Going Rogue in the Closet: The Companion Guide to Decluttering (Pt. 1)

Correct me if I’m wrong but are those yellow rubber cleaning gloves??
(Courtesy of Marvel Comics)

As a self-annointed devotee, I have pitched unrelentingly the awe-inspiring merits of the newly-translated book, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying up.”  I stand by my rants (and my now 1-stick-only lipstick box).  I (without exaggeration!) have spent the last 3 weeks constantly decluttering drawers, shelves and hidden stashes of stuff throughout my house.

I even taught my kids how to do it yesterday (“Hey kids, wanna do something really fun this Sunday?”)

But… but… but…

There are a few things that don’t really work for me.

Don’t get me wrong!  Ms. Kondo’s book has changed my life — and I feel the deepest level of respect for her.  But even a disciple has to strike out on her own once-in-awhile, no?

Here is my quick-guide for” Tidying Up Your Closet: Finding Your True Self in the Clutter” (A Companion Reader: Pt 1 of an infinite-part series):

• Decide you wish to declutter and organize the “things” in your life (which is really code for “you’d like to kick up your life but don’t really know what that ‘kick-up-your-life’ means”)
• Start in your closet.  Find that one piece of clothing you simply LOVE.  The favorite jeans you wear the minute they come out of the wash, that dress that makes you feel like you could concur the world from the bow of a yacht, that scarf that reminds you of the best day of your life (in a piazza in Rome, no less).   For me, it’s a particularly simple white Oxford that makes me feel immediately strong-yet-feminine, smart-yet-pretty, corporate-yet-artsy with perky breasts and a smaller-than-reality waist (don’t ask, I address my issues in Part 14).  Hold it up and feel the joy it’s sparking in you.  This is your “joy-standard.”  Take a minute and revel in the feeling.  Close your eyes, if you want.  Then, place that item within arm’s (and eye’s) reach.  I like to hang mine on the closet door.
• Turn back to your closet and pick up the next item of clothing.  Hold it at arm’s length.   Quick.  What’s the FIRST thought that comes to mind?
  1. “Okay, this shirt is great for running errands on Saturday.”
  2. “Oh, Mom.  I wish you wouldn’t spend your money buying me “going-out-blouses” in silver lamé.  It reminds me of that dress you bought me for my piano recital that didn’t…”
  3. “Okay, this blouse looks good with white pants.  Didn’t I wear it last summer to that school luncheon when my favorite blue dress looked a little tight in the tush?”
• Look at your “joy-standard.”  Ahhhh.  Now, look back to that shirt.  SEE the DIFFERENCE?!?!  One elicits joy.  The other… not joy.  Put the not-joy in the give-away pile.  Your goal?  To surround yourself only with those things that bring you joy.  I know.  You’ll have nothing left.  It’s true.  But there in lies the REAL decluttering.*
• Repeat.  Hold up item, Register FIRST THOUGHT about the item, Compare FIRST THOUGHT to your “joy-standard.”  Keep or give away.
• Stop when you feel either very accomplished or overwhelmed, emotionally-exhausted and/or depressed.  Put the discards into a shopping bag and close the door.   If you’re able to this for 5 things in your closet, consider yourself a rock-star.
• Return to that closet daily.  Look at the clothes you kept yesterday.  Look at your “joy-standard.”  Do they match?  One of them… not so much, right?   YAY.  You’ve an even bigger rock-star today than yesterday.

“What a minute!” you shout.  “Ms. Kondo says to do it in one big purge.  This doesn’t sound like success?!”

*The truth is… you’re NOT just decluttering your closet.  You’re decluttering yourself from all the baggage you’ve been carrying for your whole life.   The responsibilities, obligations, guilts, burdens, pressures,  fantasies, should’ves, should’nts… They’re cluttering your closet.  And your ability to live YOUR honest, true life.

And that doesn’t come in one 2-hour clothes-tossing session.

Getting in touch with your true self is akin to building the strength of a newly-discovered muscle; latent in its power yet weakened by its lack-of-use.  It’s your emotional truth.   Your true meaning in life.  Your purest form of self.  I don’t know… call it what you want… but it is YOU.  The YOU you were meant to be.   The YOU that you are.  Just a bit lost in the shuffle of all those damn shirts that kinda itch,  too quickly stain around the armpits.  Getting in touch with your true self?  Not going to happen just because you gave away a pair of purple-patent pumps.

