Dress With Courage

Currently 12.2.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 02 Dec 2013 01:57:00 +0000

Hello friends! Pneumonia, stress and writer's block took me away from the laptop for the last month. Thought it'd be good to jump in with a 'currently' post.

Reading: This Is Between Us, by Kevin Sampsell, a brutally honest, often heartbreaking portrayal of love and relationships and the mess they create. Told in a series of vignettes, the book chronicles the relationship of a man and woman over five years, from their first days together to their times apart, and back again. I am IN LOVE with this book. The narrator is entirely frank and unmediated: sometimes I hate him and oftentimes I am just as baffled as he is by his partner and kids. Reading this book is like a love affair in and of itself, but also feels like a retrospective of my own past relationships. As someone who recently left a decades-long relationship, I find iy downright miraculous that Sampsell can be so graceful in showing us the spectrum of what it means to be a relationship: the bravado, the romance, the mistakes -- ones you admit to and ones that you hide -- the juxtaposition of feeling like you know someone better than anyone else in the world while also realizing you may not know them at all.

Working: Two weeks ago I accepted a new position as a pre-K teacher at a private preschool closer to my house. While I wasn't necessarily unhappy at my last school, I was grossly underpaid and overqualified to be potty training three year-olds (which was what most of my day encompassed.) My new school is state-of-the-art, and the position includes much better benefits along with a substantial increase in pay. Settling in hasn't been easy -- my co-teacher doesn't seem especially thrilled to have me there, which has made the transition more stressful than anticipated -- but I'm hoping that time with solve that challenge.

Stressing me out: The relationship with my ex-husband has been disintegrating at a pretty fast rate, for reasons I can't identify. I have gone above and beyond to keep the peace between us, including generously giving up my scheduled time with my kids over Thanksgiving break to allow them extended time to visit with his brother, who came into town for the holiday. My ex adamantly refuses to compromise or engage in constructive conversation with me about our children and our custody schedule. He's been doing really passive-aggressive things like purposely dropping the kids off late. Despite having a girlfriend, financially rewarding career and possession of the home we once shared, the man is incredibly bitter and entitled. I had hoped that after a year of divorce we'd have some resolution, but things are worse than ever, and I have no clue what to do about it aside from strengthening my boundaries with him and refusing to let myself be taken advantage of.

Watching: So many movies. Is there anything better than going to see a movie on a cold fall night, diving into a bucket of popcorn and icy soda and snuggling into your seat with your love by your side as the previews come on? I think not. In the last month, I've seen Gravity, Rush, 12 Years A Slave and Dallas Buyers Club. All were excellent.

Thrifting: On Black Friday I went thrifting, and came across this:

I don't know the person who decided to encrust a rack of antlers in rhinestones and donate them, but I love them. A lot.

Contemplating This weekend marked the four year anniversary of my most recent discharge from treatment for anorexia and bulimia. There was an inexplicable pattern in my 15 year history of having an eating disorder where I would relapse near the end of summer and end up in treatment around Thanksgiving. This happened at least 6 times. Despite years of therapy and hospitalizations, I am still trying to determine why this time of year is so triggering for me. In any case, I'm deeply thankful to have achieved what most professionals consider a full recovery. During my darkest days, I did not think I'd ever be at the point where I could write honestly and openly about my eating disorder the way I do now, and have put it behind me as completely as I have. If you're reading this and struggling with addiction yourself, please know that recovery is possible. It's the very hardest thing you'll ever do, but it is worth it. I was told, point blank, on more than one occasion that I would never recover. And yet here I am, eating caramel apple pumpkin pie and not giving a damm, happier than ever.

Anatomy of a bad parenting day.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Wed, 06 Nov 2013 13:13:00 +0000

On Sunday morning my twins woke me up at 5 am. It wasn't a day I had to go to work or a day they were required to be at school. There were no religious events to attend and no family meals to prepare and no company coming over. They slammed doors and turned the volume of the computer up until it shook the windows and opened and closed and opened and closed the refrigerator door searching for something to eat. Then they knocked on my door. BANG BANG BANG, looking for me. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom? MOM. MOM? MOM? MOMMY? MOMMY? Mom. MOM!

