The North Park Santa Saga

Sleep.  For those of you who know me, I mean really know me, you know how important my (at least) 8 hours are to my mental well-being.  That being said, there is only 1 thing I am willing to give that up for, and it’s - you guessed it - my little man.

And that would explain why I was lined-up at North Park Mall, at 8 am, to secure a ticket for Lake to see Santa.  Yes, you read correctly, a ticket to see Santa.

This story actually beings 1 week ago, when I got up (at my usual 9am) and got Lake all dressed-up for our (now) annual trip to Santa Clause.  I was feeling good about our timing, and hoping that arriving a half-hour before Santa actually began taking photos with the kids would secure us a decent spot in line.  My guesstimate?  Forty-five minute wait to see the big guy.

As we strolled through the mall, there seemed to be an unusually large amount of children already in the corridor listening to Santa’s story-time.  I asked a security guard where to line up for photos, and she pointed in the direction of a young man wearing a red hat.   “Red Hat Guy” handed me a ticket and explained that I should return around 11:30 for Lake’s turn with Santa. 

“Uh, ok.”  I sighed.

A full hour to keep Lake entertained.

I looked at my watch. “I guess I’ll see you around 11:30 then.”

“No, you misunderstood,” explained Red Hat Guy.  “I said 1:30.”

“Are you being serious?”  I stammered.  My hopeful 45-minute wait just turned into a full 3 hours. . .

Red Hat Guy points to the top of my ticket. 

“You’re #127,” he said politely.

I suddenly felt myself having flashbacks to the DMV. 

It was as if someone had stuck a pin in me – I was totally deflated.  I was just thankful that Lake wasn’t old enough to completely grasp the nature of our mall trip; otherwise, he would’ve been pretty devastated, too.

Ok, then.  No Santa today.

Fast-forward 1 week. 

In an effort to make sure Lake’s Santa experience was successful the second time around, I found myself rushing to the mall a full hour before it officially opened for the day.  I hadn’t even had my morning cup of Joe.  And when I walked in, this is what I saw:

Did I just get transported to the Bon Jovi ticket-line circa 1989?  No joke, people must have started lining up while it was still dark outside!  The only thing that would cause this kind of parental insanity is if this guy were the actual Santa Clause, right?!?

One hour later, Red Hat Guy handed me my new ticket.  Seventeen.  I was told to return to the mall and be in line by 11:15.  Two hours later, Mark, Lake and I arrive for the big event.  Red Hat Guy should have actually said 12:15, because that’s when Santa (by the way, he was not the actual Santa Clause) was finally ready for Lake to take a seat on his infamous lap.

This was the result.

Three separate trips to the mall, 2 attempts to see Santa, 3 hours of total wait-time and this was how it ended.   Priceless!

At least when we got home, Lake and I both took a well-deserved afternoon nap.

Merry Christmas!

Whoa, whoa, whoa Miss Lippy. . .

Do you ever wonder if you could’ve been a rock star?

Ok, maybe not a rock star, but just something different from what you have become.  You know, if you would have grown up in a different city, attended a different college or been exposed to just one more sport?

Sometimes I do.  Wonder, I mean.

It’s not that my parents didn’t let me try out a million different things.  In fact, I would like to publicly thank my Mom and Dad for the thousands of dollars spent on piano, swimming, tennis and dancing lessons, in addition to providing me with all the sporting gear needed for basketball, track and cheerleading over my adolescent years.  But sometimes I wonder. . .if I had been given ice skating lessons, could I have been the next Kristi Yamaguchi?

So fast forward and I am now a 31-year-old mom.  No real exceptional talents, just a normal parent hoping to expose my child to just the right thing to give him some self-confidence. 

So at the ripe old age of 18 months, cue the first exposure.

Art class.

My grandfather was an insanely talented artist (that gene was unfortunately not passed on to his youngest grandchild) and Mark has some pretty amazing artistic skills himself, so it seemed to be a good fit for Lakes first “classroom” activity.

I might have been wrong.

Over the course of this 10-week art class, the sequence of events typically unfolded like this:

• Arrival.

• A Miss Lippy-esque teacher gives directions for each project to be completed for the day.  Meanwhile, Lake has meltdown #1 because he’s itching to get into the paint sitting on each of the tables and I’m desperately trying to sit him quietly in my lap like all the other parents have successfully done.

• Start our projects. Lake eats blue paint.

• Meltdown #2 when Lake realizes he has paint all over his hands.

• Lake spends 5 minutes splashing his hands in a tub of soap and water.  Dry.  Repeat.

• Easel time.  Lake finally starts enjoying himself as he moves from easel to easel painting on every piece of paper he can find, regardless of if another child is already painting there.

• Meltdown #3 occurs as “Miss Lippy” calls us over for music time. His hands need washed.  Again.

• And then, this happens.

Seems I inadvertently exposed him to just the right thing.  Next up:  music class.  Maybe he will be a rock star after all. 

My 5-Hour Broken Heart

Traditionally, the day after Labor Day is when many children experience their first day of school.  And for me, the day after Labor Day 2011 will always be the day my baby had his first day of school, too.