Do a little a day.  Yes, you’re going to slip back into old habits.  Remind yourself of your goals.  Try again.  Hold your “joy-standard” in your hand.  Ahh, that’s what it feels like.  Go back into the world, with that feeling still in your mind.

In time, it becomes easier to know what brings you joy and what doesn’t, without having to compare it to your “joy-standard.”  It becomes a part of your conscious-mind.

Who knew the “joy-standard” could be so simple and basic, eh?

Still with me?  Okay, so now what?

• Open a kitchen cabinet.  See all those tea bags?  Which one do you ALWAYS grab when you want to have a cup of tea?  Darjeeling, because you like the taste AND you love that it reminds you of that tea luncheon your best friend threw you for your wedding shower?  “Joy-standard.”  That really-bitter dandelion-detox tea you bought because you should be more focused on your health but it tastes like dirt and you gag with every sip?  SEE THE DIFFERENCE?  Toss out that tea, you rebel!  You’ve just decluttered your life.  And got to know yourself a little bit better.  Baby-steps towards the honest life we should all be living.
• Do it everywhere, all the time.   Find your “joy-standard.”  Then, apply it to ALL things around you.   Go back into the sock drawer you decluttered last week and give away that pair of argyle cashmere socks that somehow remind you of Sister Marilyn, that up-tight, highly-judgemental high-school Principal who still gets your goat.  Go into the garage.  Get rid of those dusty roller-blades that pinched your toes 18 years ago (but keep that box of old towels you love to use when you wash your car because not only are you recyclying but you’re saving $20 from the carwash, you industrious gal, you).  Go into the den.  Get rid of that book that reminds you of that vacation you fought with your boyfriend and the one that’s over-written and dull, despite the NYTimes’ opinion.  Keep the one about Jackson Browne, ’cause you just like him and it’s fun to be reminded of that.
• And on-and-on it goes.  Bringing forward the life that brings you joy, the life you SHOULD be living.

Everytime you declutter, think to yourself, “Oh, my.  I think I’m beginning to understand who I am and how I really feel. ”  Soon, you’ll not need to reach out and touch your “joy-standard.”  You’ll just know it when you feel it.  And when you don’t.

Oh yes.  Imagine the implications of using this process on EVERYTHING.   Your job.  Your hobbies.  Your friends.  Your relationships…

Imagine spending 98% of your life experiencing your joy-standard?

Thank you Ms. Kondo, for proposing the unimaginable.

 

Don’t Wake Me Up, I’m working!

“Brain Rules” by John Medina

After 10+ years of being bombarded by doctors-cum-celebrity-authors that my children need sleep (“Without sleep, your child won’t go to college!”  “Bad Mommies let their kids stay up past 9 pm!”), I’m here to say that Chapter 2 of that book is much more relevant.  Chapter 2?  That’s the chapter titled, “40 YEAR OLD WOMAN — GO TO BED!”

I’m 42, tired and behind on my reading.   Turns out, sleep is the most important thing I should be doing for my health (and by association, my career, my family and my overall quality of life).   Sounds simple but sleep is always the first sacrifice I make in the craziness of my life.  It’s very easy to stay up to 12 am answering a few more emails or watching a YouTube video series on “E-Commerce SEO 101.”   It’s also easier to drag myself out of bed at 6 am to make breakfast for my kids, pack their lunches and review pick-up & carpooling details with my husband than to sleep in and deal with the guilt of hungry kids &  missed calendar appointments.  That’s why they created the 10-cup coffee machine.  Pour and roar, Baby!

What’s a little exhaustion in the plight of the juggle?!   Honestly, there’s a badge of honor in the exhaustion of burning the candle at both ends.   There’s no balance in the juggle.  It’s part of the Puritan “work-hard” ethic.   If I’m sleeping 8+ hours a night, there’s NO WAY I’ll turn Totefish into the billion dollar juggernaut I dream it to be.   Napping in the afternoon?  That’s so Marie Antoinette!

For the last 18 months, I have been surviving off 4-5 hours of sleep a night.  And when I say “surviving“, I mean “dying a slow death.”  Turns out, exhaustion is like juggling with real knives.  Better re-up your health insurance plan.

