Pouty Patty Stomps on the Soap Box

I know, I know, I'm a bit of a prude when it comes to following the rules. I like to do that.

So, when it says "Cell Phone Use Not Permitted in Waiting Area" that means hang up your friggin phone and go into the hallway.

Unless you're saving lives. Or keeping nations at peace. Which I'm thinking is not the case as you guffaw and "OMG!'d" on the phone with your girlfriend while your kid angrily stacks blocks and gives you the stink eye because you're ignoring her and because it says in 14 places "Cell Phone Use Not Permitted in Waiting Area" and she knows you're an asshat, too.

For Shizzle

Yeah, you know what? I've been busy and you have too. Friggin' New England winter has made me almost a slave to my home and most-def a slave to my pediatrician's office. Thankfully, I like them there and they are nice to my kids and they give out free aquaphor. I will admit here that I am a potential hoarder and when they say 'Take a bunch!' I take that literally and I mean I take 12. And then if my husband is there he does the same thing. We are a creamy family and we likes our lip balms.

Anyway, so waah waah waah. But I'll say in a nutshell: bronchitis, ear infections, new day care (that is fantastical and wonderful and let me know if you want info), family drama (save it fo' yo' mama!), peace, my jacked-up back, a sweet wood stove and a very special 3rd birthday. Everything is cool. We are lucky folks. But I've had too much on my mind to blog. And I can't blog about half the stuff that's on my mind.

I am in flux though. I'm changing. I can feel it in my bones and in my face. I'm starting to evolve into something else. I just don't know what. But it's fun, and it's interesting....I'll keep you posted. I don't even know what I'm wearing tomorrow, but I know that I'm having a turkey sandwich. Some stuff is just more important than others.

peace and chicken grease

Like A Naive and Determined Woman-Child

I've had a crush on this perfume for over 10 years. It started when I was a Boston newbie, seduced by the splendor of the city, entranced by the sparkle of storefronts and the scents of bistros. And Neiman Marcus. I was entranced by Neiman Marcus.







I recall spending weekend days in the city when it was shiny and new to me, before I became jaded by the subway funk, and the lack of umbrella etiquette (seriously, I should have worn safety goggles) and before the sheer fatigue of commuting to a soul-sucking job started to show on my face.







I'd meander my way into the city, one day to Haymarket for produce and flowers, another day to ogle the window displays on Newbury St. and dream of a day (soon!) where I could go into any dayspa and order one of those $400 Days of Beauty and not blink an eye. Maybe another day I'd browse books on travel and fine food and nurse a $2 cup of coffee for hours. And then another day when I would go to Copley, the 'mall' that really isn't a mall for most of us. It's a showcase of the most expensive boutique stores you can imagine. Where people drop thousands of dollars on handbags and jeans. Where there isn't a fast food joint in site (but through the glass tunnel is a California Pizza Kitchen, which is analagous to a Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits in a regular mall for us normal folk) but espresso bars with $7 pastries and bottled Evian only. This is where I stepped into Neiman's.







I didn't realize at the time, as it was my virgin tour, that Neiman's only accepts cash and American Express. Although at 23, I'm not sure that it would have mattered because I was living pretty large (remember now that I was 23) with a low overhead and I had just discovered my love of makeup palettes. I wandered through the clothing sections, glancing at price tags well above anything I had seen in my Marshall/TJ Maxx days. Hundreds for a blouse? Is it magic? Is there a jacket that comes with it? Maybe it's a chameleon shirt that actually changes to match the color of your pants? No. Just expensive and there was no way that I'd ever allow myself to partake. I did have my limits (let's go out to dinner only 3 nights a week, okay? I totally have to watch my budget).







So, on my way out, I happen to pass the perfume and cosmetics bar. This place, I would learn, would be the gauntlet for me, the intersection I had to muscle through if I wanted to get out of a store safely. And it was even more true in a place like Neiman's. Trish McEvoy brushes, Shu Uemura creams, Chanel perfumes. It was intoxicating.







And then I saw this beautiful little bottle. Delicate. Gold-embossed label. Refined. Wrapped in fancy gold ribbon. French. A true fit for Neiman's. It was everything I wasn't. I was a White Musk girl from The Body Shop and had been for years. Wasn't it time for a change? Wasn't I ready to be refined and French and fancy with gold ribbon around me?







