Notes From Josephine Live on YouTube

Please visit my channel on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8CjnZwbqow

Thanks for you ongoing support and shared perfume love!



Image from youtube.com

I Want A Cat

For years I believed - and told anyone who would listen - that as soon as I had the freedom, I would adopt and train a therapy dog so he and I could offer companionship to people who are living their last days.  Now that I actually have the ability to fulfill this dream, all I really want is a cat.  Something warm and fuzzy around the house that suffers from a chronic case of the fuck-its...makes me feel so optimistic and overall superior. Kittens smell good, too.

Image from google.com

Body Chemistry Perfume Profile: Is There Such a Thing?

My goal is to recruit as many people as possible to the world of perfume addiction, and to that end, my brother is coming along nicely in his fragrance junkie grooming.  For example, he rocks Caron Yatagan, the fragrance that launched his perfume journey and fuels continued exploration.  As a business owner, his talents are both technical and aesthetic, which lend themselves to a unique and thorough perfume analysis.  We have talked of planning a 1/2 day perfume outing (and still will), but in the meantime, my sister and I did a Sephora crawl to jump start the process and pick out a few scents we both thought he might like.  Last week, I hand delivered these to his work for an impromptu sniffing session.

Samples included:

Bleu de Chanel Edt
Atelier Trefle Pur
Commodity Moss
Commodity Book
YSL Y
Terre d'Hermes
Azzaro pour homme

We sniffed and discussed and compared each sample, returning again and again to the paper strips during the drydown of each fragrance.  His top choices for further skin testing at a later time were (in order of preference):

Commodity Book
YSL Y
Atelier Trefle Pur
Bleu de Chanel Edt

During our sniff-off, he asked an interesting question. 'Is there a foolproof way to know what perfume will work on different body chemistry?'  I thought of all the largely useless perfume quizzes that include favorite place to vacation,  favorite season, etc.  He continues, 'what about the specific food people eat or the alcohol they drink?'  (My brother is a bourbon aficionado, which informed this question and also created an instant connection with Commodity Book.) 

I'm intrigued by this thought...is there such an analysis to know in advance how a perfume will mix with one's specific body chemistry? Hmm.

Photo from iStock

It's Mother's Day...Again

Big days are hard because I'm often overwhelmed by the expectations and end up just wanting to retreat into myself and do nothing.  When Mom was alive, Mother's Day was inevitably one of unfulfilled desires and heaviness.  Our relationship was complicated so the ease that allows for imperfection did not exist.  And striving for the perfect day was not authentic to our relationship.  So however the day was acknowledged, I was left either feeling guilt-ridden for not doing enough or tied to a commitment of false closeness that couldn't be fulfilled.

Now that Mom is gone and I am left to pick up the mantle, that too feels awkward.  My son and I are close and we regularly express our feelings for each other...no special day is needed to reinforce our connection.  Because I didn't have this with my own mother it is now one of the greatest gifts of my life.  Even so, when Mother's Day rolls around each year the guilt ghost of the past returns and I feel anxious about accepting some self-imposed duty to be more motherly, to be 'extra' something.  As both a daughter and a mother the unease of this day remains.

I envy those who delight in spending a day with their mothers feeling comfortable and relaxed in the knowledge that nothing needs to be proven, that the important stuff has already been expressed.  For others like me who face their own struggles - who strive to make the day meaningful but never quite hit the mark - I salute your efforts and wish you peace on this Mother's Day.

Photo from USA Today.com

Dreams of Letting Go

                                               

As a clinical social worker, my job years ago was to work closely with physicians and nurses to meet both the physical and psychological needs of patients. Then my career started changing. At one point in my rise as a leader, a physician friend asked me, 'are you really going to squander your clinical talent to take that position?'  His words stung at the time and now they return to echo through my life again.  I did set aside my clinical talent to fit the mold of business operations.  At all points, I surrounded myself with people who could fulfill this function and disguise my disinterest in data analytics, tedious improvement processes and continual auditing and tracking of results. Pretending is hard work, and I begged the universe to bring about a change so I could feel alive again.