My newest trek into non-fiction, soft-science books is with “Brain Rules” by John Medina.  The book outlines the science behind the importance of sleep in an adult’s life.  Proper sleep enables a human to 1.) better process the day’s data, 2.) solve problems, 3.) remember things, 4.) be in a better mood, 5.) make fewer mistakes, and 6.) not suck wind.

Spoiler-alert.  I’ve been sucking wind.

Last week, I hit empty.  I sat at my desk and jumped from email-to-email, Powerpoint presentation-to-excel-spreadsheet, To-Do-list to To-Do-list WITHOUT accomplishing anything.  Turns out, when you’re exhausted, your brain is unable to focus on a task AND when it can focus, it takes 2-4xs longer to finish the task, makes 75% more mistakes while doing that task and can’t remember what the point of the task was in the first place.  Frustration and depression follow.  Lack-of-sleep makes one moody, diminishes their short-term memory capabilities and makes learning new concepts nearly impossible (the brain processes information during sleep).  So, while my Puritan values of work-work-work drive me to create massive plans, my Puritan disdain for sleep-rest-and-relaxation drive me to waste my time (and get more tired).

Sleep.  Nap.  Repeat.

I spent the last four days sleeping.  And I am a new woman.  The sun is sunnier.   My kids are lovelier.  And my To Do List ain’t so mean and angry.

Why do you think I’m writing this post today?   I slept 9 hours last night.  Give it a try.  I think it’ll change your life!

Working From Bed: How a sick mom does it

My Temporary Office

The inevitable occurred.  I caught my daughter’s germs and I’ve been laid up in bed for 2 days.   Now, I’m trying to launch a website in 4 weeks so one can imagine how convenient such a forced convalescence is.  But wait.  Turns out, this “problem” isn’t all bad.

The good things about working from bed:

1.)  Those lap desks really work.  No more laptop batteries unnaturally warming my reproductive parts.  I’m a convert.  

2.)  Spontaneous naps.  With pillows propped up around me, it’s easy to nod off for a quick 27 minute refresher.  Seriously, that’s awesome.

3.)  Take-dinners delivered to the door.  Two nights in a row, guilt-free pizza dinners.  It’s like we’re on vacation.

4.)  Instant weight-loss.  I’m too sick to walk to the pantry and grab my hourly “pick-me-up” handful of Oreos.   Who needs will power and sit-ups when a virus can jumpstart your goal to lose those extra 10 pounds brought on by stress and bad eating habits?

5.)  Wearing your pajamas while you craft a Powerpoint Presentation isn’t depressing, demoralizing or ironic (as in “working from home on my start-up feels like make-believe business”).  Instead, it’s empowering.  It shows stamina and commitment.   I’m a Mom with a start-up.  Hear me roar.  Who knew a virus could do what months of therapy couldn’t?

6.)  Taking a shower IS a big accomplishment.  When you’re sick, the little things matter and To Do lists are irrelevant.   I’m damn near becoming a Zen Yogi with this kind of wisdom, no?

7.)  When Mom goes down, the kids rise up.  Payback is a wonderful thing. My kids bring me cold drinks and fresh boxes of tissues, unprompted.   They do their homework on the floor in my bedroom “just so they can be close” in case I need something.  My son insisted on giving me a back-rub (“the way you do, Mom, when I’m sick”) and my daughter gives me “power hugs” to kill off the germs.  Forget Mother’s Day.  Sick Days rock!

Sure, the laundry is piling up, most emails have gone unanswered, I’ve had to reschedule important conference calls, and my kids have gone to bed without their usual array of Mom & kid bedtime antics.   I don’t welcome this virus on anyone but it’s not as bad as I would have thought.  Sickness acts as a great reminder of what I too often take for granted.

Turns out, my water glass on my bedside table is half-full.

Nature Strikes Again: DAMN IT!

Red Ants (aka Fire Ants)
Courtesy of Wikipedia

“Fire Ants Invade Lady’s Printer In Canyon:  Hysterics Follow”

My anxiety-ridden, dysfunctional relationship with nature continues.   Rats.  Snakes (real & perceived).  A multitude of spiders.  And now, fire ants and their ever-so-disgusting maggot-like eggs.

I’m ready to move to a high-rise building in the city.