I will be the first to admit that the term “school” is somewhat of a stretch.  It’s more like a daycare.  Part-time.  Appropriately named “Mother’s Day Out,” since it’s basically a child-care program for stay-at-home moms that need a mere 5 (or in some cases 10) hours a week in order to keep a hold on their sanity.  For me, it’s going to take 10, but that’s neither here nor there. . .

I had such high hopes for how this day would begin.

I imagined Mark and I walking Lake down the hall at the church, only to have Lake overcome with excitement.  He would point at the other kids, and skip down toward his classroom.  When he noticed his name stenciled on a jumbo, construction paper pencil taped to the door, he would run in and give the teacher a high-five.  Realizing he had forgotten to say good-bye, he would run back out, hug and kiss us, stand smiling for our “first-day of school family photo-op,” and wave bye-bye.   And Mark and I would meander back to the car, smiling and holding hands, wondering how in the world we ended up with such a well-adjusted kid.

Reality check.  Actually went a ‘lil something like this:

I carried Lake all the way down the hall to his classroom, because the sight of all the kids and parents going in every direction was a bit too much for him to handle.  There was no skipping, but to be fair, he doesn’t know how to skip yet.  Then when we got to his classroom, where I noticed his name on the door (because he can’t read, obviously) and we were not overcome with the feeling of excitement, but the feeling some would call fear.   I swear you would’ve thought that the 6 children who had been dropped off before Lake were being tortured alive behind that oak door.  The screaming, oh the screaming. . .I tried to keep my cool but if I could read Lake’s mind, he would’ve said: “What in the hell is going on in that room, and please explain why you are leaving me here!”

Just before Mark and I were ready to make a run for it (with Lake in tow!) Lake's teacher, Debra, slithered out the door. 

“I’ll take him now,” she said anxiously.

But, but. . .we’d hadn’t even taken our family photo!

By this time, Lake had a total death grip on my neck, and was unwilling to unlock his legs from around my waist.  Screaming with crocodile tears streaming down his little face, I turn to my husband for direction.  He was now tearing-up with a look of horror on his face.

“I really need to shut the door now,” Debra said impatiently.   I looked down and noticed a little guy trying to make a prison break from behind her.

Using all my might, I peeled Lake off my body and dropped him into Debra’s arms.  Fighting back tears of my own, I reassured him he would do great and I would see him in just a few hours.

The door shut.

I lost it.  Mark lost it.  And instead of talking about how great our kid was, we cried silently all the way back to the car, broken-hearted.

That was 9 o’clock.  By 10 o’clock, I was back in the quiet apartment by myself doing the only thing that could possibly make me feel better about being a selfish mother that just scarred her child for life.  I sat in front of the computer and engaged in a little retail therapy.

Now to be fair, I did leave the apartment around 11 and made a Starbucks run and a quick stop at GapKids.  Then I wandered through Central Market to pick up dinner for the week.  While I should’ve deciding between chicken breasts and short-ribs, I found myself shamelessly smiling at every toddler-sized human being in sight and wishing I had Lake in the buggy laughing at the lobsters in the case.  He loves the lobsters.

By 1 o’clock, I couldn’t stand the anticipation.  I had butterflies in my stomach, and could not get to the church fast enough.

I arrived for the 2 o’clock pick-up at 1:45.

Debra opened the door, and through the crowd ahead, Lake spotted me.  He shrieked with delight, and grinning from ear to ear, ran into my arms. My day may not have started as I imagined, but it sure did end like it.

 

And for those of you wondering. . .

Lake had only cried for a few minutes after we left and had a near-perfect first-day of school.  Turns out we really do have a pretty well-adjusted kid :)

It's Raining, It's Pouring, Visitors Are Snoring!

 It’s no secret that Texas is in a bit of a drought. . .

And earlier this summer, Mark, Lake and I were having a drought of our own – a visitor drought!  Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand that summertime presents the best opportunity for family reunions and vacations, but after 3 months without a single visitor, well,  were getting pretty lonely down here!

And as they say, when it rains, it pours.

It all began in late July with a lovely visit from my mother-in-law, Diane.  The quick 3-day trip seemed to fly by, but we all got to spend some quality time together.  And BONUS:  Mark and I were granted a much-needed date night!  Thanks, Diane!

Shortly after Diane’s departure back to Columbus, my sister, Shana and my nephew, Will made their first trip to Dallas.  It was wonderful spending time with them and Lake just adores his Aunt and Cousin.  We spent a significant amount of time just playing, but also did some sightseeing, which included my first-time to the Dallas World Aquarium.

Now, before Shana and Will could even unpack their bags back in Florida, I was leaving on a jet plane of my own. . .to Vegas, baby!  It only took me 17 months (post Lake, of course) to take a girl’s-trip, and it was just what the doctor ordered!   Poolside drinks, nights out on the town, and the best part?  The company of 4 college friends that had simply let too many years go by since our last get-together :)

*Note- while I was gossiping, shopping and gambling, my amazing husband was back at home taking care of Lake.  And even cuter?  My father-in-law, Dick, flew to Dallas to have a “boy’s weekend” with his son and grandbaby. 

Unfortunately, Dick left Dallas just hours before I landed, but there was no time to dwell on missing him, because my old friend Rachel was in New Mexico, en-route to D-town!