That change has come in an unexpected way, and letting go is never as easy as it seems.  For the last week, my dreams have revealed this fact through stories that haunt me through the night.  Like the story of finding myself on a business trip across the country before realizing I no longer have a job...wondering how to flee the situation before being seen.  Or sitting down with the CEO so he can explain the company cannot offer a severance package and I need to simply walk away with nothing but gratitude for having worked there in the first place.  In that dream, I eek out one big alligator tear in response.

But it's not just dreams that haunt me.  Even reports from colleagues of having made a positive and lasting difference sting unexpectedly when they are meant only to soothe.  Perhaps that's because there was so little joy in my work during the final years when joy and meaning in my work has always been a priority.  What ended up happening - advancing through the organization and placing my worth on those achievements - robbed me of what I want and need most in life; to make a difference in the world through the authentic passion of my heart.  It's still my dream.

image from google.com

Henry Day

Our Grandson, Henry

Becoming a grandmother (Grammy) has turned my world upside down in the most wonderful way possible.  Henry comes to our home on Sundays and - for now - on Wednesdays, too.  Excited to see him today!  This boy is a charmer extraordinaire and his love of laughing and engaging makes me remember the simple joy of being alive.

Henry likes to play with body sprays (start training him young, right?) and he reaches for them whenever he walks by my perfume cabinet. Now he understands they are for smelling, not eating.

Photo courtesy of Henry's father.

Next Chapter: Staring Into My Future

I'm still processing.

Five months ago, the organization in which I've built a 15 year career informed me that due to a major restructure, my role and many others would be 'sunset.'  That's corporate speak for shitcanned. After helping with the transition and finding no other fit, May 1st marks the beginning of a self-imposed one year sabbatical from work.     

I have no idea what to do with myself.

Last Friday, determined to be useful, I come home with new comforters for the beds because it seems like the right thing to do.  On Saturday, I return them, but not without visiting Burlington to cruise perfumes.  Then I go to the Rite-Aid by our home...yet again...which is in the process of going out of business.  Perfume discounts are 50%, but the lonesome check-out lady says everything will be discounted 90% the last two days before closing.  That isn't for another week so I keep stalking their cheap perfumes just in case they pull a fast one and start the 90% off without telling me.  

Yesterday, my raison d'etre is to find a body lotion that smells mild and won't clash with the cheap perfumes I buy at Rite Aid.  So I wander around Target with other people who wander around Target mid-day on Monday only to feel annoyed with both the people and their scintillating phone conversations:

'What am I doing?'

'I'm just in Target doing a little shopping.'

'What are you doing? Uh-huh. Uh-huh.'

'I really shouldn't be much longer - can I call you then?'

'Okay...what?  I didn't hear you...what?'

You're killing me.

When I first learn my job is ending, I try coping mechanisms that helped in the past: solitary time in the morning burning candles, writing in my journal and then brief meditation. One month in, my journal has become the Book of Misery and I start talking back to the guided meditation. 'YOU focus on your breath.'  It clearly isn't working. 

Perfume is the only thing that always works.

Nothing else enters my brain when I'm playing with perfume.  It is the rest that I hope to get from meditation...focus without effort, beauty through aroma and a shift in mood. Since December, I have added 20-30 perfumes to my collection.  Inner Farm Girl isn't happy, but most are mainstream and relatively inexpensive so she hasn't snapped just yet. If she does, I will blame YouTube...Shana J, Ami Loves Perfume, BeautyNotes, Tiff Benson and others. They have amped up my love affair with perfume, made me laugh and helped my anxiety come down so I could sleep at night.  They don't know it, but they saved me.

This blog began as a tribute to my mother and a celebration of perfume.  Now I am back to share my journey as a displaced baby boomer contemplating life's next step with the help of a little sillage.

Image from lovethispic.com  

Jimmy Choo: I Can't Fight It Anymore

Every time I take a 'what's your signature scent' quiz online, it points to Jimmy Choo eau de parfum. This started to annoy me because it's not that I hadn't ever tried Jimmy Choo, it's that I didn't get the appeal.  At first, it seemed like just another fruitchouli, all mainstream and ordinary.  