I could tell it was going to be a no good, terrible, horrible, awful, very bad day.

At seven am I prepared breakfast. They wanted pancakes. I did not have eggs for pancakes. They wanted bacon. I did not have bacon. They wanted sausage. I did not have sausage. They wanted french toast but not the yucky gross kind made with the healthy whole grain bread that I like to eat but with the squishy yummy white wheat bread that is comprised mostly of corn syrup, fairy dust and glittery rainbows. I did not have the squishy white wheat bread.

It was a no good, terrible, horrible, awful, very bad day.

At nine am I was drinking my third cup of coffee, exhaustedly composing Monday's blog post, when one of my twins settled himself next to me. MOM, he beckoned. Did I know that bellybuttons are really just scabs and there's a new Super Smash Brothers game coming out for the Wii and could I buy more poster board and scotch tape so he can make a Transformer costume and why did Jake get to be on the computer when he hasn't even had a turn yet and that totally isn't fair, and did I want to hear him recite his multiplication tables because he TOTALLY could do it and what were we going to have for lunch? The words swam on my computer screen. My left eyelid began to twitch. I could feel my blood pressure start to rise.

It was a no good, terrible, horrible, awful, very bad day.

At twelve I took one of my twins to the grocery store. The stimulation of passing shoppers and Christmas displays would distract him, I hoped. I wheeled the cart through the store and realized I had forgotten my list. I wanted honeycrisp apples but the store was out of honeycrisp apples and I wanted yellow raisins but there were no yellow raisins and my boy wanted to look at toys but I didn't have money for toys. "Why not, Mom?" he asked. Were we broke? I bought him and his brother a toy each. Every check-out line was blocked by an extreme couponer arguing over that week's price on mustard.

It was a no good, terrible, horrible, awful, very bad day.

At one-fifteen I arrived home. I blearily unloaded the groceries into the house. My daughter, who was still in bed, had to be at her lacrosse game across town in forty-five minutes. I dimly realized that my kids hadn't eaten lunch. I made sandwiches out of the yucky bread. I was a failure as a mom. While putting away the mayonnaise I accidentally knocked my boy's Lego helmet off the counter and it smashed onto the floor into million pieces and my boy howled in protest and when he came into the kitchen to assess the damage the dog climbed onto the dining room table and began to feast on his sandwich and when I tried to chase him away, he bit me.

I lost it. I said the F word. (I have never, ever cursed in front of my children before.) I yanked the dog by the nape and threw him outside. I yelled at my boy for leaving Legos in the kitchen. I yelled at my daughter for not knowing where her cleats were. I yelled at my other boy for not finishing his lunch yet. I huffed and puffed and stomped and raged.

It was a no good, terrible, horrible, awful, very bad day.

Every mom has bad days, and some bad days are worse than others. These are days when you raise your voice a bit more than necessary, can't seem to get a handle on the kids' behavior, and are not as compassionate as you could be. These are days when you overreact, when you overheat, when you say things you know you shouldn't have. The days you get into bed at night and just feel like crap. For whatever reason, these days happen. They happen to all of us. We don't like to think about them, but they do. Sometimes you get into a not so great cycle and they happen, or they just happen out of the blue.

I had rough days when I was married, and now experience rough days as a single parent. I know I'm not the only one going through this. More and more moms are finding themselves left without a spouse and handling all the responsibility of raising a family. A recent news report stated that the number of single-parent households has actually doubled in just the last 20 years. For most single mothers, that means working a job full-time and parenting full-time. That's quite a load, to say the least.

As I sat in the car, driving my traumatized kids to the lacrosse field, I felt terrible. I was a Bad Mom. I had lost my temper, sworn in front of my children, and lost control over my emotions. I hated myself. So I did the only thing that I could think to do: I apologized. I know some parents might not agree with his decision. In their opinion, admitting even the most horrible mistake sounds like parental heresy. It would have implied weakness, or diluted authority. But I think that the three most beautiful words may not be "I love you." When warranted, they may be, "I was wrong." I think that saying sorry tells children that they are more than beloved, they're considered people of integrity by their parents, who want them to go into the world respecting authority, but respecting themselves more.