 While I would have loved to show her everything that Dallas has to offer, the 105 degree weather put a slight damper on that. . .but the heat did not slow us down in the 2 most important departments:  shopping and eating!  Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on vacation anyhow?  We did, however, visit the 1 cannot-miss (indoor) Dallas attraction – The 6^th Floor Museum.  And, all right, we ventured outside to see the grassy knoll. . .but it was hot!

Rachel was still in-town when we began a much-overdue visit with my parents, Russ and Marlene.  The Monday thru Thursday trip always seems like it will be plenty of time, but in the end, I felt like I blinked and the week was over.  Every time my parents come to town, I try to introduce them to a new part of Dallas.  With this trip came a jaunt over to Fort Worth to see the Stock Yards and cattle drive.  There’s something about seeing giant cattle just cruising down the brick road that really makes you feel like you’re in Texas!

Whew!  I told ya, the universe didn’t just rain visitors on us, it poured and ended our summertime visitor drought!

And as this crazy month of visitors comes full circle with a Labor Day weekend visit from Diane (and her new husband, Dan) I can only hope that, along with it, comes some real, bona fide rain. 

Steak or Chicken? I choose Chicken.

I keenly recall people warning me that life would never be the same after kids.  Skeptics, I thought. 

I don’t mean to brag, but Mark and I had a pretty fantastic life before little Lake graced us with his presence.  Impromptu weekend trips to Chicago, dinners at great steakhouses followed by evenings at wine bars, frequent concerts and movies – we basically did whatever we wanted to do, including a Mediterranean Cruise through Italy, the Greek Isles and Croatia.

Even during the pregnancy, we vowed not to let our soon-to-be-infant slow us down.  No little guy was gonna change our lives, we would change his.  We would drag him along to wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted and it would be great.  

And in truth, we pretty much do.  Roundhouse Bar at PIB with Lake in a sling-carrier?  Yes, I had a baby. . .in a bar! Dinner at a French bistro with 2 other (childless) couples?  Lake was there!  Drinks at a work-related happy hour with a 12-month-old running about?  Yep, we were those people (with a baby, in a bar, again!!).

The nice steakhouse dinners, though, seemed to have dwindled in frequency.

That’s not to say we don’t go out to dinner, we just go to more, do you say “family-friendly” establishments.

Friday night, we went out in search of some size 2-T Old Navy t-shirts  (they were on sale for $4!) and some grub.  We were successful in the clothing department, and after much deliberation, found ourselves at Chic-Fil-A.

Mmm, hmm.

We sat eating our chicken sandwiches, watching the big kids tear through the play area and parents scramble to keep their children from running around the restaurant in bare-feet. 

Then a couple, with 3 little boys ranging in age from, I’d say 6 months to 5 years, walked by.  She wrestled with her purse to find keys while managing the older kids, and he awkwardly clutched the baby on his left hip while a Coach diaper bag hung across his body.

“That’s totally gonna be us in a few years,” I realized. “Friday nights at Chic-Fil-A from here-on-out, huh?”

“Yep! You know what’s crazy, though?” Mark replied. “I’m really enjoying this.”

I smiled.  “Me too.”

Those skeptics were right, indeed.

For The Love of Boy Bands, Britney. . .and Ross Perot?!?

1989- New Kids On The Block Concert, Pittsburgh P.A.

2001- Backstreet Boys Concert, Cleveland, OH

2009- Britney Spears Concert, Columbus, OH

2011- Saw them all over again in Dallas, Texas!!

And how did I get tickets to see NKOTBSB and Britney, you ask?

Ross Perot didn’t feel like going.

Yes, lucky for me, that little man that I so desperately wished I was old enough to vote for in 1996 (despite the fact that I proudly wear an elephant on my sleeve. . .) apparently doesn’t like the boy bands.  And I’d be willing to place a safe bet that Britney and Nicki Minaj aren’t uploaded onto any of his playlists either. . .

Fortunately, a girlfriend of mine works for a division of Dell that was previously owned by Mr. Perot himself.  And to this day, tickets at American Airlines Center belong to him and his family.  If he doesn’t want them, they then become available to employees.  Ahh, it’s good to have friends in ticket-getting places J Love you Jenny!

Here are a few share-worthy show moments.  

KNOTBSB - Such a great show.  Really.  And not just because Nick Carter is skinny again. The music and dancing were fantastic, and the people watching was downright amazing.  There were more scrunchies in that arena then there were in all of 1987.

And then there’s Britney.  I don’t care what anyone says – that girl puts on one incredible lip-syncing show.  The dancers, the lights and the I’m-right-back-in-the-AOPi-bathroom-getting-ready-for-a-social-music.  Classic.

So here’s a big shout out to Ross.  Thank you for 2 girl's nights and for not appreciating the finer music in life.  And here’s to hoping you aren’t into Kanye either.

Grill Master Me

The senior awards banquet in high school was a big deal.  Kids studied hard for 4 years in hopes of being bestowed with honors like Science Student, Math Student or English Student of the Year.

I happen to hold one of those honors. 

Yes, you my friend are reading a blog post penned by the Home Economics Student of the Year, Class of 1998.

Seriously, I was that good!  By the time I was a mere 17 years old, I could make a dress, bake a soufflé, balance a checkbook, nurture an egg-baby and cook the best omelet you’ve ever had.

Unfortunately there was one cooking appliance that was unavailable for educational purposes:  the grill.