Yawn.

The thing is, I couldn't get it out of my mind and thoughts of Jimmy Choo stalked me relentlessly until one day earlier this summer when I visited a nearby Ulta to decide - once and for all - if Jimmy Choo was for me.  Every Ulta in the valley recognizes me because I can't seem to pass one without going in.  'Oh hi - we haven't seen you for a while.'  Or, 'Oh, hi - you're back again so soon.' Introverts never want to be called out this way.  You may greet me casually but don't comment on the frequency of my visits or ask if I need help. Just go about your business and never let on that you know I'm the crazy perfume lady that sprays paper strips and leaves them sitting by the appropriate perfume while wandering back and forth to smell each one at various stages of drydown.  Just look away.

What's worse is I never actually buy perfume at Ulta, but instead turn to discount outlets online.  Inner Farm Girl is nodding her approval.  However, I do buy make-up, hair stuff and nondescript clearance items that I neither want or need, which end up in our hall closet on the shelf above the towels and underneath the toilet paper.  Inner Farm Girl just shot me a dirty look.  Point is, I buy enough stuff at Ulta that I felt comfortable that day as I sprayed Jimmy Choo liberally on both arms before walking out of the store with no purchase at all. My car was parked a short jaunt away and I braced myself for what I was sure would be sillage to match Paige's dog farts (thick, oily and cloying) once inside the car. Whatever happened, this issue would be resolved.  The stalking had to end.

First thing that hit me was the mint...like barely chewed Wrigley's spearmint gum. Then the toffee, smooth and deep and then, finally, the patchouli.  Spoiler alert: it's not a bomb at all.  In fact, I wish it had a little more blast to it, if you want to know the truth. Something about it reminded me of the smell of, well...me after a long walk in the cool, early morning air.  That, or I am in complete denial about the allure of my body odor and morning breath. Jimmy Choo feels familiar.

No one can smell it on me which, as a compliment whore, is a crushing blow.  B-man did smell it once after I doused myself with it and sat right next to him on the deck. 'Mmm, what smells good, did you just put something on?' Part of me wanted to say, 'Ya think? I've been wearing this every frigging day for weeks.'   But I was so giddy with excitement that he noticed, I couldn't help batting my eyes, leaning toward him and saying, 'Really?  Do you like it? Really?'

Jimmy Choo owns me.  My first bottle is nearly gone, and I still can't leave it alone.  

Picture from Fragrantica

Wallflowers: Scented Anxiety

Bath and Body Works is having its semi-annual sale again.  These events make me crazy because 1) I can't stay away even though I swear I will, and 2) I end up buying stuff that I don't want, making at least one return trip necessary.  So far, I have visited four stores.  You have to shop around because they all have their own cool stuff.  Everybody knows that.

This year, just to shake things up, I have ventured into a new area: wallflowers.  Until now, they seemed too scary to assemble, but I figure what the hell, I'm a big girl - I can handle this.  The scent holders themselves are puzzling...I can't imagine under what circumstance I would want a 5-inch anchor jutting out of my wall, or a seashell.  Or a turtle.  And what scents are best?  By my count, there's five thousand and forty options.  Baffled, I stare at them for a long time and wonder how I want our rooms to smell.  Like fruit?  Flowers? Cinnamon rolls? They have 'em all.

After sniffing the matching candles, I settle on three scents: Vanilla Beach Flower, Georgia Peach and Frosted Cupcake.  When I get home, just for fun, I read the reviews of these room scents and promptly decide that they all suck.  By relying only on my stellar instincts alone, I have chosen three of the lowest rated scents on the website. 

According to reviews of long time wallflower warriors, Heirloom Pumpkin is a stunning scent with 'throw' and longevity.  B-man likes the smell of pumpkin, which emboldens my decision making. Certain I have avoided a what stinks debacle, I trade the three losers in for three of the pumpkin saviors and hurry home to plug in my very own wallflower, waiting to swoon in delight.  

I hate Heirloom effing Pumpkin.

