Tag: sharing

Giving Thanks

Last year, just as in years’ past, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was on television while the family was in the kitchen prepping for the main event.  The girls would float in and out of the family room, pausing in front of the screen to take in the sight of marching bands, super sized floats, and the scores of cartoon characters inflated high in the sky over the crowds.  I, too, would check some things out when I heard the broadcasters mentioned a name or group that I was particularly interested in seeing.  Somehow, between setting the table, shuffling pots and pans, and trying to sneak off with a book for a hot minute, I happened to catch the Rockettes the same time that Morgan and Coever did their pass by the TV.

Growing up, my grandmother used to tell me that she was the first Black Rockette way back in the day.  There wasn’t any evidence to back up her claim.  There weren’t any flyers, there weren’t any photographs tucked into a worn photo album.  There wasn’t anyone who could corroborate her story.  She just repeated it every year, especially around the holidays when the Rockettes were more visible during the parade and their holiday extravaganza at Radio City.  She was almost Pavlovian in her reaction.  Rockette’s on TV? Here comes Gram, “I remember when I was Rockette, doing all those high kicks. ”

For years, I believed her.  Then with the cynicism that comes with early adulthood, I jumped onto Google one year to find out who indeed the first Black Rockette truly was.  Her name is Jennifer Jones and she made her debut in 1988.  Was I depressed at learning the truth? No, I was kind of proud. Gram had been consistently bestowing a gift on me year after year.  Sure, she wasn’t the first, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t be if I wanted to.  Whatever I wanted to be, I could.

Last year, when the girls and I caught the Rockette’s doing their performance, I thought about Gram. I thought about her maintaining her status as “the first Black Rockette”.  When those ladies lined up to do their iconic line kick, I found myself tearing up.   My throat grew thick with missing my gram, and the temptation to just whisper to the girls, “You know, your Great-Gram was a Rockette.”

I didn’t tell them, of course. What with their access to Google and all things digital, they’d quickly figure things out.  I did tell them the story of how their Great-Gram Eleanor told me she had been a Rockette.  I tell them of how she had a department store’s worth of perfumes on her dresser, how she always said, “Hey, doll!” when she answered the phone.  I tell them that even though she passed away when Morgan was just a baby and that Coever never met her, she loves, loves, loves them dearly, and always will. I tell them how lucky I am to have had an adult relationship with my grandparents and how lucky they are, too.
This day, and always, I’m thankful for my family and my friends. I am thankful for the roof over my head, the clothes on my back, and the food in my belly. I am thankful for opening my eyes every morning, for walking on my own two feet.  I’m thankful for the people whose lives I’ve touched and whose lives have touched mine. I am thankful for the people whom I have never met, but work to ensure my safety and the safety of my family, friends and neighbors.  I’m thankful for all the things that I take for granted the other 364 days of the year and I’m thankful for all of the things that I often complain about as well.  Sometimes, I need a national holiday to remind me.  
Or a Rockette’s high kick in the pants. 
Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

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IN: ON: November 23, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Office Space, Part II

Per all of the requests, here are some photos of the office.  And SN: Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who reads this blog and to everyone who leaves great comments and feedback. I really appreciate it.

Okay, so this is the right side of the office.  We’ve got the green accents in full effect with a wire mesh trash can that I scored from BB &B for $1.99. There’s the paper shredder and the desk with all of my papers, pencils, and what not.  The desk is in the open position, but I can slide it shut so that it looks like a dresser.  It’s pretty neat and a definite space saver. So the color palette up here is primarily white and green.  I started with my diploma (Tribe Pride!) and to complement the cherry on that frame, there are two pictures of Craig and myself from our trip to Spain a billion years ago.  Behind the chair is the first of many bookcases and to the right of that is one of the two wall cut-outs that is full to the brim with the stuff I didn’t know where else to put. Over the first cut-out is Craig’s fraternity certificate. Over the second cut-out (not pictured but just a full of stuff), is my sorority certificate.