It wasn’t until just this year that I had the nerve to spark up the grill.  Maybe it’s because Mrs. Dance didn’t teach me how to, or because I perceived grilling to be the “man’s job.” (To be honest, I don’t ever remember my mom cooking on the grill.  She prepared meals in the kitchen while Dad manned the Weber.)

One of my best girlfriends can grill with the best of them.  I’ve had many ‘a grilled meals at her hand.  Every time she’d cook up grilled chicken or steak, I would wish I had mastered grilling on something other than the Forman.

If I was craving a hot dog?  Microwave.  Chicken?  Oven.   Pork Chops?  Skillet.  

The fact that I could cook everything I wanted inside, coupled with the fact that Ohio seasons really never leant themselves to much cooking on the patio, I meandered through life never knowing the joy of grilling.

Until our move to the warm-weathered, meat-loving state of Texas.

Mark started teaching me how to grill with simple items like burgers and chicken breasts.  Then last weekend, I took the leap and purchased a big ‘ole slab of baby back ribs.  Now neither Mark, nor I, have ever cooked a slab of ribs, and my fear of the grill is still very real!  But I had the butcher wrap them up, and I thanked him calmly, and walked away thinking “I have no idea what I’m gonna do with these!”

Thank God for the blessed internet.  Honestly I don’t know how people learned to cook before 1990.

So tonight, while Mark was out dining with his boss, I cooked- pardon me- grilled, a beautiful, delicious feast.

Move over, George.

Resumes, Herpes & Shopping Malls

Go-to friends.  Everyone has them.  Your friend who has a great eye for accessorizing that you call for advice before going on a first date.  Or your doctor/pharmacist friend that you annoy have on speed dial for your reoccurring eye twitch.  Or the mommy-friend that is 3 kids ahead of you and knows all the tricks of getting through teething.

Over the years, I found myself to be a go-to friend.  Specifically in the following categories: 

1) Grammar:  I can’t begin to tell you how many resumes I have proofread over the years.  Hey, at least my journalism degree has been put to good use!

2) Pharmaceuticals & disease states:  With eight years in the pharmaceutical industry, I like to think I became an expert on the products I sold, and the ailments they relieved. Migraines, schizophrenia, enlarged prostates and genital herpes are just the tip of the iceberg.  Unfortunately, this expertise has led me to engage in a few awkward conversations with friends who “had this friend” if you know what I mean.

3) My personal favorite – Shopping:  I quite enjoy an outing to the mall.  So much so, that I have developed a photographic memory of store and elevator locations (Hey, with a stroller in a mall, if you don’t know where the elevators are, you’re dead in the 1^st floor water. . .) 

And so I am that friend.  The one who frequently gets inquiries like:

“Where is the Nordstrom Rack in Chicago?”

“If I park at Macy’s, how do I get to The Gap?”

“Is there a Gymboree at Easton?”

And I’d say I have an unofficial 99% success rate with the correct answer.  Yep, I know my retail.

So you can imagine my embarrassment when I find myself standing in front of the giant, lit-up store directory trying to figure out where J.Crew is located!  B2 blue section? What? And I’m in section 1A orange now?  Uggh.

In Columbus, I could get to the J.Crew at Polaris or Easton with my eyes closed.  And maybe my hands tied behind my back for good measure.  In Dallas?  Oye Vey. 

What makes my predicament even worse is that there is like a million malls in Dallas.  Actually there are 22 shopping centers in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex, (the most stores per capita in any US city) but who’s counting?!?

I understand that many of you are questioning, “If you love shopping, how could this be a problem?”

My answer:  It’s impossible to really learn the layout and dynamics of a mall when you are in and out of so many.  The mind games start when you swear The Loft was right across from Victoria’s Secret, oh wait – that was a different mall.  Catch my drift?

And so, I now anxiously scroll through mall websites pre-visit to develop a routing plan, and sit in the parking lot scanning through the stacks of mall brochures in my diaper bag.   All so I don’t feel like I’ve lost my shopping center navigational skills.

Then, just the other day, a realization.  I was in Nordstrom at North Park Mall doing some Father’s Day shopping.  There was a customer in line ahead of me looking for a pair of Tommy Bahama swim trunks in a size medium.

The sales associate said “I’m sorry, we don’t have those here, but the computer shows there are 2 pairs available at The Galleria.”

The customer responded, “Where is that?”

As the sales associate shrugged her shoulders.  I jumped in and blurted out, “Just jump on 75 north to 635 west and get off at The Galleria exit.  Shouldn’t take you but 15 minutes.”

Whoa.  (Yes, like a Joey on Blossom whoa.) So maybe my intra-mall store locating competence here in Texas is not quite up-to-par.  But as I evolve, so will my shopping savvy.  For now, call me if you need directions to Highland Park Village.  Happy to get you there, friend.

The Much Anticipated “Post-Move-First-Trip-Home”

It’s weird.  We arrived in Columbus the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, and the familiarity of it all made it feel like we were returning home from a (very long) vacation.  And that’s when I began to ask myself:  When does my new home start to feel more like home than my old home?

The first leg of our trip we stayed with friends across the street from our condo.  Our stay in Columbus was lovely and bizarre all at the same time.  It was wonderful catching up and spending quality time with close friends, but driving by the place where we became a family (and that was no longer ours-yes we finally sold!) caused a little ache in my heart.