More smells might be tested, but the process already has me stressed out and gearing up for an Oscar worthy anxiety attack. There's a reason I stayed away from wallflowers all these years.

photo from musingsofamuse.com

Ode to the Flu...My Week in Review

Stale breath

Unwashed hair

Stinky armpits

Chicken soup

Sweaty sheets

Vaporub

Gin

Picture from flikr.com

Perfume That Made Me Eat Crow: Heiress by Paris Hilton

Paris Hilton's Heiress has popped up several times on this blog.  I thought if I mentioned it in passing, like 'I wear it, but only at night,' or 'I bought the body spray because I was bored and it was there,' no one would judge me or confiscate my ID card to the Perfumista Club.  Probation is a constant threat, but I still use words like 'flanker' and 'sillage.'  That's got to count for something.

To demonstrate my loyalty to said club, I scoffed at Paris Hilton perfumes for years so that everyone would know I had higher standards than they did and was therefore superior.  And I scoffed out loud, not in my head like usual.  I'm talking audible pshhh-ing plus an eye roll with my nose in the air. Chortling may have been involved.

Then came Heiress, which produced an almost obscene OMG moment.  Maybe it was the skittles-wrapped-in-dryer-sheets vibe or maybe the feeling that I was walking past a lilac tree while peeling an orange and chewing bubble gum.  Either way, Heiress is a girl crush in a bottle. 

Bad news is the journey from scoffing to swooning requires eating a few helpings of crow, which sucks because I almost had the chortling thing down.  And crow tastes nasty.  But I must be getting used to it because I just bought two more Paris Hilton perfumes unsniffed: Passport Tokyo and Passport Paris. The most embarrassing part, other than standing in the checkout line forever so everyone knows I'm buying Paris Hilton perfumes? I actually like them.

What the hell...I faked the ID, anyway.

Picture from fragrances.com

Sweet Dreams: My Bedtime Scent Routine

Good dreams depend on good smells at bedtime.  Otherwise, one risks anything from evening ponies (dreams that trouble or mildly annoy) to full-blown nightmares.

Night mares...Evening ponies.  Work with me.

Thank God for Bath and Body Works.  As Inner Farm Girl would have it, all of their beauty products are reasonably priced and easy to access.  Plus, they layer well with each other (and lots of other stuff) to create a comforting, smushed up sort of smell.  This is perfect at night when my brain is fuzzy and I speak with a lisp even though I'm not trying to be funny.

In order to pile on as many products as possible, and justify the run amok purchase of non-essential stuff, I try to make my routine look as strategic as possible.  It goes something like this:

1. Remove make-up and then shower at night - always.

2. Some type of face serum (Clinique, Ellen Tracy, Oil of Olay) followed by St. Ives moisture rich face lotion, which is creamy and lightly scented. Inexpensive and not the least bit posh.

2. Bath and Body Works Moonlight Path lotion mixed 50/50 with Dial 7-Day Moisture Rich lotion (my favorite to soften a stronger lotion without changing its scent...great texture, too).

3. Body spray - White by Kenneth Cole, Heiress by Paris Hilton or Marshmallow Pumpkin Latte by B&BW (now discontinued...argh). All work beautifully with the slightly diffused Moonlight Path.

4. Vaseline mixed with whatever body butter is in my nightstand for my feet (currently Wild Madagascar Vanilla), then socks, which get thrown off in the middle of the night.

5. Cherry Chapstick on my lips.

6. A final layer of Trader Joe's Coconut Body Butter on my hands and forearms.

Once I am sufficiently greased up and smell something like musky vanilla cake batter, I read or channel surf until I can no longer make sense of whatever episode of Alias I happen to be watching.  

Lights out.

What's your bedtime smell routine?

Photo from littlebeetkids.com

They Called Her Glo

Yesterday, I went to a funeral in my hometown for the mother of one of my childhood friends.  Her name was Gloria, or 'Glo' to those who knew and loved her.  She was legendary for her generosity, her off-color humor, her too-loud laughter and above all, her kindness.  My mother, introvert that she was, didn't fully understand Glo's charm, and it irritated her to no end that Glo could be seen by all mowing her lawn on Sunday morning when everyone else was driving to church.  Glo did whatever the hell she wanted.  And she was happy.