“You’re not scared of a few ants?” you ask.

“Oh, you just wait until you hear this story,” I reply, flapping my arms as if to shake any invaders off.  A shiver runs up my spine.

Yesterday, I decided I wanted to use the scanner feature on my All-In-One printer.  I’ve had the printer for 18 months but was always intimidated by its scanning functionality.  Who isn’t, right?  But being that the world has gone digital (and that I want to stay relevant in this constantly-evolving state), I decided it was time to transform all my legal contracts into digital copies. Very tech-forward of me, no?

I opened the lid of the printer and what to my wondering eyes should appear?  A colony of frickin’ fire ants (and their transparent rice-kernel eggs) living underneath the glass of my scanner.  50 of them.  A Queen Ant.  A bunch of busy work ants.  Maggot-like eggs by the dozens.

AAACCCKKKKKK!

Then:

1. I screamed again
2. Took a photo of it (yup…)
3. Ran the printer outside
4. Let it sit in the driveway until the kids came home
5. Showed my kids (cause they LOVE gross stuff)
6. Tossed the whole damn thing in the trash can

Canon MX512: Where Technology & Nature Co-Exist

That Canon Company, what will they think of next?  All the while I’ve been printing out my daily To Do lists, a colony of biting ants has been thriving in the machine.   That’s taking “multi-functioning” to a whole new level.  Serious “Thinking-Outside-The-Box” going on at the company.

Fire Ants, in case you didn’t know, rarely make their home in modern pieces of technology.  They usually prefer moist outdoor locations.  But then again, nature and I don’t exactly have a typical relationship.  Clearly, the universe is trying to send me a message.  Humans must learn to cohabitate with nature.  Humans must stop the destruction of animal habitats.

Well, universe.   I have a message back.

Get the F*&#%$K out of my printer.

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World and I are neighbors

Courtesy of People Magazine

It’s like we’re twins:

• We live on the same street
• We both have a son & daughter between the ages of 7 – 9
• We’re in our early 40s (that’s code for she’s 40 and I’m 41)
• We both have blogs
• We like to talk about the food we make for our kids
• We’re “career moms”

Or not.

• She just published a second cookbook.  I have 7 drafts of an unpublished manuscript in my living room armoire.
• She sings on stage in leather pants.  I sing in my bedroom in my underpants.
• She works out 5 days a week.  I talk about working out at least 3 days a week.
• Her blog had 49,000 visitors in March.  Mine had 204.
• She has a successful “Styled Just for Gwyneth” line of products from top designers.  I just mis-hired my second front-end coder.
• She has endless travel, cooking and lifestyle tips.  I don’t leave the canyon, I wear my sweats most days at the office and when I say “sweats”, I really mean my pajamas.
• When she needs a cooking lesson, she brings in a celebrity chef.   When I need a cooking lesson, I call out for pizza.  Again.
• She’s a size a 0, she’s never photographed in the same outfit twice, when she walks around without makeup, it’s called “natural beauty”, she appears to have found the secret to balancing career and family (while working out 5 times a week!?), her predilection for short shorts (and sheer skirts) might cause a murmur but it’s not because she looks like crap, she does look better now at 40 than she did at 20, she’s achieving on her ambition, and she’s weirdly poised to become the next Martha Stewart, just sexier.   I… Oh, let’s stop pretending.   She might live down the street but other than our appreciation for old sycamore trees, we’re not going to be sharing a bundt cake anytime soon.

Oh, envy is such an unattractive emotion.   Especially, amongst women.   I hate you Gwyneth.  And I hate myself for hating you.  I’m sorry for all my terrible, snarky thoughts.

New Year Starts Strong: Fishy Clothes & Jury Duty

Harrison Ford served jury (circa 2000)

I have two tips for leading a productive 2013:

1.)  Don’t leave your daily Omega 3 Fish Oil pill in your pant’s pocket before running them through the washing machine;

&

2.) Get a doctor’s note when you see me sitting in the jury selection room ’cause they’re about to call us for a 2-week trial.

I could write a very lengthy blog post about the frustration of being called to (potentially) jury a 2-week civil trial 10 weeks before I launch my website OR I could pen a tongue-and-cheek diatribe about my husband’s fish-pill habit that required six vomit-inducing midnight washes to remove the ridiculously pungent, putrid fish-scale smell out of our clothes.  But no.  This is 2013.  And in 2013, I’m positive, I’m “half-glass-full”, and I’m not allowed to be bitchy or snarky.