I told them that the way I acted was wrong. I didn't let my twins off the hook for waking me up before the sun rose, though, as that's not acceptable behavior in my house. I explained that most people do not function well on less than six hours of sleep. I told them, over and over, that I loved them. I suggested that we buy a clock for the their room so they understand to stay there playing quietly or reading if they wake before 8 am. I promised I would work harder at controlling my emotions when I felt myself becoming overwhelmed.

Amazingly, they forgave me. And I'm working on forgiving myself. No parent (or person) is perfect. Everyone has bad days. The best we can do is learn from them and move on

An open letter to my happily married friends.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 04 Nov 2013 13:23:00 +0000

Dear married friends,

You might remember me as a twosome. I was married for a long time, lived in a beautiful big house, and had you over for dinners and wine and play dates with your kids. You were there when my husband was out of town, which was often, and when I struggled with my recovery through anorexia. You were good to me, and generous, and kind.

Then my ex-husband and I decided to divorce.

Let me first say that I'm truly glad your marriages are more successful than mine was. I see your posts on Facebook, cuddling intimately with your husband on your couch, swimming in the ocean with your kids and posing with cartoon character at Disney World and sharing plans to renovate your kitchens. Sometimes I'm a little bit jealous of your happiness, but in the end, I really am happy for you.

But I have to talk to you about something that's been bothering me since I got divorced in December. As I went through the divorce process, I stopped blogging, removed myself from social situations, spent more time at home and less time posting pictures of myself on Facebook. It might have seen like my divorce had defeated me and that I wanted just to be left alone. The good news is that I'm okay; I'm surviving, and doing quite well. I know this because I watch a lot of Grey's Anatomy and research my symptoms on WebMD which pretty much makes me a medical professional.

I've noticed the way some of you seem to have fallen off the face of the earth. Several of you have made thinly veiled excuses when I've tried to make plans, or acted distant and judgmental when we finally did get together. I know there have been rumors about why my ex and I separated, despite the fact that no one confronted me about them. I understand why you're uncomfortable. Getting a divorce sucks. It isn't something I ever thought would happen to my marriage, and it isn't something I'd ever wish on yours. When I stood in front of 140 people at my wedding, in my big poofy dress, I didn't say my vows with the intention that I would, one day, be out on my own.

I've come to the conclusion that some of you didn't know what to say to me immediately after I divorced, so you said nothing at all. I was too caught up in my own struggles to understand this at the time, and I rarely called you, so that left us at an impasse. Some of you may have disagreed with why I had decided to pursue divorce and felt you couldn't talk to me for fear it would cause a confrontation between us. I know this now, but at the time I had no clue as to the reason for your silence.

Another reason I I lost friends, as many divorced people do, is because those who were mutually friends with my ex and I chose sides. You may not have done it consciously, but felt you couldn't stay friends with both of us, so one of us had to go. I found this to be true especially when my ex-husband was friends with the husband of my friend -- especially if they were golfing or hunting partners. Maybe you felt uncomfortable spending time with me when you knew your husbands had just golfed with my ex. You didn't know what to say to me, and I think you may have even felt guilty, so you stayed away. It didn't help that my ex made a supreme effort (when he had never done so before) to stay friends with you and your husbands, while I sat around waiting for you to call me.

Thing don't always work out as planned, my married friends. Even with the intention of staying married forever, my ex-husband and I grew apart. This happened over a long, long time. Just as it takes two people to build a marriage, it takes two to destroy one. As most of you didn't take the time to ask me what had gone wrong, or why I had to get out, you don't know the full story. You don't know the extent of the misery I felt. You don't know how long I struggled to make the decision to leave. And you don't know the dysfunction that existed in my marriage. I didn't come to the conclusion to divorce lightly. It wasn't impulsive, and it wasn't without merit.

