Eight Years And Eight Pounds

Left: Me in September 2007; Middle: Christmas 2009;
Right: July 2015. 

There are days in my life when I feel like magic is possible. Or that some coincidence or divine hand guided me in a direction I never knew was possible. Stretched my abilities or limits. There are times that I like to think it has been the guiding hand of my mom putting me back on a path towards my true goals. I'm not entirely sure that has been the case, but I can't prove it wrong, either.

I always remember the first few days of August much better than the last few days of August. A weird month that has been so meaningful in my life for different reasons. Today is a day to celebrate the happy part of the month.

Eight years ago, for some reason that I'll never really understand, I decided that I was ready to try to be healthy. I was going to fight my obesity with small steps. Quite literally small steps. I took a walk every morning before work. I tried to eat better. And slowly the small steps were making a difference.

I started my journey eight years ago at 239 lbs. About a year later, I was 90 lbs lighter and a lot healthier. With the help and encouragement of my co-workers and Patrick, I ended up losing another eight pounds.  And gaining a lot of self-confidence. I ended up hitting my low only two pounds short of the official 100 lbs lost mark. It kinda pissed me off, but primarily I was pissed because I had reached a plateau.

Since then, I've gone up and down like a yo-yo. A slow-moving yo-yo but a yo-yo nonetheless. I've never come close to hitting 200 lbs again, a vow that I made myself, but I have fluctuated back and forth by 35-40 pounds.

Here I am again. I'm eight pounds away from my lowest weight as an adult. Ten pounds away from saying that I've lost 100 lbs from my heaviest. I work out six days a week and do better on my diet than when I was in my 20s.

And I am thankful. I am thankful for whatever lead me to change my life eight years ago and thankful for whatever has pushed me back toward those changes time and again. I am thankful for my friends and family who have encouraged me and supported me whatever the fluctuation has been.

And I am thankful for Patrick, who loved me at all of these weights, and who has shown me again and again that he always will. Which is freeing.

Eight years. Eight pounds. And the knowledge that this challenge will always be here. Frustrating, but thankful.

Remember Whensday: Remember When I Thought I was Black? (Not at all like Rachel Dolezal)

I actually never thought I was black. And I definitely never pulled a Rachel Dolezal. I'm fairly certain my paleness was obvious from birth. But lately I can't help but think about race.

I was born in a small town in Southern Indiana where we had one black family in my elementary school. The daughter of the family was in my grade. The son in my brother's. We weren't in the same class which pretty much dictates the sphere of friendship you have in elementary school, so I never met them.

Then I moved. Evansville was more diverse. Or at least slightly more diverse. My best friend in my neighborhood, which was the slightly older kids' sphere of friendship, was black. (She's actually still black, but she's no longer in my neighborhood. Hence the "was.") To say I didn't notice we were different wouldn't be 100 percent accurate, but to say that it was all that noticed wouldn't be accurate either.

I was just fairly oblivious.

I think oblivion is not a bad place to live in as a kid, at least for as long as you can. But there comes a day in every person's life, no matter what their race, when they suddenly become aware of race in a very real way. Mine was in sixth grade.

Still living in an age of ignorance, my friend asked me if I wanted to join her in being a part of the Academic Olympics she was doing. DID I?? Uh, yes. I am nerd. Always have been. Always will be. The chance to learn the answer to various trivia questions, be a part of a team and spend a Saturday at a commuter college testing my knowledge versus other teams sounded like a dream weekend for me. (Less so for my parents who had to tote my ass around, but that was none of my concern because that's what they were there for, right?)

I went to the meeting and there were so many kids that wanted to do this that they split us into two teams (to be fair, there were about a dozen kids up for this). I was assigned to the team that didn't include the friends who had invited me, but it was cool. I liked meeting new people. I went to the practices, studied my area of expertise (science and history--full on nerd-dom) and had my dad quiz me in the car on the way to the morning meet.

Dad cheered me on and when we advanced, he watched us all the way through the finals. We got second place. He was proud. Even more proud than I really expected him to be, but I basked in the glory. My friends' team didn't place and I got a medal. They were jealous. Here was my team:

A few years later I was going through the pictures and realized something. . . I was the only white person at this event. I asked my dad about it. The conversation went something like this:

Me: I found this picture of my old Academic Olympic team. I don't remember being the only white person there.

Dad: Yeah, it took me a while to realize that you were competing in the African-American Academic Olympics.

