in which our generation will speak for the rest of our lives, a day in which we all should be stopping our daily activities to provide the attention and the dedication that is so deserved, a day in which television is ok in the classroom, a day in which the subject matter is important to all of us, especially the bright, eager young minds of kindergartners, today is a day that is so special that it transcends the importance of reading, writing and 'rithmatic. Hats off to Ms. Baumann for allowing the children and allowing me to partake in what can only be described as a monumental day in the history of the United States of America, but more importantly, the world.

My visit began with a circle that brought tears to my eyes. We hadn't yet entered inauguration mode although the tv was quietly playing in the background. I learned about what each child had done that weekend and watched in awe as several would sign the appropriate phrase for "connection" meaning that they too had done something similar. I became introduced to each one as they greeted the student to either side with a morning salutation that demanded eye contact. I tried to find my place as they quietly went in groups to perform their jobs during their work cycles; each dutifully accepting the challenge of each task while still seeking his/her individuality in its completion. I was re-assured as I watched these young children go about their work on the academic principles upon which we rely on our schools and our teachers to impart. I was humbled on this day to see the respect, commitment, ethic and virtue that makes our country great illuminated in the actions of every child in the classroom and so much re-enforced by the teacher and her aide.

As 10 a.m. approached, snack was distributed and we all came together in front of the TV. When Ms. Baumann asked what we were doing, one child promptly responded "It's Politics Day" and Ms. Baumann elaborated in a massaging manner with a syllabic clapping of "In-aug-ur-a-tion" day. "Yes that is five syllables. Very good."

I have to say that the Cheetos were probably the most interesting topic for the children that morning. I noticed several comparing shapes and all garnering the beautiful orange mustache that can only come from truly partaking in the finger licking, lip smacking enjoyment of a bag of Cheetos. However, a calm ensued, be it short lived, as the President took his oath. It is my guess that all of them will remember Politics Day and the true monumental achievement and hope that exists for us, the proud citizens of the United States of America. Thank you Ms. Baumann for allowing me to experience history in a location that I truly believe was the most fitting - among the beautiful children of today and the leaders of tomorrow.

Politics Day, The Inauguration of Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States of America, January 20, 2009

It will be taught for infinity as one of the great moments of time,
A day in which the land of opportunity was again defined,

It is so much more than the first African American President,
Although that in and of itself to history will be lent,

It is about a man who has restored faith in a country evolving,
During a time in the world where many things are revolving,

It is a day in which politics seemed inconsequential,
A day in which Americans, regardless of religion, politics or belief, recognized again our potential,

A day in which we once again were reminded of the virtue of "the land of the free"
A day that we all hope the realization of our dreams we will see,

And by "our", it is not meant mine or yours,
But those of our collective which opens the greatest of doors,

"Hope, unity, faith, mindful, grateful"...words that inspire were spoken today,
As well as a promise to keep evil, terror, greed, thoughtlessness at bay,

A true leader stepped forward and on that we should all be able to agree,
Barack Obama, we stand with you and are ready to continue making history!

City Slickers

I grew up on a farm. Well, sort of. I grew up in a home that was a couple of miles from our farm. There were often baby lambs nursing in our kitchen during winter. Mud tracks across the floor on a daily basis. And, John Deere logo-d caps that were not worn for a fashion statement but rather for blocking the sun sitting upon the old time radiator. Farming was our livelihood. However, despite it's all importance in our lives, the country culture surrounding farming was NOT a part of our life. My grandmother was a cowboy culture discriminator.

However, despite all of my grandmother's best efforts to set us apart from those "country bumpkins", I still got a taste as my grandpa and I bumped across the hilly roads to the tunes of a country 8 track in the stereo. Of course, grandma would have been horrified had she known that I was exposed to country crooners but that was Poppy and I's little secret. Nothing like a lollipop, with the dog in the seat us cruising to good ole Johnny Cash.

Despite my farm-inspired roots, I went off to college and then became an urban dweller where I have remained ever since. I long for the action of the city; the hustle bustle, man-made attractions, latest hot spot and the most important, the people from all walks of life. I quickly and without any regret, left the farming life and never looked back.

However, this weekend, I was transported into a culture that only lived in my childhood dreams with Poppy. That of the swaggering, Wrangler encased cowboy. We, like many Denver families, packed up our SUVs with our mini Boden encased children and headed over to the attraction of the week - the National Western Stock Show. It was as if we were transported to a different planet.

I knew I was in for a treat when we stood in line and behind us was Miss Rodeo Cowgirl or something to that effect. She had on her Rhinestone encrusted cowboy hat, her Rhinestone encrusted button down all the way to her Rhinestone encrusted cowboy belt. I knew I had arrived at something special.

For the next three hours, I glanced around in awe at an American sub-culture that is invisible to us city dwellers. Cute, young, bow-legged cowboys had on their best never been worn Wranglers mimicing Harry Connick Jr. from Hope Floats. Some exuded the excitement and energy that is only possible after a much adrenaline-filled activity such as rodeo'ing. Loretta Lynn lookalikes had on Wild West t-shirts, tight Levi's and ostrich boots. Young cowgirls and cowboys donned their chaps, cowboy hats and even little spurs in anticipation of taking down a little doggy. Around you were drawls of thank ya M'am or excuse me M'am. You felt like putting on your dancing shoes for a little two-stepping at the weekly square dancing social.

The Afshary family did its best to experience all that was offered. We tried to interest Eva in the farm animals however, the largest draw for her was a cute little Corgie that was tied up with a bull the size of an elephant. "Eva, let's take a picture in front of the bull." "No, Daddy, I want a picture of this little dog."

Daddy immersed himself in the attractions however he had really come for the Equestrian event featuring English riding; not western.

And, Mommy, enjoyed the reminiscing with memories of her Poppy and those country roads until her allergies caused her to practically lose consciousness from lack of oxygen due to dust filling her lungs.

It was an evening to remember and one that brought strong affirmations. One, we for certain are City Slickers. We were able to make it one night among the country americana but that is it for now. Second, there is a new and profound appreciation for the cowboy and the culture that surrounds him. One that causes respect but not longing. Third, I have declared that the stock show is a Daddy/daughter activity. And, finally, I believe that you can take the girl out of the country AND the country out of the girl. Well, almost. I've listened to Walk the Line and Country Roads about a hundred times since Saturday night. I even heard Eva whispering to herself..Country Roads, take me home, to the place I belong, West Virginia, Mountain Mama....take me home.