It’s going to be a very long year.

This blog post is NOT going to be about how the Beverly Hills courthouse Jury Selection Room has pictures of celebrities flanking their wall, claiming they served therefore so should you.  I mean, if a celebrity can make time out of their busy movie-making, red-carpet walking, fancy trailer waiting life, than I what am I complaining about?  A mid-life career change?  A steep investment in my own internet company?  Two kids under the age of 10?  A husband traveling for work the next 3 out of 4 weeks?  Washing fish oil out of pajamas, underwear and kids’ uniform pants at 2 am?  Harrison and I should meet up for drinks.  We’d really share a commiserating laugh over that one!

What was I thinking?!?  I should have worn  fish-stained clothes to court today!

With my new 2013 self, I won’t mention that my 9-year old (precocious and very well-read) daughter said to me this morning, “Mom, I think you need to tell the judge that as it is, you’re tenuously juggling your company and us.  Tell him you can’t handle two weeks on a jury.  Really, Mom.”  Verbatim.  I couldn’t make up this stuff.  It’s only 9 am.

Don’t pity me & Don’t roll your eyes knowingly.  It’s 2013.  It’s the year of the Snake.  And for us rats born in 1972, this means I’m gonna focus on my career and stop focusing on the mundane and trivial.   The Travel China Guide website says so.  For those born in the Rat Zodiac, “Fortune gets better in 2013, both in career and wealth. During the first half-year, they should seize any chance to make great achievements. Their good fortune in the second half-year will lessen a lot.  For females, it is better to take good care of themselves and stop being gossipy.”

I’m on it.   Life could be so much worse.

Wait.  One of the courthouse elevators just broke.  Rumor has it it’s filled with today’s jurors.  See how much worse my day could be?!

Half-glass full, baby.  Half-glass full.

First rats, then snakes and now… heights! Startup-induced phobias?!

It’s a long way down, even for Julie Andrews

Hiking 3 1/2 hours up a steep mountain? Lovely.

Riding 7 minutes down on the gondola? Spear your hiking pole thru my heart and call it a mercy killing.

I’ve turned into a 40-year old acrophobe.  And I blame it on my start-up.

Here’s the back-story:

This past summer, my husband and I went day-hiking up Bald Mountain in Idaho.  Perfect excuse for exercise, communing with nature and accomplishing a goal.  Who wouldn’t feel good after that?

We made our way up the mountain in the shade of the gondola.  The free ride down was to be our reward.  Three hours later, I bounded, thrilled to be sitting down on the cushioned seat, happy for the beautiful scenery in front of us.

That was until we began the descent.  My stomach immediately lurched and my only vision was of the gondola slipping off its rail and careening into the rocks below.

I was afraid of heights?    What the hell!?!

As a teenager, I loved rollercoasters, cliff walks and skyscraper viewing decks.  I savored the take-offs of airline flights, I jumped from the high-dive platform without hesitation and I never lowered the security bar on ski lifts.  But now, in the safety of Swiss-manufactured steel cage, I got light-headed, starting negotiating with God and ended up with my eyes closed, humming “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” until we reached the ground.   I figured it was a gondola thing.  No more Swiss transportation for me.

But last week, it happened again on the plane ride home our Christmas vacation.   The flying scared the shit out of me!  Consistent turbulence and the sight of snow-capped mountains just below the wing tip sent me into a panic attack — sweaty armpits, shallow breathing and shaking arms included.   We were all going to die!  I shouted to my earphoned kids “I LOVE you!”  They nodded and kept watching their movie.

A few days later, while skiing, I found myself holding tightly to the chairlift bar, wondering if a gust of wind could send our chair tumbling down a ravine.

What on earth was happening to me?!  I was unraveling at the seams. 

I know the phobia of heights has plagued thousands, but for me, it was new.  A NY Times article (“Can A Playground Be Too Safe?”) discussed growing trends of acrophobic children due to the lack of high climbing equipment at parks and gyms.  Maybe I just needed practice bungee jumping and climbing ladders?  My husband suggested that I just needed rest.  But I blamed it on the start-up.   The stress and pressure of building a company, raising two children and not letting my muffin-top of fat overcome ALL of my jeans had made me afraid to leave sea-level.   Maybe I couldn’t handle it all?