Here’s a shot of my desk.  Trying to find some desk accessories has been a real hassle. At first, I went with some green ones from Target, but 1) they looked like someone had been chewing on them, 2) it was way too much green with the lamp right there and 3) it wasn’t really what I wanted.  I saw this desk caddy at Pottery Barn, but once I got it home, it became clear that it was more of a French Vanilla than a white.  I go back and forth about that. I mean, everything doesn’t have to matchy-match, but at the same time, I’m just not sure I like it.  I think I need to get some craft paint in the right shade of green and just sponge the desk caddy to give it some texture.  Hmmm. . .that’s not a bad idea, actually. 
Here’s a better view of the bookshelf. 

 We are some pretty avid readers.  After I had put this shelf unit together, I realized we were definitely going to need more.  Those shelves are tight, tight, tight.  To pull one book out, you’ve got to brace the rest of the unit and then do this wiggle-waggle-shimmy with the selected book so that the whole shelf doesn’t blow up in your face once some space is made.

When I look at the shelf, I think of that Jerry Seinfeld bit where he’s saying that people keep books like trophies to prove that they can read.  Why, yes, I can. And I read quite a bit.   Oooh, the lamp.   I found a pair of them on clearance at Target (love Tar-Jay).  I think I paid more for the lightbulbs than the lamps themselves.  And yes, that’s a picture of my lovely pledge class to the left and my Centennial AKA Barbie to the right. I have to hide her up here because the girls are frothing at the mouth to take her out of the box and brush her hair.

 This is the left side of the office.  I really love the green photo boxes, not only because green is my favorite color, but because I feel SO organized when I look at them.  If I need a picture of one of the girls for a class project, I know exactly where to go.  I’m tempted to replace those books and candles on the left side with the myriad of photo albums that I have.  Still, the clean, streamlined look of just the white and green is really appealing. I also found that floor lamp at Target, which is the same color green as the other lamps.  I have yet to sneak up here with a cup of coffee and just rock it out in the glider with a good book, but that is definitely on my to-do list.

Oh, Craig’s Porsche collection! We’re going to get you one that for the driveway, Craig, I promise.

So, that’s a mini tour of my office.  Thanks for stopping by.  Oh! And if you have any suggestions for office decor, must-have desk-top accessories, or what have you, definitely let me know.  
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IN: ON: November 17, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Office Space

One of the things I like about our new house is that there is a room on the third floor that I have claimed as my own. I have an office! With a door that closes!  Woo-woo!

When we moved, this coveted space became a wasteland for all of the post-move detritus.  Boxes of books, holiday decor, old children’s clothes, my Stampin’ Up! stuff, and more boxes of books.  There were piles of random electrical cords, computer attachments, and instruction manuals.  A VCR/DVD combo unit took up residence alongside a bag full of totebags.  Seriously, there was a big Nike gym bag full of assorted soft bags.  In the middle of this melee was our “computer desk” and chair.  I use the words computer desk lightly because in truth, it was just a table we scored at an office firesale many, many years ago.  I mean, give me a board and two saw horses and I could fashion a better desk.

My goal has been to de-junk the office, get some real office furniture and truly make this place my own.  It’s been a process, but I’m nearing the home stretch. I’ve gotten most, if not all of the boxes unpacked. Those that aren’t or can’t be until we can conjure up some more space in the attic have been artfully tucked into these little wall cut-outs in the room.  When it came time to get those things off of the floor and out of sight, I was stacking boxes like I was playing Tetris.

I’ve got a for real desk that I put together myself:

and I got a coordinating chair, that yes, I put together myself!

Talk about a labor of love. You know that construction is going to be time consuming when you make a mental note that there are more pouches of screws than letters in the alphabet (anyone see packet PP?). And there was in fact a piece missing from the box that the chair was delivered in, but I haven’t fall out of it and it hasn’t fallen to pieces, so I’m calling this a win.

I scored some green accent lamps at Target, along with one of those 9-cube bookcases to house as many books as I can squeeze in there.  There’s been some overflow, but for now, most are displayed and I can put my hands on what I’m looking for when I want to.  Plus, the top of the bookcase makes for a great display shelf of some of my sorority paraphernalia.  I think the last time it was displayed was probably when I crossed!