Me: There was a separate Academic Olympics? That seems very wrong to me.

Dad: It was in February. For Black History Month. And you were oblivious. I didn't know whether to be proud that you'd won or proud that you didn't seem to notice anything different.

And I didn't. I didn't notice it at all. I didn't notice my team mate's "Black by Popular Demand" t-shirt or notice the ribbing I got from them because "all your answers are George Washington Carver." (Which was not the truth, btw).

Clearly this wasn't the moment that made me come face to face with race.

It was a few months after this picture. I was in Mrs. Woodruff's homeroom in seventh grade. We were placed into homeroom by the very scientific selection of alphabetical order. Luckily my neighborhood friend, Tiffany, was in there with me. I was describing a cute boy I had seen at the Dairy Queen the night before (because it was seventh grade and it was homeroom. Aside from finishing up leftover homework, there was nothing else to do.)  I described the boy as black and the conversation (as I remember it) went as follows:

Her: What did you say?

Me: I said he was black.

Her: What color is my skin?

Me (nervous and feeling like this is a trick question): Brown?

Her: It's African-American. And don't you forget it.

That was the moment when our friendship changed. I don't think I'm unique in this. I can assume, especially in Indiana when you're around a bunch of white people all the time, that finding other people that can relate is comforting in a way that other friendships aren't. I still very much remember that exchange (from memory and journal). I remember it being the first time that I was made very aware that I was different. Which was pretty lucky because I'm sure kids of another race in Evansville or anywhere else like it felt different a long time before seventh grade. That's because I was like most other people where I was from, I wouldn't be made to feel different all that often. But other people that I cared about would.

I could no longer be oblivious to race. And that was both enlightening and sad in ways my seventh grade mind couldn't handle. My adult mind still has a hard time wrapping around it.

When was the first time you were made aware of your race?

Woman without Purpose or Project

I have to admit that I'm feeling a little lost lately. Not physically. I know where I am (most of the time), although my time zones have been all messed up and wreaked havoc on my body lately.

Mentally, though, is a different story. I feel like I don't really have a purpose. Before you start to get all worried about my mental state, just stop. This isn't a cry for help or anything like that. It's simply this: ever since I've been about 8 years old, I've always had a project going. Something creative and fulfilling or creative and ridiculous that kept me looking forward to spending time with my thoughts.

Frankly, those things have been missing from my life lately: creativity and free time.

Everyone is busy and to pretend that I'm special because I've been busy is frankly, just sad. Yes, I've been traveling a lot. Yes, I'm juggling a lot of demanding people all at once. But if I made things a priority, I would get it done. I just have a hard time not being a people pleaser. I don't think this unusual. It's why so many women will push their husbands to the hospital for a sniffle but nearly die of walking pneumonia before they see a doctor themselves.

Instead of prioritizing creativity and art and just a release, I have used my free time to be with my husband and rest. There's nothing wrong with that. I can't think of anyone that would fault me for those choices. But I miss having a purpose.

Do moms feel this way? Like really?

I feel like so many times I read mom blogs or talk to my mom friends and the idea that their kids aren't their purpose in life is something none of them will admit or talk about. I'm not saying kids aren't a worthy endeavor, but I rarely heard dads talk about their kids in the same way. I wonder if moms would have their mom cards revoked for admitting such things.

By contrast, adults without kids are often asked to nail down their life's ambitions and to always have them at the ready to serve the dual-purpose of being a reason for their happiness and existence AND the reason they chose not to have kids. But I'm majorly digressing here on a subject that really is a post for another day.

I need to find a project. A reason to write (a deadline or conference or something to shoot for). A reason to tell stories again. To create stories. To make myself and my creativity a priority.

And to sound less obnoxious when doing it than I have here.

Any advice?

Tell Me Why

I recently watched the Backstreet Boys documentary, "Show 'Em What Your Made Of," and it took me back. For a few years, I was obsessed with the Backstreet Boys. My friends who knew me then instantly cringe at the memory of me regaling them with the latest single or tales of Nick, AJ, Brian, Kevin and Howie.

To be honest, it was a very tough time in my life when I started listening to BSB. The summer of 1999 was a mixed blessing of working an internship at the Evansville Courier where I met lots of great people, some of which I still keep in touch with today, and working with my mom. But I was not super excited about being home for another summer while my roommates held down the fort in Bloomington.