No way!  I thrive on multi-tasking.

Flight of Impending Death

So I started researching late-in-life phobias and strategies on how to overcome them (without a cockatil of heavy medication and vodka).  Turns out, the fear of heights is often most caused by a simple fear of dying; a greater realization of one’s mortality.  For some reason, I’m more afraid now of dying than ever before.  Hmmm.

Could it be that now, with a loving family and a start-up launching in April, that I am more in-love with life than ever before?  Could it be that the “pressure” to juggle my family and ambition is, in fact, engaging me more in life?  That I want to live more than ever?

Well, well, well.

That’s a spin on stress and aging, isn’t it?  Life is simply getting more interesting and I, more anxious to live it.

I’ll take it.  Here’s to a promising 2013… and lots of fear of dying.

Where’d all the romance go?

Courtesy of Miramax

I have a confession to make.  I’m an epic-romance junkie.

Sure, I’m a happily-married, mother of two, ambitious feminist… but I’m a hopeless, over-the-top devotee of sweeping, all-consuming love stories.  The bigger the drama, the happier I am.   Movies about star-crossed lovers and their tearful embraces make me want to dance.  Complicated stares?  I practice them in the mirror.   Kisses that leave your lungs aching and your throat dry?  I watch the scene seven times without blinking.  A soaring musical score?   Caresses that reach below the skin?   Silences filled with weighted pauses?  I can’t get enough!

Yes.  It’s past midnight again and I’m awake.  The house is asleep and the decaf coffee I ordered at dinner clearly wasn’t decaf.  I’m too tired to map out yet another User Experience flowchart so that means there’s only one thing left to do:  it’s movie trailer watching time.   And damn it if there’s not ONE epic love story in the mix.

Remember all those great sweeping love stories Hollywood used to make?  The English Patient.  Moulin Rouge.  Out of Africa.  I miss them.  I want them.  But I can’t find them anywhere.  Where has the big love story gone??  Enough with all these small independent character flicks about broken marriages or friendships between strangers.  I want passion, damn it!  I want kisses and embraces and longing and suffering and all those great things that keep me glued to my chair, wishing for the movie to never end.

There’s not even a Twilight movie trailer (and there’s always a Twilight movie trailer!)   It’s gonna be a tough night for a junkie without her juice.

So, just in case there are a few addicts out there who need to feel some passionate caresses and witness some love that overcomes a whole bunch of crazy obstacles between two ridiculously gorgeous people … here’s a tiny fix from a greener time not so long ago:

The English Patient

Moulin Rouge

The Notebook

Out of Africa

Titanic

Dirty Dancing

Even Casino Royale had it…

Oh, it’s enough to drive a woman to download Pretty Woman to her iTunes account…

Less-Than-Zen Reflections on My First Hot-Yoga Class

Since the stress of balancing a family & a career isn’t going away any time soon, I’m incorporating [all and any] stress-management techniques into my life.  Yesterday, it was Bikram hot yoga*.

Here’s how it went:

1.)  It’s hot like Las Vegas in March, which means it’s manageable for the first 60 minutes (or the equivalent of how long it takes to walk from Treasure Island to the Luxor, stopping to see a water fountain show & throw $20 into a “this feels lucky” slot machine).  The last 30 minutes… constant, angry negotiation with myself (just like the second 24 hours in Vegas).  The Yoga instructor (and my friend, who convinced me to try it) set one simple task — to stay in the 105 degree room for the class’ duration.  Fine.  Check.  Done.  I am 7 pounds lighter due to sweat loss.  That never happens in Vegas.

2.)  The 26 poses aren’t so terrible.  They’re a mixture of stretches from PE gym class, 12th grade ballet and Cirque de soleil.  And if you follow the recommendations and don’t eat for up to 2 hours before class, you won’t fart.  Phew, right?  ‘Cause I was worried about that.  And trust me, if I’d had that tomato & avocado omelette I so badly wanted, everyone would have known about it.  Can’t believe I just wrote that, right?  Just trying to keep it real and loose.  Like my spine after the camel pose.