But thankfully the trip was packed full:  picnic with friends, rehearsal dinner and wedding, trip to the lake, night at Put-In-Bay, Lake’s first trip to Cedar Point, and a retirement party. (Don't worry - you'll get specifics in future posts!) Whew!  Those 10 days were filled with fun and family and were exactly what I needed.

The morning of our departure back to Dallas, I was apprehensive.  The pull of friends and loved-ones exceeded my desire to come back to Texas;  but alas, we made the drive to Pittsburgh airport and survived the flight back to DFW.  Oddly enough, I felt a sense of relief when we walked into the apartment – the security of our belongings and the love of our attention-starved kitties brought me back to life.

And so I realized it would be naïve of me to think that after 8 short weeks, I would feel more at home in Dallas than in a place I spent 30 years living.  So, I may have just a few, or I may have a lifetime of trips up north before I feel like Texas is more my home than Ohio.    But Ohio will always be my home.  I guess I’ll just have to have two J

Ticket For 1 Please!

Just this past week, Mark came home from work, took Lake and gave me the evening to myself.  Anything I wanted to do was mine for the taking.  Should I go shopping?  Get my toes done?  Read all the new magazines at Barnes & Noble while sipping a latte?  Nope.  Not when I could immerse myself in 120 minutes of Robbie P, Reese and a torrid love affair!

I walked into a small theater in a pretty swanky area near downtown.  I paid for my single ticket to Water For Elephants, and as the girl handed me my ticket, she gave me one of those “Oh, a movie by yourself – that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen” smiles.

Once I got seated, I peeked around the dim theater.  It was a matinee - the 5:05 show - so there were only about 10 other people seated.  The only other singleton was a man who appeared to be in his late 60s.  I wondered if maybe he was a widower or if his wife was shopping down the street and he didn’t feel like moping around the Chanel boutique watching her try on suits and handbags.  There had to be a reason for him to be there unaccompanied.

Except maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need a reason.  Maybe he simply enjoys a good movie alone every once in a while.

Going to the movies alone is one of the things I do that gets the most bizarre reactions from friends and family.  The conversation usually goes a little something like this:

“What did you do today?”

“I went to see Water for Elephants”

“Oh, good – who’d you go with?”

“Nobody.  I went myself.”

“What?  Noooo.  Why?  You’re not that person, are you?”

Usually I say it was spur of the moment, or we didn’t have anyone to watch Lake.  But the truth is, I relish going to the movies solo.

So yes, I am that person.  The one you see in the theater and feel bad for, because they must be a total loner.  Or the person that you assume doesn’t have 1 single friend to see a movie with. (Well that might be a little true now that I’m in Dallas, but that’s neither here nor there. . .)

But the reality is, I’m the person that doesn’t have to share my popcorn or drink with anyone.  The person that can set my belongings down wherever I want and not have to catch-someone-up on what they missed when they return from a bathroom break.  The person that can put my elbows on both armrests and not have to awkwardly lean to one side for the duration of the film. I’m the person that gets to enjoy a movie all by myself. 

Now don’t get me wrong.  There are exceptions.  Some movies are simply meant to be seen with others.  Would I see a horror flim alone?  Absolutely not!  And the Sex and The City flicks - a must-see with girlfriends!  All other genres are fair game for independent viewing J

So the next time you find yourself with an afternoon all to yourself and a new release at the local theater, go ahead be that person.  You can get your latte on the way home.

A Mother’s Day Sandwich

All you truly need to make a good sandwich is the bread and the meat.  It’s all the other additions that make the sandwich great.  The tomato, lettuce, mayo - again, not needed, but very much preferred.

My mother’s day was the sandwich.  Perfectly good all on it’s own.  I woke up to a beautiful day, a loving husband and the most perfect little boy I could’ve ever asked for.  Brunch at Ocean Prime (My favorite!  Having one in Dallas makes me feel just a little more at home.) and an afternoon shopping at North Park Mall.  I couldn’t have asked for a better Mother’s Day.

But I got one - actually I got a whole week.  Because my mother’s day was sandwiched.  By mothers :)

In the days before mother’s day, my mother-in-law came to visit.  Her first trip to Dallas was amazing.  As a family, we ventured through the Dallas arboretum, ate Tex-Mex in Uptown and Lake played with his first set of Legos.  His Daddy’s Legos, in fact. Nonni saved them some 25 years and traveled to Texas with them in hand.

Then in the days following mother’s day, my Mom (and Dad) came to visit.  It was my Mom’s 2^nd trip to Dallas (she helped us move in) and it couldn’t have come sooner.  We visited The Sixth Floor Museum, shopped at the Galleria Mall,  and rode the Uptown Trolley.  Before their departure to Ohio,  Mimi presented Lake with his very own sweeper.  He is officially a bonnafide cleaning boy.

The past two week’s experiences, just condiments to my sandwich.  Thank you to my Moms for making it taste soo good.

1 Month Down!

We’ve officially been in Dallas for 1 month!  Here are 5 take-home points I've discovered about my new city.

1)  Go Blonde or Go Home!