I got the ear worm that is "I Want It That Way" stuck in my head and decided to capitulate to its charm by blaring it nonstop. It soon turned me into a full-on, non-ironic fan. I bought all albums and bootlegs that I could get my hands on. I watched MTV specials and music videos. My dad even bought me tickets to their concert in Indy for my 21st birthday. Anne and I got tipsy at a Hooters before the concert and figured we were the only non-parents there who were imbibing.

Things really escalated when mom's cancer came back.

That seems weird to say, but looking back, it is actually a habit I have. I throw myself at things, become moderately obsessed. I did it with BSB, and before that Matt Damon, and before that Indiana basketball. I was the only girl I knew that could name the lineup of the 1976 Indiana Hoosier National Championship team. I spent my sophomore year of high school reading every book that had to do with basketball in Indiana. It's why when my friend told me she was teaching at Crispus Attucks in Indy that I immediately said "That's where Oscar Robertson went."

I used to tape every Hoosier basketball game if I wasn't able to watch it live and then stay up late at night, after some sports practice or another, homework and a job to see how the game turned out. Back then basketball was something to think about other than my parents' divorce. It was something I could study that wasn't going to make me deal with my looming future or the weight of the immediate past.

And that's actually what BSB was for me, as well.

I could download songs on the Internet and listen to them for hours on end. They weren't particularly challenging songs. They were pop songs, which was a genre I had sworn off most of high school. I almost felt like I was regressing by liking BSB. I had never dove into the New Kids on The Block fad as a kid, but in my early 20s, I was following a boy band. It didn't make sense to me, and yet it made complete sense to me.

I watched the documentary the other night and it hurt a little. That time of my life hurt and the songs were both smile-inducing and soul-crushing memories. The morning of my mother's funeral, I was in the shower when "I Want It That Way" came on the radio. It wasn't played all that much by that time, but just hearing the chorus that morning made me burst into tears for the first time since the night she'd died.

I will always love the Backstreet Boys. I will never completely understand why. But I like to think they provided me with a respite from my life and thoughts at a time when I really needed it.

And for that, I will always be a fan.

Because. . .Awesome Sauce!

Gotta love this. . a mix of Chris Pratt roles. And a hint of Hoosier.

Guess who's back?

Remember me? I'm the person who used to blog. Previously known as Ashley.Currently known as the person who does nothing but work. But I'm changing that. Because 2014 wasn't a ton of fun. It had all the elements of fun, but none of the actual fun. Essentially I was a fun facilitator. I made fun possible for other people. Which was great for them but not so great for me.

That's what my goal is for 2015. Have fun. Be intentional. Make my own decisions and not let decisions make me. Know that I am not that important. There are other that can do things faster, better or just as well as I do. It is not life or death that I mark everything off my to do list every day. It is okay to say no. Limits are my friend. Setting them is my gift to myself. It will make me happy. It will give me sanity. Sanity and happiness will make me more productive. But in the end, no company, client or account will ever love me like my friends and family.

As I take a deep breath and languish in the last few hours before returning to work (yes, I was there on Friday, but when you're at work and you're not getting 20 emails an hour, you're not really feeling like it's work), I will remember to be happy. Have fun. Be intentional (does this sound like a mantra? It might end up being a mantra. Or it might end up being something that I chant to myself in the corner as I'm rocking myself in the fetal position after I get 100 emails within the first 3 hours of work).

Be happy. Have fun. Be intentional.

And I Was Full

The last few weeks have been a struggle. For months I would start each week with that high ambition of making it "the week" that I get back on the wagon of watching what I ate religiously. And by about 3 p.m. Monday afternoon, there would be a bag of gummi bears on my desk.

For some reason, I just couldn't feel satisfied. I don't want to blame it on stress or being busy because I can't think of a person on Earth, who doesn't have those two words and all the feelings around them to justify any poor behavior. Something felt off and different. I didn't seem to be eating all that much more, but weight kept creeping on and for about three weeks I lost the feeling of fullness. It seemed like I could push myself to eat steadily without that feeling that prompts me to stop.

But the real motivation came when I was in the bathroom and closed a drawer on my stomach while leaned over the counter to do my makeup. It's pretty embarrassing to admit. I mean, I have typed a novel with my boobs without even knowing it (busty women out there can feel me on that one), but I've never closed a drawer on my stomach. Here's the scary part: I didn't feel it or realize it until I leaned back. I probably shouldn't admit that but let's just put you all in the frame of mind that I was dealing with when I decided enough was enough.