3.)  Oh, that floor.  That floor is crazy stinky.  Like, in a way no one can ever be prepared for.  The room smells less-than-fresh (as a 104+ degree room with sweating bodies has a tendency to do) but wow, that floor… a whole other zip code of odor.  I’m guessing that bamboo-fiber rug retains foot-sweat better than your grandmother’s sofa.  Your towel-covered mat becomes your little island in the middle of a shark-infested sea.   Don’t touch the carpet, you repeat in your head.  You’ll get a foot fungus, for sure.  Your chant is calming and helps you “be in the moment.”

4.)  Get a pedicure.  You reach for your feet, you grab your feet, you touch your nose to your feet.  Splurge on the spa pedi.  Not even an elightened yogi could endure staring at sock fuzz under his big toe for 90 minutes.  No toe-picking allowed in class.

5.)  Hot yoga gives you an inordinate, non-coffee-induced energy high.  Or so Bikram says on his website.  I returned home, booted up my computer and fell asleep sitting in my chair.   Couldn’t read an email.   Couldn’t focus a thought.  Couldn’t even focus my eyes.  Ended up sleeping for an hour, my head thrown back in the swan pose, drool running down the side of my neck.  Woke up, drank a cup of strong tea, ate half-a-bag of tortilla chips & a strawberry popsicle and stumbled through the rest of the day in a non-drunken haze.  So much relaxation, not even my typical “To Do List” could stop it.

I’m guessing it works.  Other than the stress of not accomplishing what I needed to accomplish while I was taking my nap, it was a calmer day.

I’m going back tomorrow.  Just don’t expect me to answer any emails afterward.  I’ll be much too relaxed to work.

*Wine not included

________________________________________________

What’s wrong with outsourcing a little “wife duty”?

In case you can’t live the life, you can always buy the book on Amazon.

For the month of July, I hired a “wife.”  And I love her.

No, not in that way.

For an hourly rate, “my wife” deals with the termite-invested sideboard, negotiates with the internet-provider company for a new router, picks up the prescriptions at the drugstore, swings by Whole Foods for the 1% milk, verifies the warranty (and arranges the return) on a busted Bose speaker, shops for a beautifully-themed birthday gift for my niece, measures (and compares prices) for new patio furniture covers and picks up the kids from camp.  And that was just yesterday.

I love my wife like my husband loved me when I wasn’t working on my start-up company:

She frees up my time so I can focus on my work.

She empties my personal inbox & deals with all those post-it notes on the refrigerator.

She keeps the house running in tip-top shape.

She reminds me to take the kids to their dental check-up at 4 pm.

She brings me a cafe latte in the afternoon because she “knows how much I need it.”

But my husband tells me I have to stop calling her “my wife.”  He says it’s derogatory to women.

I was raised by a 1950s-fashioned mother but I quickly picked the other side in the feminist revolution.  I wanted to make my own money.  I wanted my own apartment.  I wanted to wear men’s jeans.  I got married and left my career when we started a family but not because it was what my mother did.  I became a stay-at-home mother because child development experts told me, in their books, that it was the best way to kick-start a child’s life.  For eight years, I did the 1950s thing — total division of labor between home and office.  My husband went to the office and I stayed at the home.   I did all those “wifey” things because that was how we kept the whole thing afloat.  Shit had to get done and someone had to do it.  My husband ran his company – and I ran the house.

But I’m now trying to run my own company.  So who’s running the house?

My “wife” is!  And I don’t mean ANY disrespect by the term.  Or do I?  I am so confused.  What do I call her?!

I guess I could use the term “Assistant” but in my experience, an Assistant works out of an office and is “in training” for a bigger job.  And while a “Personal Assistant” does work out of someone’s personal home (or at least, their shiny SUV), I imagine their tasks are more “personalized” (“make my appointment with Fabio at 10!”) and their task-masters usually have some dramatic flare (tiaras and yachts do come to mind).

I could call “my wife” a “Secretary” but yes, much like the maligned “Stewardess”, that word is laden with cultural references that include knee-length skirts, Girl Fridays, and martinis at lunch.

So how about “Home Manager”?  When I mentioned to a close girlfriend that I was thinking about hiring a “manager to run the house,” she quickly replied, “Oh, you need a wife.”

Household Engineer?

Life Details Administrator?

Uber-Me?