I also scoured through all kinds of Container Store and Hold Everything type of places until I found the right shade of green photo archival boxes.  Once and for all, I went through all of my loose photos, even the ones dating back past high school, and categorized them.  Opposite the wall-cut outs, there are some built in shelves.  In went the photo storage boxes (strategically placed) amongst some camera equipment, some books, and Craig’s mini collection of die cast Porche 911’s.  In my head, this is my office, but I deigned to give him a shelf so he feels included.

After all the DIY of the chair and the desk, the unpacking of books, the place was looking kind of crusty and dusty.  So, I hauled the vacuum cleaner up the stairs and actually vacuumed.  You know, the vac and I have an on again, off again relationship, so this is a big deal.  Nothing beats seeing fresh vacuum tracks in the carpet, though, right?  Ahhhh. . .  the place is clean, airy, and ready for work.  And I really enjoy coming up here and putting in some work, be it to edit some photos, work on a blog post, hide from the children.

It’s so nice and organized in here.  It’s great, but I think I cleaned up too well.  There are about half a dozen things I can’t find: my tripod, my extra camera bag, my box of poetry books (because sometimes I really want to read some Langston Hughes), my Modelogic portfolio.   I have a sinking feeling that they’re tucked in some kind of suspended animation in one of those wall cut outs, way behind the remaining boxes of stuff.  It’s going to take a stick of dynamite to move that stuff.

Maybe I don’t need those things right now, afterall. . . .

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IN: ON: November 15, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Spare a Dime

My friend Anita, over at Beyond the Diapers and Spills, wrote a really thought provoking post about panhandlers and whether to give or not to give.  I struggle with this one, believe me.  I’ve been always been taught to think of my fellow man, to help those less fortunate, to give back to community.  For the most part, however, all of that giving has been on a much larger, anonymous scale.  As a Girl Scout, I we had coat drives, and we participated in the Angel Tree project.   I’ve done community service projects through my sorority like giving to the Foodbanks and donating toiletries to the homeless.   Those are situations where there really isn’t a person, a face, an outstretched hand imploring for help.  You’re serving an idea, a cause and you feel good about having given your time and energy to that end

On my daily route to pick Morgan up from school, I’ve noticed a guy holding a “Homeless Veteran” sign at the exit ramp off of the highway.  If it weren’t for the camouflage rain parka and his low-riding, dirt smeared baseball cap, you might think it was a very lean, out of work Santa Claus.  He sits on this bucket day after day, holding his sign and waiting.  His position is at the foot of a traffic light, so when the light is red, cars have no choice but to idle right next to him. He sits on his bucket unless something is proffered.  While I wouldn’t lean out of the car and hand him some money, I have been tempted to give him some of the snacks I usually have on hand. Considering I leave the house like Matthew Henson going on an expedition, there’s always a snack in the car. I just haven’t gotten up the guts to roll down the window and give it away.

Truth be told, I’m scared. I’m a suburbanite through and through.  I will cross the street, clutching my purse if I even think the Cub Scout coming towards me has a five o’clock shadow.  I don’t think my fears are unfounded. This person may have a desperation that exceeds rational thought.   I mean, what if I roll down the window and he makes a grab for my purse? For me? What if he tries to get in the car?  Whipping a can of soda and a brown bag lunch at his head while I burn through the light probably undermines the whole charitable giving idea, you know?

If I do ever muster up the guts to give something, I feel better about getting food than money because who knows what the money is going for. I’ll admit it, I can be a Scrooge when it comes to parting with my dollars. I think everything should cost $20 or less and am always stung when it rings up otherwise.

The other day, I dropped the girls off at swimming lessons and carried myself over to the Starbucks drive-through for a late afternoon caffeine fix.  I pulled into the parking lot when this well dressed guy in a Toyota or some such flags me down.  He angles his car such that I can’t pull forward and then he rolls down his window, indicating for me to do the same. I pinch it down just low enough to stick out my nose and he lays on me this story:  He was from Farmville, lost on his way from a job interview, had no money for gas, had been to the gas station next to the S-bucks and they couldn’t help him and blah, blah, blah.  I was about to say “Sorry, can’t help you, ” or  my standard, “I don’t carry cash,” which is often true,  but then, I saw there was a baby seat in back of his car.  No baby in it, just the car seat.  Call it maternal instinct, call it stupidity,  I forked over $5 and said, “Get home safely”.  Then I wheeled into the drive through.