I knew I had to get a handle on things quickly. I didn't want to end up where I was at about seven years ago when I started my first weight loss adventure. I couldn't wait until I was well over 200 lbs before I righted the ship.

Plus I had enough encouragement from Chef telling me that he thought I had a slow metabolism because I wasn't eating that much. Maybe I wanted some validation, so I decided to go to a doctor and see what I could find out. I had a bunch of tests and it turns out the news was reassuring but also kinda crappy: turns out my metabolism burns about 450 calories less per day than it should.

The doctor asked if I had tried Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig or anything else. In fact, WW was the last thing that I had tried about 2 years ago and it wasn't really effective--because even at the lower calorie intake, it wasn't low enough to overcome the 450 calorie deficit that my metabolism was bringing to the table.

I'm now working to "reset" my metabolism and am on a protein and plant-based plan to help drop some lbs again. I know and always know that battling the bulge will be a lifelong struggle for me, but knowing that doesn't make it suck any less.

Wish me luck. . .again.

Making time for Me

If you've been checking back here lately and not found a post, well honestly, you must be a relative. But anyway, you may have surmised that I've been busy. You would be right.  

In the last few months, I've had a stretch of working 38 of 40 days. Then working a ton during the week. Then a few more weekends.  Don't get me wrong. I love my job and I'm thankful for it, but in the near compulsive need to please people (clients, bosses, coworkers, husbands), I've forgotten to please someone pretty important: myself. 

I'm not unhappy, but I'm not as happy as I could be and frankly the fault is my own. I know myself fairly well. I know that I am most satisfied when I take time for myself to do the things that feed my soul. My soul is hungry. And no amount of gummi bears or cheeseburgers or lazy afternoons on the couch will make me feel better. 

So I'm going back to what makes me happy. Unless I'm in danger of missing a client deadline, I am going to leave the office before 7 each night. I am going to workout every weekday. And by workout, I mean work up a sweat. I will do something to move my dreams each day. This will probably involve having fun with my novel in Scrivener, which is awesome. 

And so this post is like so many more where I have to remind myself that I'm important. Taking time for myself is not selfish. 

And all this to say thank God I don't have kids. I don't think I could stand the guilt. 

What Can You Get From a Toilet Seat Anyway?

I get all judgey in bathrooms. People that look like normal citizens in any other setting suddenly become carriers of every exotic disease known to man when they enter the bathroom. It's made a little paranoid and I'm not sure the reasons are all that valid. (Although MERS is a real thing, people).

For example, I'm not a big fan of the paper toilet seat cover. I don't think it really does anything. But there are times when I see someone washing their hands, and notice that the stall I went in to has water that's clearly just been flushed, and I'll grab one. I told you. I'm judgey in bathrooms.

And that's if the person is actually washing their hands. If they are just making the motions or messing with their hair and it's obvious that they haven't even attempted cleanliness, I'll just move on out of the stall and hit the next one.

But honestly, despite this paranoia, what actual diseases can you get from a toilet seat? The first rumor about any new disease is that you can't get it from a toilet seat. HIV/AIDS? Not the toilet seat. The Clap? Not from the crapper. Cancer? Yet again, not transmitted through porcelain.

Seriously, I'm probably still going to be judgmental in the bathroom (and don't act like you aren't. You know you are), but do I have anything to be afraid of (Except MERS, of course)?

Shaken and Stirred

An earthquake isn't the best form of alarm clock that I know of. I would much prefer something a little more soothing and that doesn't freak the crap out of my cats.

I actually was drifting back to sleep as I had decided after my alarm went off at the normal 5:45 that my aching feet from an event I worked yesterday didn't need to hit the treadmill quite yet. The shaking started and it rattling the windows pretty hard. A little before the shaking started, I heard the cats scurry from their shelf-perches. Then they all ended up in bed with me. Chef, on the other hand, didn't wake up at all. That man can sleep through just about anything.

But the earthquake was just the start of a jarring day. It wasn't particularly bad or remarkable or even unusual in the sense that nothing happened that was out of the ordinary. But for some reason I was a little shaken in more than the physical sense today.

I thought of a question on my way out to my car. Pondering life and art and all those things that only seem to pop into my head when I'm trying to think about other things, less important daily duties, I thought to myself: Do you have to sacrifice something for your dreams?  Is that a prerequisite?