I don’t care if it’s bright golden, dark ash, honey, light pale, platinum or strawberry.  All-over color or highlights, I’ve seen it all – on pretty much everybody.  Walking down the street in Dallas reminds me of the game “Duck, Duck Goose,” except is like “Blonde, Blonde, Brunette with Blonde highlights.”  Normally something like this would bother me, but I fit right in, which is nice J

2)  OU?  Oh, Where?

People in Dallas ask, “Where did you go to school?”  I reply, “OU.” 

          
            From there the conversation goes a little something like this:

“How awesome!  Oklahoma is a great school!” 

“Oh, no” I say, “Ohio University.”

“Oh, geez.  Sorry about your luck with Tressel. . .”

“Actually, that’s Ohio State in Columbus.  I went to OU in Athens.”

“So you traveled abroad?”

“What?”

“Athens, is in Greece, right?”

“Ha, no, actually it’s in Southeast Ohio.”

“Oh, ok, cool.”

Noted:  In every other part of the country, OU is known as Oklahoma University.  I’m thinking that my new response to “Where did you go to school?”  will sound something like this:  “Ohio University.  Not the Buckeye’s, but the Bobcats.  In Athens, a small town in Southeast Ohio.  Yes, it was cool.”

3)  Chicago Aint Got Nothing On This Windy City.

The month of April brought showers all right.  Here in Dallas, we had 7 newsworthy storms that included thunder and lightning and hail, oh my!  I actually rewound the news (I Love DVR) when Jennifer Lopez, yes our newscaster’s name is Jennifer Lopez, said there would be “baseball-sized hail” and “70 mph winds” during one storm. 

Now in Ohio, hail is a rarity, so I understand if you don’t believe me.  But go ahead and check it out for yourself.

4)  It’s true what they say:  Everything’s bigger in Texas!

If you’re like me, I thought that by everything, they meant hair, boobs and diamonds.  I mean, the April issue of D Magazine lists the “52 Things Every Dallasite Must Do!” and #40 is Get Fake Boobs.  Apparently Dallas is the #3 city in the country for plastic surgery, and they are none too happy being the second runner-up.

But enough about boobs. . .other things are bigger in Texas, too – including price tags!  My Ohio-made grande, non-fat, sugar-free vanilla caramel macchiato cost me $4.15.  Here in Dallas?  $4.60!  The barista in the West Village laughed out loud when I asked if the drink would taste better here in Texas.  Not better, but still delish.

5)  Didn’t you hear?  Bentley is the new Camry.

Mark, Lake and I have made eating outside at Urban Taco a Sunday evening ritual.  Good food, great margaritas and fantastic car watching.  Yes, even better than the people watching!  It’s nothing to see multiple Porsche Cayennes (Mark and I joke they must have had a sale on them!), Range Rovers, Maseratis, Mercedes G550s and Bentleys.   And not just any Bentley; It’s not surprising to see a Mulsanne cruising down McKinney and pulling up for a valet.  I don’t know about you, but I’m not so sure I would let some 19 year-old kid with a cheap vest parallel-park my $325,000 vehicle.  Just sayin.

Maybe when I trade-in my hybrid. . .

Blind Dates Aren’t So Bad

Somehow, I made it to the ripe-old age of 30 before I went on a blind date.  And honestly, it wasn’t too bad!

“Hold it,” most of you are thinking, “What about Mark?!?”  Oh yeah, he went on a blind date too.  Now don’t get your panties all in a bunch. . .we went on a blind date together!

Moving to a new state, far from home, one of my main concerns was how much I was going to miss our friends.  Trying to make friends, especially good ones (and couples, no less), is like digging for a needle in a haystack.  And after you find them, it’s easy to take them for granted; they’re always gonna be there, just right around the corner.  Until they’re 1,064.96 miles away. 

So just like when you go through a break-up (I’m sorry Columbus, it’s not you, it’s us) you have to put yourself out there and meet someone new.  Mark and I put ourselves out there, and met a new couple.  Now it’s not like we joined some weird “We’re a 30-something couple with a kid, new to the city, seeking a normal couple to share pizza and wine with” website. (Do they even have those?!?  Mental note for new business venture. . .)  We got set-up by mutual friends.  I heard that’s the best way to do    it. . .

And before you ask, yes, of course we were safe and got to know each other the responsible/modern way.  You know, friend each other on FB and e-mail back and forth for months before making plans for the first live meeting.

The day of the big date, I had the expected first-date jitters.  What should I wear?  What should I have Mark wear?  And best yet:  What should Lake wear?!?  I wonder what we’ll talk about. . .what if the conversation takes a turn to one of those awkward silences and things get weird?  What if they hate us?

But I had Mark around to reassure me.  “Who could hate us?!?’  And when I panicked because the apartment wasn’t tidy enough to invite them up for a drink after dinner Mark replied, “Maybe we won’t like them.  And then you have an out!”

But we did like them.  They were smart, and witty, and fun.  The conversation never took a turn toward awkward silence and I wished I had cleaned up the apartment.  They even took us out for gelato after dinner – too cute.  The one and only downfall?  He’s a Michigan fan.  But remember those panties I referred to earlier?  Make sure they are big-girl ones, put them on and deal with it.  We broke-up with Columbus, remember?!?

And today, a post-date follow-up e-mail.  They want to see us again!  If he can look past our Buckeye devotion, we’ll just have to reciprocate J

So our first blind date was a success. Thank you to our friends that set us up.  You just handed us the needle and we didn’t even have to dig for it!