Glo operated a beauty salon in her home in a community so small it doesn't show up on a map. Women from surrounding non-map-showing areas came to get their hair done, listen to Glo's free flowing advice and sample treats of brownies or chocolate popcorn.  Bonfire parties in her back yard were famous, including people the family didn't even know simply because Glo had met them somewhere earlier the same day.  She knew how to draw people in and treat them like family.

The last two times I attended funerals in my hometown, I was there to accompany Dad; once when Mom was too sick and again after she died.  Now, as I made my way to the church entrance alone, an elderly woman I didn't know walked slowly toward me from the opposite direction. We greeted each other and made small talk about our lateness, as time for the viewing was coming to an end. Together by circumstance, we stood in the receiving line and chatted about where we had grown up and any relatives we might have in common.  Her name was Sharon, and as it turned out, she went to school with one of my dad's cousins. 'What's he doing now?' she asked. It pained me a little to tell her he had died several years ago. 'Oh, yes,' she said, as if just realizing her own age. 

To move the reception process along, Glo's daughters left their post by the casket and began working backward through the line, greeting and hugging each person. They talked about their mother in a warm, but real way...the difficulty of her Alzheimer's and the awfulness of her final weeks. No pretending, no 'she's in a better place now,' or 'it was her time,' or 'it was God's will.'  Just the raw truth of loving and then losing their mother.  

Sharon and I found a good spot in the chapel for the 15-minute wait until the family entered and the funeral could begin. She told me about her son who was killed in a snowmobile accident 25 years ago during a family reunion.  She told me about visiting another son on Thursday in the hospital and her frightening drive home late at night in the rain. Sharon told me about her husband who died five years ago. She said there were many times when another breath from him seemed impossible, but he kept living for months after his terminal cancer diagnosis. Then one day - a good day for him - Sharon was holding him in her arms while her daughter re-arranged the pillows on the bed when he simply died. 'I could tell he was gone because he was suddenly lighter,' Sharon said. 'I didn't know until then that a person's spirit has weight.'  We looked at each other and leaned in, touching foreheads as she wiped a small tear with her slightly crooked finger.

After a brief and poignant service, Sharon and I hugged, thanked each other for the companionship and said our goodbyes. I found my friend - Glo's daughter - one last time to express my love for her and my appreciation for her mother's life.  She said, 'I have to tell you, for whatever reason my dad has been talking about memories of your dad all week...I can't really figure out why, but his name has come up several times.'

It would be just like my dad to comfort a friend with memories as he faced the hardest time of his life. Or to send Sharon to keep me company, knowing I would be lonely there without him.  I miss you, Dad.  Say hello to Glo.

photo from wikipedia.com

The Magic of Rain

Rain on the deck last night

For the past week, it has been raining at least part of every day. There is no amount of rain that would be too much for me, and it poured again last night after a deceptively sunny morning.  In my ideal world, each week would include five days of rain and two days of partly sunny skies. Maybe one day of full-on sun, but certainly no more than that.

Rain mirrors that cozy feeling in the middle of the night when it's chilly and I have snuggled into a warm blanket.  And rain is reflective - the introverted partner of the sun's growing power, a vacation from the predictability of the sun's rise and set.  Dark rainy days blur the lines between day and night, teasing my senses and adding the drama of midnight into the day's earliest hours. Rain interrupts the predictable and makes me believe anything is possible. 

Then there's the smell...wet rocks and evergreen, sweet dirt and cedar.  When it rains, I crave perfumes with patchouli and oakmoss, licorice and mint.  All of my senses are heightened and more alive on dark, wet days.  Rain brings with it a break in life's pace, a slowing of my heartbeat and a nostalgia that never fails to calm me and bring me joy.

Pluviophile - A lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days.