I honestly don't know the answer or am not sure there really is an answer. Do you have to sacrifice family to be a true artist? Or a career to have a true passion (assuming it's not in that career field, of course)? Clearly, there's no secret formula to making dreams come true. Other than luck. I'm a firm believer that luck (or timing or coincidence or faith or whatever you believe in) plays a bit role in making things happen. And yes, the harder you work the "luckier" you seem to get. I've heard that.

But I guess I found it appropriate on St. Patrick's Day to wonder: Is it luck or sacrifice that plays a bigger role in making dreams a reality?

Indecisiveness Strikes at the AutoMall

It's time to get a new car. The Sentra is up and running like a champ, but it would better serve Chef than me at this point. Knowing this, I ventured out to my local Carmax last weekend wanting to look at about six different car models.

After careful consideration, I am no closer to choosing one than I was before.

I like one because it's fuel efficient and newer and from a  reliable brand, but it doesn't have as many luxuries for the price. One is slightly older has more luxuries and is also reliable, but is rumored to require the sale of a kidney for upkeep in its later days. Some are new but basic, others are older (less than 3 years old) but pimped out. And frankly, I just can't decide.

So I've decided to put off the decision, because that's what all reasonable people do.

What kind of car do you drive? Would you recommend it?

I Got Called A "Bitch" By A Total Stranger. . .again

I was unloading my groceries as my car was parked on the street outside my apartment building when I was approached by a wiry, shirtless man who had been pacing the sidewalk while carrying what looked to be t-shirt that was wrapped around something and held tight by duct tape.

"You going into that apartment complex?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Will you let me in? My son lives there," he said.

"I don't know you, dude. I don't let people in that I don't know," I replied.

At this point he was still pacing around me on the sidewalk.

"My son lives here. He lives with his grandma who is like 85 and can't hear the phone to let me in. I can go by the leasing office with you if it makes you feel better"

Me: "How about you just call the leasing office from the main gate and have them escort you to the apartment?"

He didn't wait for me to finish, but bounded down the sidewalk away from me towards the front gate. Thinking this was settled, I grabbed my bags and headed to the side entrance that's locked and for residents only. I was unlocking it when I noticed the guy was right behind me.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked again.

"Yes. I absolutely do mind. But I guess you're not going to care about that at all and just do what you want to do."

At this point he followed me into the complex and started raising his voice that FINE. I could follow him down to the leasing office and he'll prove that he's been there before if it makes me feel better. Fine. I told him that it would be great if could go down there and at least have them escort him to the apartment he was to visit. He started to head down there and then he stopped when he thought I wasn't looking and muttered "Fucking bitch."

Me with groceries still in my arms: "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?"

"I said you're a fucking bitch. All uppity and shit. I told you we could go to the leasing office together but you still didn't want to let me in and then you gave me attitude."

Me: "I didn't give you attitude. I told you twice that I wouldn't let you and yet you still followed me in."

At this point he came back towards me and went from being about 20 feet away to about three feet away.

"You had to say that 'I was gonna do what I wanted to do anyway," after I said I'd go to the leasing office and everything."

Me: "I would say that I had a pretty accurate accessment since you did what you wanted to do and we're sitting here with your finger in my face instead of actually going down to the leasing office. But come on. Let's go."

We proceeded to go to the leasing office where Alex, our leasing agent, verified that the man had a son who lived there (and wasn't a resident himself) and the guy acted like he was vindicated.

"Should he be let into the premises against a resident's wishes?" I asked.

"Well, no,"  Alex said.

At this point, the guy bounded out and towards the apartment he was visiting. The leasing agent told me he'd call the apartment and make sure everything was okay. To make things doubly creepy, the kid he was visiting was the family that lives in the apartment across from us. And when I say across from us, I mean that our doors are about 4 feet apart. 

Next time, I'm calling Chef out to help. Although I have a feeling if Chef had been there, there might have been some hand to hand combat.

Unintended Consequence of Traveling Alone: Selfie Abundance

Amsterdam was awesome. The city was beautiful, the people friendly and the food (for the most part) delicious. It was a great work trip and I was really lucky to be able to go. The only thing that would have made it even better was if Chef was able to go. Maybe if I'm lucky enough to go back to this conference I'll plan far enough ahead to bring him along too.

Anyway, one of the things I learned after looking through my pictures was that I apparently took a lot of selfies. I think this was mostly because I was alone, vain, and have been taking them before they went digital and had a name. I literally have hundreds of pics from holding the camera out in front of me all my life. So it really is no surprise that I have selfies galore from the trip.