The Clash

Should I stay, or should I go?

Home or to back to work, that is.

It’s an age-old debate, or more like a 50 year-old debate.  You know, since the feminists took charge and made Jane Cleaver look like a total idiot.  But, I digress. . .I am not going to debate choices for moms in this blog, not today at least!

Today I'm discussing stay-at-home-moms, most commonly known as SAHMs. . .because we have really gotten that lazy and have to abbreviate EVERYTHING. . . Here’s the thing about SAHMs:  I’m not a fan of that moniker.  My name of choice?  Home Girls.  Because moms are girls, and well, they stay at home.  (And doesn’t it sound so much more hip and cool?) So from here on out, I will affectionately be referring to SAHMs as Home Girls.  Got it?  Good.

As luck would have it, I became a casualty of a pharmaceutical “reorganization” when Lake was 3 months old. AKA, I got laid off.  So overnight I went from a “Senior Therapeutic Sales Professional” to a “Home Girl.”  And while I have cherished all the moments I have been able to spend with my little guy (the first smile, first laugh and first steps to name a few) I have to say, my time as a Home Girl has been made exponentially more awesome because of other Home Girls.

{This is where I make a shout-out to my two favorite Home Girls Jen & Angela.  I miss our mid-week Polaris and Starbucks dates!!}

There is something about having Home Girls to meet-up with, swap baby horror stories and contemplate the meaning of life after work.  Makes a Home Girl feel normal, ya know?  Even with the conversations going something like this:

“So I’ve been looking for a new pair of white jeans – wait Lake, don’t throw that.”  I bend over to pick up a sippy cup. “And I just can’t – LAKE, momma said don’t throw that!  Have you seen – Uh, Lake NO! – Have you seen any around here?”

I miss those conversations.  I miss my Home Girls.

So I decided to hit-up the one place I was sure to meet some new Home Girls:  The Park.  So last week, I get dressed all cute, and put Lake in his new madras shorts and we strolled up two blocks to the neighborhood park.  As we come up over the hill, it’s like a mirage!  Little ones with Home Girls all over!!  On the swing, playing in the grass, going down the slides!  But as I get closer to the action, something is suspect.  All the Home Girls look a bit different from their kids.  And by a bit different, I mean they are, without a glimmer of a doubt, 2 totally different nationalities. . .

Uggh, not Home Girls, NANNIES!  Duh, Duh, Dummmmmm.  I know how this goes; I’ve read The Nanny Diaries.  I’m the foe here.  I’m the Home Girl that these Nannies congregate to bitch about.  It’s kind of like your manager at work – you can be cordial to one another, but your not gonna hobnob with the boss.  Then I see a nice young girl with a little boy (they DO look the same!) so by my power of deductive reasoning, I conclude that this is a Home Girl.  And her little guy looks just about Lake’s age.  Score!  So I head over to the empty swing next to her and strike up a conversation.  After introductions, she asks where I live.

I respond, “We just moved into Apartment X (sorry, this blog is a bit to public to be announcing exactly where I reside. . .) up the street.”

Home Girl says, “Oh really?!? “  Pointing to the little boy, “That’s where HE lives, too!” 

Ok, not a Home Girl.  Another nanny.

Awesome, I am officially the only Home Girl at the park.

But that’s ok.  Everyday is an adventure, and tomorrow’s another day to attack the mean streets of Texas and hunt down some other women who chose to stay.  At home, that is.

And you better believe I’ll keep you posted on those adventures, too :)

Nothin’ But SPF

I got my first tube of lipstick, lip gloss really, when I was in the 6^th grade.  It was Covergirl lipslicks – a bright pink shade in a purple tube.  I would enter the girl’s bathroom, the one right next to Mr. Izzo’s shop class, take it out of my book bag and apply meticulously.  I'd smile in the mirror and walk out of that bathroom feeling a little more like me.

Well that tube of Covergirl lead to clear mascara (seriously, what is the point?  Especially on blonde eyelashes. . .) and cover-up for those unruly teenage breakouts, then I dabbled in regular mascara and eventually in college I started to use eyeshadow and liner.  We would get those Clinique mailers at the AOPi house and the marketing was genius.  CLINIQUE BONUS TIME.  How else do you get sorority girls to buy makeup but to offer them a FREE makeup tote?  Totally worked on me.

And finally after college, I graduated to the big-girl makeup known as foundation. 

With each new addition to my cosmetic arsenal, there was an additional step to my morning routine. But that never stopped me! I don’t remember ever leaving the dorm, even for an 8 am class the morning after a LATE night, without a shower and fresh face of makeup.  And GASP if I ever showed up to work without my signature face.

The night I went into labor, I got out of bed at 2:30am, called the doctor and immediately asked if I had time to shower.  Her answer was yes, and 30 minutes later Mark walked into the bathroom only to find me sitting at the vanity gingerly applying eyeliner.  I think he almost croaked.  I just wanted to make sure I looked like me when Lake arrived.  (A valiant effort, I might say, but alas there was very little looking like me by 9 pm that evening.)