He was far from the stereotypical panhandler; he was well dressed, he was pleading his case using SAT words and his voice was breaking in desperation.  Or he was just a excellent actor.  Was getting up of of a Lincoln the worst part of my day? No. Didn’t I still get my coffee? Yes. But I felt more like I’d lost $5 then having helped someone in need.  I think I just gave him the money so that I could get him out of my way and I could get my coffee. I didn’t feel overwhelming good about myself for helping this stranger. Part of me expected him to be in the  Starbucks ordering a Venti, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla, soy, double shot, decaf, no foam, extra hot, Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha with light whip and extra syrup so that I could just say, “AHA! I knew!” Part of me was super relieved that he wasn’t.

 I wasn’t looking for thanks (he did give me several “God bless you’s”, though).  I wasn’t looking for soul shining redemption for my myriad of foibles.  As I think about it, maybe the point of helping those less fortunate, of seeing them live and up close in dire straits is being – moved to act. The discomfort you feel spurs you into action.

But shouldn’t doing a good deed make you feel. . . well, good? I’m sure there will be other opportunities for me to be a good Samaritan. I hope my conviction is restored when that time comes.

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IN: ON: November 5, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Monday’s Message

Oy! For the love of all things chocolate, please, please, please don’t let another day go by without committing this to memory. Share it with your friends! Tell your wife! Tell your kids! Three different words with three different meanings; learn the difference between the spelling and the usage.
Like everyone else, I have a few pet peeves, but none grate on my nerves more than grammatical errors. Grammar, for those of you who tucked all that up on the shelf next to your Algebra II/Trig and graphing calculators, is the rules that govern words, clauses and phrases in a given language. It also includes spelling and punctuation, the evil twins of Expository Writing.
 The fastest way to get your resume trashed, your email deleted or your proposal passed over? Grammatical errors.  It comes across as incompetent, thoughtless, and lackadaisical.  It says to me that while you took the time to spellcheck, you let Word clean up your sentences, too, instead of proofreading it yourself. 
I don’t know where this intolerance of improper grammar comes from! Honestly, I wasn’t rapped on the knuckles as a child for not knowing the difference between direct objects or proper use of et cetera versus exempli gratia (that’s a whole ‘nother post).   Misspelling of words that you should have mastered in third grade? That’s my nails on a chalkboard.  Using apostrophe’s like sprinkles on a cake? Ugh, kryptonite.  I just.can’t.stand.poor.grammar.
As my kids grow up, I continue to impart values and morals to them to help them be compassionate and respectful adults.  I will groom them to be upstanding individuals, forward thinkers, and well-rounded young ladies. 
But. . . . 
I will cut them out of the will in a New York minute if their grammar is atrocious! Learn proper grammar, if not for yourself, at least do it for Grandpa!
And yes, I did proof-read and spell-check this post. 
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IN: ON: October 31, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Monday’s Message


This image and the message will come together in a bit. . .just bear with me.

So, a couple of days ago, Craig and I had to go to this black-tie event downtown.  The day was one of the books, let me tell you.  I got the girls off to school, took a class, came home to clean up, had a newborn photoshoot, came home, met my parents, went to read at Morgan’s school, got the girls from school, came home again, went on an audition with my parents and the girls, came home and got dressed to go back out for this shin-dig.  I was really doubting that I would be able to get myself together in a timely manner for this event.  Miracle of miracles, I had a clean dress, stocking without any runs, and some 5 minute shoes to go with.  I had recently purchased this awesome pearl necklace and bracelet set from my friend Tamy, a Stella and Dot super seller, and I have been wearing it with everything. It just goes with everything. The combo I whipped up for the black-tie event was no exception. 