Since I had them, I thought I'd tell the story through myself. Or my selfies.

This was right outside of the Anne Frank House. It was touching and amazing. And no photos allowed inside. 

Me and a piece of art at the Rijks Museum. I wanted a Rembrandt selfie or a selfie with Van Gogh's self portrait,
but they were always busy with crowds.

Selfie with a Kendra, my DC co-worker on our last night

Last Dinner selfie. I have to say that the tablescape was prettier than any wedding I've been too (sorry, friends)

"I'm on a boat" selfie. We getting ready to glide through the canals with champagne.

Selfie with my NYC colleague, Ed, while we made some pastries and chocolates.

Not technically a selfie because my hands were full. Here I am filling chocolates with a ganache.
Chef would've been so proud. 

Again, not a selfie, but me and another DC colleague Amaris making Dutch Apple Pie (of course)

So, I went to McDonald's. So what. After 4 days of meals with 10 ingredients per dish, you'd probably want a cheeseburger too. Plus they're a client, so that's technically just doing my job, right?

This used to be the Capitol building in Amsterdam
but the prince decided at one point it was too nice to be government and took it over. It was pretty sweet. 

Some large statue that someone told me was important.
There were always people gathered around it, so I bought in. 

What Do You Want Me to Bring You Back From Amsterdam?

Don't say hookers or hash. I won't be able to get either back in my luggage.

I've been so busy preparing lately that I haven't been able to blog or even think about my trip. I'm heading to Amsterdam this week for work. I'm so excited to go. At my last job, I left a mere two weeks before a trip to London was scheduled. So the fact that I'm getting to go to Europe (again) and the Netherlands for the first time is awesome. (Another bonus reason I LOVE my job.)

I'm going to escort and help a brand I work with present to some very exclusive movers and shakers in the food world. But the whole conference is set up to be fun and with free time, so I'm looking forward to going to the Anne Frank Haus and the Rijksmuseum. Have any other suggestions? When someone mentioned the red light district to me in front of a client, he replied "she can't go there. But she could go to the red head district." It made me smile.

Anyway, I leave on Thursday and come back next Thursday. If you don't hear back on an email or text, just wait. I will have Internet (theoretically), so I hope to post some pictures and document the trip. Wish me luck!

Birthday Wrap Up

I took it nice and easy and even took a day off for my birthday. Which meant that I've been buried in work to catch up since I got back (it's that time of year--but honestly, it's always that time of year in PR). So instead of blogging, I've been working off cake and a week of decadence.

But here is the long overdue recap of the wonderful, awesome, super relaxing birthday that I got to share with Chef.

Nothing says party like some bubbly on the actual birthday. 

It sparkles so nicely. Champagne went well with the dinner he cooked me.
Apparently I ate that too fast to take a picture. 

The beautiful flowers he also surprised me with. 

This was not about cat CPR, but a book on screenwriting I've wanted forever. Good call by Chef. 

I managed to work in a much needed root touch up. Gotta keep red on the head.

I used my Sephora gift cards to do my annual "on my birthday" Sephora trip.

But the birthday just kept on going! I took off Friday to have some fun and we celebrated on Saturday too. That's how we roll in our household.  Below are more spoils from being spoiled (that included a two hour massage--somehow I've managed to tighten up again). I'm a lucky gal! Thanks for the birthday wishes everyone!

Maybe it's Not So Bad

Yup. I'm loved. Thank you!

Let's be frank: Working on your birthday sucks no matter how great your job is.

But that being said I am having a terrific birthday so far. My friend Meredith made me the BEST. CAKE. EVER. I'm one of those plain people: white cake with white butter cream icing. It's a challenge to showcase talent with that, but she did. Meredith made me a Tahitian vanilla cake with coconut custard filling--mixing my favorite desserts--white cake and coconut cream pie. And she got an assist from Alexis. (As an aside, the coconut cream pie is from Dick Clark's--grandma's recipe is still the best. If you find yourself in Princeton and hankering for pie, go with Coconut Cream every time. You're welcome).

Tasted even better

Anyway, I am still at work (yes, I'm blogging at work but it's my birthday and I finished a lingering project today so I can celebrate with a 5 minute post--I'm not billing time for it).  Getting ready to head home where Chef is preparing a home cooked steak dinner, but not until after I make my annual Sephora trip. I always go in on my birthday so I can get my free gift. Yes, I'm one of those. Plus I got some birthday gift cards burning a hole in my pocket.