It turns out I wasn't. Maybe I had enjoyed some gluttonous weekends and thought the price was too steep at that moment, maybe I wasn't convinced I was ready for such a big change. I mean, I had a signature scent after all. I left Neiman's and figured I'd get it next time.







Of course I didn't, but each time I'd go to Neiman's, I'd go through and give her a sniff. My Neiman visits have been few though, and over time I forgot the name of it and moved on to other perfumes that I've loved. I have recently run out of my latest signature scent and my other two scents are not for everday wear. I didn't think too much about it, knowing I barely wear perfume every day anyway.







I had a playdate in the city with my girl Kathryn (you remember her, she sang with my oldest while folding my laundry because that's how she do) who lives in NYC but thankfully is considering a trip back this away (hands in prayer position). We sipped Italian coffee. We talked about the things that workplace Russians and toddlers wouldn't permit on phone chats and of course, took in the city and I could see the splendor again. We went to Copley. I remembered a perfume I once loved, but what was the name of it? Something with the word petite. That's all I had.







We went to Neiman's and started to meander. I couldn't find it on any of the glass trays on the countertops. It was alright though, because the perfumier Ann saw that we were struggling and swept in like a chopper to answer our eau de toilette prayers. It two seconds, "I think it has the word petite in it...?"







Oh, there it was.







Petite Cherie. Annick Goutal.







There was the bottle! There was that fine gold cap, the delicate ribbon, the ballooned bottle with etchings down the side. The bottle of who I ain't.





So Kathryn and I sniffed and whiffed and Ann did her best Neiman spiel (but not too pushy, that would be gauche and very un-Neiman-y) but I passed (hello? diapers and gluten free foods and a husband who hand-splits and chops our wood...am I really going to come home with bottle full of ridiculous? No. I'm no martyr, I just want to play fair, you know?). She did, however, hook a broke sister up when she gave me 4 sweet little samples. I knew in that moment that I could stretch them out for months.





And so today, it came for me in the mail.





Kathryn did it.





She decided it was time. For me to be the golden bottle, or just to smell really really lovely.





And I don't know what was more moving; the fact that she did it, or the fact that she knows me well enought to know that I wouldn't do it myself.





I could blast you with some serious corny right now, but I think you get it. Kathryn is the kind of girl who knows I'm really a clearance gal but who thinks I deserve a little Neiman's once in awhile. Thanks.





And if you were wondering, this is what I'm rolling with right now: A fruity-floral fragrance in which vanilla, peach, musk rose and freshly cut grass recall purity and boldness. Like a naive and determined woman-child who both stirs the senses and moves the heart.

Yeah, that'll work.

Not that you asked. But you're here, right?

1) Musical Sit and Spins are really just better as regular Sit and Spins.

2) Shoving presents at my children to open up just feels funny. They really don't care. They want to play with the first two they opened.

3) When did the holidays become something we have to get through?

4) Triscuits and wheat thins. Festive, they are not. But I feel permitted to eat them in ridiculous quantities from December 21st to December 26th.

5) And cheese. Large, luscious blocks of high-fat cheese. I want to cry just thinking about it.

6) Watching my oldest get excited about this Christmas is one of the neatest things I've experienced as a Mom.

7) Cooking for a house full of people makes me happy.

8) Cooking white asparagus and purple potatoes makes me feel like a foodie when I'm really not. I just watch Top Chef.

9) Making bread pudding in a crockpot. Not a good idea.

10) Making sugar cookies with my peanut for Santa and his reindeer. The most fun ever.

11) Edaville Railroad still makes me feel like a kid.

This one is even funnier!

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In My Free Time

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The Good, The Bad, and The Gnarly

The Good: Beautiful, sunshiney days filled with soft sand between our toes, pushes on swings from Gampy (the kids I mean, I keep getting stuck in the toddler swings) and warm evenings without a jacket and the window all the way down. The best visit.

The Bad: Seriously cantankerous kids on an airplane. One with an ear infection we don't yet know about. The other with just an attitude problem. Oh. And 65 really agitated fellow travelers prone to giving us a weak smile and then an eye roll they think we don't see.

Gnarly: The boozed-up 'lady' in line next to us as we embark, on the phone with her ever-lucky friend, citing specific details as to why she missed her first flight. Clues: new diagnosis of constipation. Chowing of several prunes for breakfast. Followed by airport hamburger (Danger Will Robinson!). Followed by copious imbibement of vodka. Followed by quality time in a seated position and one missed flight. Happy Trails!