I had my make-up right, I had the hair “did”, and I had the dress on with room to breathe (Hallelujah)!  I was looking good and felt like I needed to share all of this fashion forward goodness with the masses.  So Craig snapped a picture and I turned to FaceBook. I know, I know, but I like to think I don’t do this very often, so I can show off just a little bit.

Can I tell you, the response was AH-mazing?!  Oh my goodness, I got such great compliments. It was awesome! And yet, I had this overwhelming desire to reply to each one with “Thanks, but you know I don’t always look like this” or “Thanks, but believe me, I’ll be turning into a pumpkin at midnight.” 

What’s that all about? Why can’t I just take a compliment for what it is and move on? Several years ago, I posted about this very same thing.  I was making excuses as to why I should not receive compliments.  For example, a typical exchange back then went like this:

You: “Wow, the last time I saw you, you were out to here (miming a beach ball tummy) pregnant. You look fantastic! And it’s only been 3 months!”

Me: “Oh, thanks, but I worked out the whole pregnancy”

or

You: “What a sweet little girl you have. She is so polite!”

Me: “Yeah, but she was SO bad yesterday, I thought we were going to have to exorcise the demons!”

See what I mean? What’s up with that? Why can’t I just take it for what it is? Was it because I didn’t deserve kind words? Was it because the giver was so blatantly full of crap, how could they expect me to accept their foolishness? No and no.   I think I was too conscientious of someone else’s feelings that to just take it at face value was to be selfish, stuck-up or self-centered.  Bottomline: I didn’t want to make you feel bad because you were trying to make me feel good.


Oh, I just heard dozens of psychiatrists dusting off their couches. . .

A compliment is defined as an expression of praise, commendation, or admiration. It’s meant to be taken as such. There is no qualifier that says you must explain to yourself or anyone else why you deserve that praise or admiration. I don’t know if this is just unique to me or if it’s a woman thing, but I don’t think guys have this problem. I mean, have you ever seen an exchange like this?

Jack: Dude, great coverage on the defense during that last play (swats teammates’ butt in a strong, masculine way).

Joe: I know, right?! I’m on fire today! I’m the man! (pumps fist in the air and then punches teammate in the face with a strong right hook).

Okay, I grossly exaggerated that, but you get the point, right? Men just take the compliment. Actually, it seems like that take it and then they embellish it! Like telling you, “Yes, I agree with my greatness and let me point out some other things for you, too.”   

In any event, regarding the receipt of compliments, the plan is to be gracious and accepting, consider each compliment a bite-sized morsel of something decadent and totally satisfying (it always comes back to food for me), because that’s really what it is.  


The image above of the free compliments? Notice how the one highlighted item simply says, “Take one!”

Alright, I will!
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IN: ON: October 17, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Customer Service

Tiffany and Company had their grand opening at the Stony Point Fashion Park on September 9th.  Seeing as it was my birthday just the day before, I thought I’d keep this party going one more day and roll on over.  I have this necklace I wanted shortened and a pair of earrings that were missing some backs.  Really though, I was looking for a little more “Happy Birthday” to me.

I waited until early afternoon to make my visit, thinking that since Stony Point is close to Morgan’s school, I’d peruse the shop, get my repairs and still be on time for afternoon carpool.   Let me tell you, when I got there, you’d have thought they were giving stuff away.  People (read:women) had been clearly waiting for this store for a long time.  I overheard one associate say that folks were lined up outside at 10am when the mall opened.   When I got there at 1pm, the crowd was still thick.  Flanking the entrance were two stacks of Tiffany boxes at least 8ft. tall.   People were posing with the stacked boxes, snapping Instagrams and what not. I saw one woman lean against the side of the store, her arms framing the Tiffany and Co. sign on the wall.  Her body language, her blissfully contented grin;  I just knew she was going to be uploading that photo trying to convince folks she’d jetted off to NYC for the afternoon or something.

Anyway. . .this nice associate named Kevin greeted me at the door.  He had this Daddy Warbucks mixed with the Secret Service vibe going on.  Bald pate, suit, tie, and the ear bud in-the-ear-coiled-wire-down-the-neck thing.  Guess they have to keep tabs on the merchandise.  I think every associate in that place had on some Tiffany jewelry of some kind. It got me to wondering if you have to buy it to work there or do they loan you some stuff while you’re on the clock.  How about loaning me something like this?