Photo my own

In A Mauboussin Mood

Mauboussin was one of those rare perfumes that upon first sniff sent me to the land of Oh. My. God. Stale morning breath mixed with allspice, vanilla and benzoin make it an aromatic wonder. Sometimes Mauboussin assaults my nose with full-on patchouli (hints of Borneo 1834), and sometimes it knocks me out with plum and amber. But when the mood is right, as it is on this reflective Wednesday evening, Mauboussin hits the spot like nothing else.

Several months ago, in a clean-out-this-damn-perfume-cabinet frenzy, I bequeathed B-man with Mauboussin. Bequeath: hold the item far out in front of you with both hands and bow as you hand it to the other person.  Knowing the great importance of the perfume - because of the bequeathing and all - B-man wore it occasionally. It's actually quite nice on him, lasting well into the next day, through at least one shower.  But after a while, like any self-respecting middle child, I started getting jealous, certain that if Mauboussin smelled good on B-man, it would smell even more amazing on me. Yesterday out of the blue, I worked up the nerve to ask if he would please, oh, please consider giving it back tell him I wanted it back. 

Me: Hey, you know the Mauboussin?

Him: Uh...what?

Me: You know, the perfume I gave you.

Him: Oh yeah, what about it?

Me: What if I wanted it back?

Him: You want it back?

Me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do. Did you throw the box away?

Him: No, I have it somewhere.

Me: 'Cause I noticed it's not in its box.  In your drawer.  Not that I was looking in your drawer.

Him: Take it - I have more stuff than I can possibly wear anyway.

Me: So I'm kinda doing you a favor.

Him: You're doing me a huge favor.

B-man understands the role that perfume plays in my life. This evening when I got home from work, my Mauboussin was neatly boxed up and sitting beside my perfume cabinet...bequeathed back to me.  Sure, we could share, but sharing is for well adjusted only children.

Picture from 99perfume.com

If Paige is Happy, Everyone's Happy

Paige with her favorite toy, Hedgie

B-man and I are looking forward to taking a few 'let's break out of our homebody routine' trips this year, which means leaving our doggy, Paige, for several nights at a time.  For years, we have taken her to a boarding company that employs young people tattooed from head to toe to care for the dogs that run free in an indoor/outdoor playground.  Paige insists on herding everything and when we check on her by webcam to see how she's doing, we get mere glimpses of her running back and forth with her tongue hanging out. Other dogs are lounging on their sides and watching her like, 'who's the crazy bitch?' 

Last time we boarded Paige, she came home an absolute mess.  She had scratched the skin above her eyes until it was infected, she was anxious (howling in the car on the way home), and she smelled bad, like stressed out doggy B.O.  Think Muscs Koublai Khan with more ass.

After a bunch of research, we just found a new place...a family that will involve her as their own and work her into their busy lives.  Yesterday was Paige's first trial daycare at her new home away from home.  Even though she was a bit 'skittish' according to her new family, we all feel confident that she will settle in nicely as she gets to know everyone.  When she got in the car to go home, she settled right onto her blanket without a peep. Best of all, she smelled like her sweet doggy self.  

Mission accomplished.

Photo my own

Hyacinth in the Air

Every day this week, I have walked outside. This was a ritual for years, walking alone, walking with my sister, walking with B-man...negotiating the hills and staring at the mountains that have seen endless lifetimes and still remained the same. 

Lately, though, I've become a treadmill girl, logging necessary workouts early in the morning before trudging into the office. But this week, I've come home early to walk in my neighborhood again. Water bottle in hand, I take off up the hill, breathing in the scents of leaves, fresh dirt, geranium and...hyacinth.  Stopping to smell them is never the same as passing their scent in the breeze. Hyacinths were meant to sway back and forth, filling the air with their sillage.

At the end of every walk, I return home and shop my perfume cabinet to find something that best matches the smells of the outdoors.  I know I've found the right one when it is such a perfect replica that I can hardly detect its scent when holding it up to my nose.  Yesterday, as soon as I got home, I started searching for a perfume that carried the hyacinth magic.  One after the other, I opened the box, sniffed the nozzle and replaced it on the shelf. Then, like the thought of a familiar face, I remembered a perfume that was tucked away in the sock drawer B-man recently donated to hardly-worn-but-still-admired perfumes: Josephine by Rance.