But then yesterday, I went cold turkey.  I walked out the door with nothing on my face but a little Aveno SPF 50.  Ok, ok, I know 50 may be a little high for some of you folks, but I’m fair skinned, the sun in Texas is radically different from the sun in Ohio and I don’t want to get wrinkles!  (Or skin cancer for that matter. . .)

Now maybe I did it because the Today Show segment on People magazine’s “Most Beautiful People” issue inspired me.  You know when they photograph celebrities without their makeup?  Or maybe it is because I have a sick toddler and the 2-block jaunt to Walgreens didn’t really seem like a big deal.  Or maybe it’s because Texans religiously wear sunglasses, and behind my aviators you can’t see my uncurled, naked eyelashes. But really, I think it’s because I don’t know a soul in Dallas.

There’s something liberating about being in a new place and starting your life over.  I can be whoever I want to be because there are no expectations.  No one here knows if I should be wearing makeup or if my nails are supposed to be painted, and I like that.  The freedom of it, at least.  Bottom line:  I can re-define me, if I want.

(Side bar and admission - I purchased a tube of Neutrogena "tinted" SPF 20 lip balm while in Walgreens, opened and applied it before I left the parking lot.  I said I could redefine me if I want, I never said I wanted to!)

Do I miss the chance of bumping into acquaintances and friends?  Absolutely.  But I think I could get used to Aveno SPF 50 everyday.  And makeup most days. 

What?!?  Never underestimate the power of a little lipgloss.  After 18 years, I still smile at the way lipgloss makes me feel a little more like me :)

Moving Is Like Childbirth

Moving is like childbirth.

Seriously, it is.  Before I had Lake, when I would express fear of labor, women would always reassure me that when it was all over, I would forget all about the pain and difficulties of pregnancy and labor because the end result is so awesome. I have found that to be true (with these 3 little exceptions: fat feet, swollen face, and excruciating heartburn) but only because Lake is so, so sweet.

So, I guess the same goes for moving.  I have moved 13 times since I left my childhood home in Canfield to move to Athens at the tender age of 17.  Yep, go ahead and gasp at my lucky 13^th move to Dallas – done? Ok, lets move on before I call an exorcist to my new apartment.  Back to moving. . .

Now, I’m sure that each time I moved sucked.  But I have to imagine that it sucked less when all I was moving were some trash bags full of Forever 21 clothes and a Wal-Mart bin filled with flip flops.  Each move I added a few more pieces of furniture and many more boxes that should have been labeled “I have no idea where this s**t came from, so good luck finding a place for it in your new home.” Now I say I imagine it sucked less, because honestly, I don’t remember.

Because like I said before, moving is like childbirth.  You’re excited about your new home – giddy with anticipation about where you’ll hang your favorite painting, just like nesting.  You curse the packing and the day you say goodbye to friends and family, just like you curse the day you were diagnosed with gestational diabetes.  You gather your luggage and rush to the airport, just like when you sped to the hospital.  It takes 25 minutes to get through security at the airport with your spouse, toddler and 2 petrified cats only to get on a plane hoping that there isn’t some poor schmuck sitting next to your crying baby and meowing felines. . .just like the 19 hours of labor where (enter your own crazy delivery experience here - mine is TMI!!).

But you ultimately arrive safely in your new home, just like when your baby arrives safely into your arms.

I lived in Columbus for 5 magnificent years.  Truly and honestly, I don’t remember unpacking boxes, or not having photos on the walls.  Because once I really lived in that condo, it became a home, and I forgot about the pain of moving.  Just like how once I had Lake, I became a mom and I forgot about the pain of childbirth.

There are still boxes to be unpacked and many a trips to Target ahead, just like getting shower gifts put away and making daily visits to Baby’s ‘R Us.  And so, my intention now is make this apartment into a home, just like how Lake made me into a mom.   Hopefully Dallas, too, will be so, so sweet.

And So It Begins. . .

I once read somewhere that moving is the second most stressful life event to happen behind the death of a loved one.  No argument here.

And so tonight, full of stress and my thoughts racing, I sat at my desk reaching for a pen to write down my thoughts.  One problem:  they are all packed away.  No pen.  No paper.  So here I am typing to keep my sanity on this, the last night in my Columbus home.

While tonight is not the first time I have thought about starting a blog, it’s the first time I couldn’t find a pen (And for those of you out there that have ever known or been a “drug rep” you will find this totally believable!).  In all seriousness, though, the sentimental side of me knows that when the door to this condo shuts, an apartment door opens!  Why not start a new blog to go along with my new life?!?

For those of you that don’t know, Mark, Lake and I are moving to Dallas this weekend.  Once Mark convinced me that Texas was more than tumbleweed and cowboy boots, I decided that this would be a fantastic adventure for our little family.  Mark’s new position with Chase is going wonderfully, and I will be able to continue spending quality time with our little man.

From meeting new friends (all the while missing my old ones!!), to exploring the city with a toddler and traveling back and forth to Ohio (I won’t be able to stay away!) - I promise to keep you “in the know” on all things Bennett & Texas!  One thing is certain; I will not blog for blogging’s sake.  You, my friend will only get the funny, interesting and embarrassing moments/thoughts I have to offer.  Pinky swear.

This blog begins with me, as a wife and mom moving cross-country and ends as. . .you’ll have to stay tuned!  I can't wait to share my life's evolution through this incredible life event known as moving.