So Kevin asks me how he could help me and I outline how I’d like my necklace shortened and my earring backs replaced. He confides that he’s the shipment manager, but he’d be happy to get an associate (i.e. peon) to help me out.  He casts his eyes about, but since the place is at max capacity, peons associates are scrambling in every direction.  He does me the honor of helping me himself.  I also tell him that I had heard there was a camera charm available.  What a nice little treat to self that would be, and would he be a dear and show it to me (I cross the threshold and suddenly I’m all Holly Golightly).  On his way to replace my earring back, he waylays an associate (let’s call her Erin) who would show me where the Tiffany charms can be found.

Erin turns to say hello and HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL!

Ol’ girl has a freakin’ Tom Selleck mustache hanging out of her nose.

I’m not kidding you.  Nose hair. Nose hair so long, I could have braided it.  I could have braided it up into her unibrow or down into her mustache. Yes, she had ALL THAT. It was triumvirate of hair.  WHAT THE HELL?! This girl gave new meaning to the word hirsute. If that wasn’t enough, when she smiled? **shudder** I think she’d been chewing butter covered rocks on her lunch break.

Kevin promised me a swift return with my items while Erin would help me with the chain shortening and the charms.  So, I follow *NOSE HAIR* Erin to the counter where she proceeds to very ineptly try to help me.  First, she can’t find the velvet covered sleeve you lay on the table to protect your jewelry.  *NOSE HAIR* Then, she can’t find her portfolio where she’s supposed to record my information. *NOSE HAIR* I asked her to measure my chain to be sure of what I have before I start hacking off inches.  Guess what? *NOSE HAIR* She can’t find the ruler. When I ask her to show me a 16″ and a 14″ chain for comparison purposes, she brings me a link necklace that is so markedly different from what I have, I’m wondering if English is her second language. Or third.

*NOSE HAIR*

Now, I’ve read articles and heard stories about how attractive people are treated better than less attractive people.  So, I did some self-checks before letting my irritation show. Truthfully, it wasn’t her hairiness and poor dental hygiene that got me ticked.  She was just an ineffectual customer service provider. She didn’t know where things were. She didn’t know how to fill out the form.  She kept smiling and apologizing.  She was ready to walk away with my stuff and a smile before I prompted her with, “Would you like to take my information down for the repair?” To which she replied, “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

Stop smiling at me! Don’t be sorry, be professional! Get me someone who knows what they’re doing! Gah!

Thankfully, another associate came to her aid, but it took the two of them another 15 minutes to input the information and provide me with a receipt.  And poor Erin! Every time she came back to the counter to assure me that it would just be another minute, she flashed that “I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-butter” smile.  And she coughed up another half dozen or more apologies.

Kevin returned with my earrings, which he had polished to a shine so brilliant, I could see my pores in the reflection.  And talk about great customer service! When I asked what the fee was for replacing the earring back, he said, “Just come back and see us again soon.”  Was he flirting? It was all I could do not to burble out an “Oh, you!” and put my hand teasingly on his arm.

Erin, true to her word, brought the paperwork back.  She handed it to another associate, who then proceeded to outline what had been inputted and when I could expect to receive my necklace.  Erin stood behind her, nodding like a bobble-head.  Maybe it was her first day on the job. Maybe she was nervous. I know, I’m so imposing that even the most self confident of persons is rendered into a steaming pile of “uh. . .uh. . .uh . .”

I’m sure Erin is a very personable young lady who has a bright future at Tiffany and Co.  I’m sorry that I was so thoroughly blinded by her facial. . .situation, that I may have missed what a personable young lady she truly is.  Shame on me for passing judgement, I know.  I’m curious, though.  Have you ever made a snap decision about someone based on how they looked? Have you been less than pleasant if your server, clerk, customer service rep makes a leper look like the after picture from a Pro-Activ commercial?

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IN: ON: September 16, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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