Josephine is not a perfume I reach for, and honestly, I bought it for the name alone. But yesterday, its sweet, tweedy hyacinth extended the pleasure of my walk and helped me remember what I'd been missing.  Josephine presents hyacinth combined with orris, which emphasizes the old fashioned powder of the dry down and then gently fades away in a cloud of dusty vanilla.  

Josephine by Rance: I bought it for the name, never suspecting that spring lived inside.

picture from www.woodfordes.perfumery.co.uk

Ode To Oxygene by Lanvin

Pencil Lead

Boardwalk

Orange Rind

Prom Corsage

White Chocolate

Amusement Park

Newborn

Picture from Overstock.com

Oh, To Have A Mother Again

I just finished watching, 'Nothing Left Unsaid: Gloria Vanderbilt & Anderson Cooper.'  The prevailing feeling I'm left with is...jealousy.  I would give anything if my mother and I could have had a similar conversation; an honest reflection on her life, her challenges and her loves...what an absolute treasure that would have been.

As I watched this documentary, all I could think was, 'he has no idea what it will be like when she's gone.'  Children imagine the loss of their parents and talk themselves into thinking they will grieve briefly and then go on with life, resilient and whole.  But the absence of a parent is profound, and it leaves a permanent hole in the fabric of life, regardless of closeness or conflict.  It is the death of one's roots, and if the truth remains unspoken, it is forever haunting.

The truth is, I don't know much about my mother. Her fear of transparency and my insensitive response to her honesty left us virtual strangers.  Now she is gone, and the authenticity of her life died with her.  This loss will always be with me.

Dear Anderson Cooper: I hope you treasure the great gift of your mother's story.  In the end, it's the only thing that matters.

Image from google.com

Rant: Conference Food Is A Bitch

Richard Pryor nailed it when he said, 'I'm in love with a bitch I can't stand.'  That's exactly how I feel about conference food.

Last week, I attended a conference with two lunch options: chicken with mashed potatoes and veggies, or Alfredo bow-tie pasta with veggies and sun dried tomatoes. In the picture, it looked delicious, so I chose the pasta. Soon a plate was slapped down in front of me so fast that the bottom spun like a top. On the plate was cooked bow-tie pasta with no sauce, three steamed pieces of broccoli and not one effing sun dried tomato. I glanced around the table, hoping to catch someone's eye and give the look that says, 'can you believe this??'  But like pod people, they were forking the crap into their mouths as if it was the best meal they had ever eaten. Then I realized all the plates looked alike - there wasn't a sun dried tomato anywhere on the property.  

Those. Lying. Bastards.  

Even if I wanted to throw a fit, which I was THIS close to doing, they couldn't have fixed it. Instead, I put leftover salad dressing on the pasta, added salt and pepper, and started forking the crap into my mouth like a good little pod person.

Next week, I'm going to a conference in Dallas. Honestly, it doesn't matter whether it's Dallas or New York City, I'm convinced event planners all refer to the same manual, Food For Constipation and Bloat. Of course, there's the token yogurt in big bowls of ice placed strategically at break time - probably to avoid a lawsuit - but let's get real, no one eats yogurt at a conference.  And speaking of real, if you eat real food on a regular basis, and then eat conference food for a few days, your body will rebel by puffing up like a blow fish and slamming your ass shut. I have learned to wear comfy, stretchy clothes at conferences to accommodate the walking fat suit I've become while I'm there. 

Worst of all, the effects of conference food last way beyond the conference itself.  It takes at least two days to recover from these processed sodium and sugar debacles. Every time, I swear that I'll do it different.  That I won't even eat the food.  That I'll fill my purse with Kind bars, nuts and other healthy options.  But as soon as I get to the conference hotel, I put the snacks on top of the dresser and think, 'I'm not eatin' that crap.' Stuffed from the greasy breakfast buffet, before the keynote speaker is even introduced, I have only one burning question on my mind: what are we going to eat next?

Picture from coastguard.com