More posts to come from my further celebrations on Friday and Saturday. It's not been so shabby so far.

Birthday Angst

A few years ago I was feeling all weird towards mid-January. I mentioned this at my writers group (which I DESPERATELY miss like crazy) and Sue mentioned the anxiety people get around birthdays. And thinking about it then, it totally made sense. Why I used to run around like a chicken with my head cut off when I was younger. Why I get all mopey now that I'm older.

Don't get me wrong. I love birthdays. I'm big on birthdays. I get that from my mom who was also big on birthdays. From breakfast to goodnight kisses, she found big and little ways to make the day special. I used to kid her and my dad that it was because they were usually gone to a company retreat on my actual birthday. They felt so bad that I had birthday celebrations during our Christmas vacation to Grand Cayman, in the summer so that I could have a pool party like my brother used to (my "un-Birthday") and so on. Then they'd leave me with grandparents who would feel equally as bad on my birthday and ply me with cake and attention like no other.

This is probably why I was set up for a lifetime of disappointment.

I'm only slightly kidding. But watching last week's episode of New Girl where Jess has these insanely large expectations for her birthday and is usually let down, I could relate. Not because Chef doesn't do a great job in making the day special (he does), but just because.

So this year, I'm trying to recognize the angst and know that I am working on my birthday so it can only be so good by its nature. And I will try to remember that I am off on Friday to have a celebration, a mani-pedi, get my hair done, eat copious amounts of seafood and then spend half of my Saturday getting pampered at the spa (see? Told you I am spoiled).

Until then, grr. I say.

My Opinion on Richard Sherman (Because I Know You Want to Know)

After the Seahawks defeated the 49ers on Sunday, cornerback Richard Sherman had a microphone thrust in his face a few minutes after making a game-saving play and thus sending his team to the Superbowl. His, um, exuberant response has been the talk of the sports world and beyond ever since with every one giving their opinion and adding racial tilts and personal attacks. So of course I knew it was time for me to weigh in.

I don't have a problem with Richard Sherman acting like a WWE wrestler after a nationally televised game. It made for interesting TV and I know why he was excited. I mean, it is the Superbowl.

But I do have  a few problems with his actions-and a few of his words. First of all, the whole choke signal at the opposing team. No bueno. This isn't just a team he might play every once in a while. It's a team he will play twice a year and will probably face in the playoffs quite a bit. Sherman can never know when one game or one play will shape a season--it could mean the difference between a first and sixth seed in the playoffs. So egging his divisional rivals on with a gesture that will FOR SURE remember it for the next two times (if not every time) he plays them, not a good idea in general. This wildly inappropriate gesturing and snubbing goes for coaches too.

Second, calling out Crabtree. I have rarely seen a rivalry be one-sided. It's why it's called a rivalry. And private smack talk is one thing, but know that words are meant to be eaten. I think just about every person that called themselves the greatest of all time has fallen from grace. Want to know some of the company he's in now that he's done that? LL Cool J and Will Smith. Richard Sherman just put himself in the same category as them. Congrats.

Lastly on the negatives, the gesture cost the team 15 yards. Sure, it meant jack squat here, but sometime it's gonna mean something and then the team won't find it quite as amusing.

On the positives, Richard Sherman is a genius (and if you haven't heard it yet, he went to Stanford so that helps prove it). Cornerback is not exactly the highest of profile positions on the football field and in one short interview, he just became a nationally known entity. That's pretty genius in my book.

All that said: I'm still rooting for Peyton. I just can't quit him. Unless he's playing the Colts. Then he means nothing to me.

An Open Rant to Macy's

This says "opinion". It can easily
say "Macy's Customer Service."

Dear Macy's,
I used to be a fan. You support an organization that I used to work for and still love, and I appreciate that. However, any residual goodwill I had with you dissipated when after FOUR attempts to return a wedding ring that did not fit.

Here's the situation: Macy's stores don't carry all sizes of rings, so when my husband and I ordered a size in store (being incorrectly sized by one of your associates), it was delivered to our home. When we learned that the ring didn't fit, that's where things got interesting. The package didn't include a packing slip, so I called the customer service line. . .three times.

Call #1: Took my info, tried to have me reprint my slip online until I pointed out that jewelry wasn't an option for that. Then she promised to email a shipping slip and a reorder of the new size for exchange.