I’m paying a generous hourly rate and I am in constant appreciation (and awe) that these tasks (which for the last four months have been neglected and/or forgotten) are now completed on-time, with efficiency and grace.  As a woman, I don’t find it embarrassing that a “wife” has traditionally done these tasks.  I did them myself.  And I used to do them well.

Until I can come up with another term, I’ll have to refer to my new woman as the “Industrious, Smart, Professional Woman Dealing With All the Loose-Ends of our Family Household” although you and I both know… it’s no different than calling her my wife.

Candy now makes me dumb?!

Don’t do it.  I mean it.  Oh no.  I can’t help myself.  Just one, I promise.  Oh, damn it.

The newest “As if I don’t have enough on my plate already” scientific study is out today.  Let me save you the 7 minutes to read it.

Eating anything made with processed sugar (in the form of corn syrup) messes up your brain function.

Yup.  They have the rats to prove it.  You eat sugar?  You an idiot.  Say yes to that slice o’ birthday cake?  Might as well let them take a swing at your head with the pinata stick.  Coca Cola?  One-way ticket to failing out of Community College.  Banana Split?  You be one dumb monkey.

So, let’s add it to our list, shall we?

THINGS TO DO to be smarter & healthier:

1.)  Exercise every day

Oops.  Meant to take that power walk but there’s so much on my Totefish To Do list.   I swear, I’ll show up for tennis clinic tomorrow.  And maybe I won’t be late.  Or have to leave early.

2.)  Sleep 7 – 8 hours every night

Well, started reading email before going to bed, then surfed web for an hour, then son had pee accident and husband woke me twice with his snores.

3.)  Drink 6 – 8 glasses of water every day

What’s the word on drinking out of a BPA-laden plastic water bottle that sat in a hot, sunny car all week?  Another cup of coffee, anyone?

4.)  Eat fruit and veggies every day

On no.  Forgot to buy them at the Farmer’s Market.  And I didn’t wash them.  Wait, I did wash them but, oh no, the tap water has higher-than-recommended concentrations of arsenic.    Is that bad?

5.)  Find time to relax, get calm and “do nothing”

So, it appears that while meditating, I forgot to pick up the kids from the bus-stop, swing by the grocery store to buy dinner, return that phone call to the new JAVA engineer, book the train tickets for the summer vacation and map out a legit strategy for customer acquisitions and oh, no, doesn’t Kendall have an orthodontist appointment??  Shit, shit, shit.

6.)  Don’t consume caffeine, sugar, alcohol, drugs or cigarettes

You see, I was at Whole Foods the other night and they only sell things that are good for you (right?) and yeah, I just walked through the kitchen to get a glass of a water and there was a box of Whole Foods chocolate-covered raisins and yeah, what I need now is a little sugar-pick-me-up.  Who wouldn’t shove a handful into their mouth?  No one’s watching, right?  Oh no.   What’s happening?  My list isn’t done but me no ‘member how to typ…

Happy Mother’s Day: The “Real” Cards of an L.A. Mom

Love you. Mean it.

In case the start-up business doesn’t pan out, I’ve got my next career at Hallmark all tee’d up:

CARD #1 to Me (from my kids):

Roses are Red,

Violets are Blue,

I promise never to get

A Mommy tatoo!

CARD #2 to Me (from my kids):

Roses are Red,

Violets are Blue,

You’re taller than Sophie’s Mom

And you sing Katy Perry songs really good, TOO!

CARD #3 to Me (from my kids circa 2034):

Roses are Pink,

Violets are White,

I’m sorry I thought otherwise,

Because it’s true.  You were right!

CARD to MY MOTHER (from me circa 2012):

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Actually, moms DON’T know best

Their grown daughters do!

CARD to MY MOTHER-IN-LAW (from me):

Roses grow high,

Violets near the wood,

He’s my husband, this is my house, they are my kids

All clear?   We’re good?

CARD to MY FUTURE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW (from an oedipal  me):

Roses like water,

Violets, the bee.

Don’t think for a second

He’ll love you more than me!

CARD to MY DAUGHTER WHEN SHE’S A MOTHER:

Roses are lovely,

Violets are rich,

Now you’re a Mom,

You’ll understand why some days, I was just a bitch.

(Sorry ’bout that.)

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HAPPY MAMA’S DAY, everyone!

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