Three days. . . no email.

Call #2: Repeat of call #1 with some apologies for the first experience and a repeat of the first call.

Four more days. . .no email. Check spam settings to make sure emails aren't being shifted. Nope.

Call #3: Immediately let the rep know it was my third attempt and I wasn't happy. Rep refused to give me info because although my credit card (with my name) bought the ring, it was shipped in Chef's name. Did I mention this was a wedding ring? Rep says that it is to protect the billing information, I say it was my card and my name. No go. Furious, I ask to speak to a supervisor. Wait 3 minutes (yes, I timed it). Rep says that all are busy. I say I'll wait 10 minutes. 10 minutes later rep says STILL no supervisors are free. I hang up and write furious email.

21 hours later I receive a cut and paste email telling me how I can return the items including giving me the customer service line and the website link that isn't an option. (At this point I know I am returning to the store to return, but am pissed).  The email had the gall to say that "Returns are easy at Macy's!".

Below is my sarcasm-filled response:

Julius,

First of all, it is my credit card information that was used to purchase the item--a wedding ring. It seems like if I am using my credit card to purchase a wedding ring two things would be evident: 1) that you should be trying to protect the billing information as the credit card holder (because we know how security has been an issue for major retailers lately), not the address where the item was shipped and that was on the credit card, and 2) if I was trying to pull one over on Macy's it seems like buying a wedding ring for my husband and both of us having the same last name and address would probably blow my cover. 

I probably would have less of an issue if ALL three of the service representatives had listed this as a concern. But only the last person refused to help me. The inconsistency was exceptionally confusing and on my THIRD call, which I told the representative immediately that this was, it was infuriating. 

Next, I appreciate your 'cut and paste' approach to customer service. It really helps clarify where I stand as a Macy's customer. I'm clearly just a number. I certainly don't expect customer service to know the return policy for every item it carries, but to help mitigate this, a cursory glance at the item ordered on the website would be helpful. You and two of the previous customer service reps tried to lead me to the website to reprint my return label. This is impossible for two reasons: 1) there was no return label in the first place (which has been mentioned) and 2) the website link reference does NOT list jewelry as an option for reprinting labels. If you can find it at the link you gave me (http://www1.macys.com/service/returns/easyreturnslabel.jsp), I will gladly apologize. 

And lastly, I am happy you included the customer service telephone number, as it has been oh so helpful in the past. Sending me for a fourth time to have my call taken by someone who  may or may not talk to me, and then promise to send a return slip and reorder the wedding ring only to have me wait in vain by our email for the promised answer to our customer service quandary and be disappointed sounds like a wonderful option. God forbid there was a specialized hotline of different customer service reps for people who have tried FOUR TIMES to exchange an item. At this point, I am crossing my fingers that going into a store for this will make the fifth time a charm. I'm unsure whether to exchange or just return because if the next wedding ring doesn't fit and I'm forced to waste more precious hours of my life trying to get the correct size. I will probably end up just divorcing my husband. Frankly at this point a divorce would be quicker and easier to than dealing with the Macy's customer service department. 

Sincerely, 

Order #10281XXX

aka Ashley Loar

Things that Don't Get Easier The More You Do Them

Some days deserve a French Fry
happy ending.

There's a big myth that I used to subscribe to that things get easier the more you do them. The older I've gotten the more I realize that this blanket statement relates to a LOT of things in life, but certainly not everything. So I started thinking. . .what are things that don't get easier the more you do them:

• Doctors appointments
• Bikini waxes
• Writing a novel
• Colts and/or Hoosiers losses (particularly in the playoffs, Super Bowl or NCAA tournament)
• Bathing cats
• Pitching stories to journalists that your client/co-worker/sponsor expects to see place and you know you don't have a shot in hell (clearly, that's PR specific)
• Exercise--yes, technically it exerts you less the more you do it, but it's still hard to want to do it. AND if you skip a few days, it's almost like starting back at square one, which doesn't seem fair.
• Diets-duh
• Calculus- this could just be me, but I despite my B, I never did get Calculus. 
• Watching bad stand-up comedy--particularly in person

What would you add to the list?

** Despite the fact that I'm not advertising McDonald's, I am required to mention that I work with the brand. They are a client. (Yes, I'm very lucky). I will also testify, which MANY people can back up, that my love of the McDonald's french fry goes back longer than my current job. Because they rock my socks off.