I want to tell you that divorce isn't contagious. You can't catch it from me, any more than I can catch the happy bliss you share with your husband. I'm working hard to get my life back on track and that includes keeping the friends I have as well as making new ones. Divorce isn't the end of the world. It's the start of a new life.

Happily ever, after divorce.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Wed, 30 Oct 2013 00:12:00 +0000

My smoke detector malfunctioned the other night.

This wouldn't have been such an inconvenience if it hadn't happened at 3:30 in the morning. I was deeply asleep, having one of those totally nonsensical dreams that is perfectly logical in the deepest slumber, when the distinctive chirp of the alarm woke me up. I blearily hauled my half-conscious body out of bed, stumbling down the hallway like a drunkard on a bender, and studied the alarm, which peered down at me imposingly. It chirped again. How was I going to reach it? I cursed my landlord for installing it at the highest point in the ceiling. I cursed the high ceiling. I cursed the very existence of smoke, smoke itself, which made such inventions necessary. I cursed my ex-husband for being my ex-husband. This was exactly the sort of thing I had kept him around for when we were married - to do all those annoying household things that are delegated to the male sex, like taking out the garbage and tinkering with the lawnmower and fixing the toilet when it overflows. The smoke detector seemed unreachable. It taunted me, chirping incessantly, mocking my meager five foot three inch frame. Eventually I piled books onto a chair, balanced precariously on top and, using a broom handle, knocked the detector's cover off, leaving it dangling from electrical wires from the ceiling. The smoke detector fought back, emitting a screech similar to those made by certain members of the owl family. I ripped its battery out and tossed it on the floor, certain I had assured my defeat. Amazingly, it chirped again, seemingly possessed by a demon determined to drive me insane. I ran into the kitchen, woozily grabbed a pair of scissors, and violently hacked at it. Perspiration ran down my back. The detector crashed to the floor, made a pathetic warbling sound, and died.

I had won.

I've never lived alone before. Now, stop staring at me like that. I swear, I have good reasons. I lived at home while in college, choosing to save a fortune on student loans by going to a state school and commuting to campus. It was just my mother and I, and we shared our space with relatively minor conflict - I did all of the housework and lived rent-free, while she mostly left me alone. Then I met my ex-husband, got engaged, graduated, got married, and relocated from my mom's apartment into an apartment with my now ex-husband, where I promptly got knocked up.

I moved into the house I currently live in back in May, which means I'm still in the process of learning to live on my own. I remember looking around when I first moved in and realizing, wow, everything in this house? It's MINE. And ONLY mine. It was kind of overwhelming. I slowly realized I would no longer have to deal with my ex's dirty clothes all around the house. I wouldn't have to clean the whiskers that peppered his bathroom sink after he shaved. I wouldn't have to cook what he wanted to eat for dinner, decorate according to his taste, or spend a single God dammed minute thinking about accommodating his needs anymore. That realization felt fantastic. I was free.

Before my ex and I separated, I remember feeling very alone and wishing I could live alone. It was unbearable to be under the same roof with someone and yet feel so alone all the time. Even before the idea of divorce came up, these feelings chased me. It didn't matter what state we lived in or how big our house was or how much money he made. When I finally told him I no longer wanted him, I spent a lot of time hiding outside on the patio, curled into a lawn chair, wondering how I was going to get through our separation. I couldn't visualize how I would take care of myself. I couldn't picture my own things in my own space. I couldn't imagine learning how to budget, to cover rent and the water bill and clothes and groceries and the occasional movie with my kids.

Now that I've learned how to do all of those things, and find myself thriving as a divorced single mom, I couldn't be happier. But it's hard to get used to sometimes. When something goes wrong, there's no one lying next to me in the middle of the night to ask for help. I'm sure my boyfriend would be happy to rescue me, but he has his own house and children to care for, and its important for me to learn to handle emergencies on my own, even if they seem insurmountable. While it's been incredibly empowering to teach myself how to get through the moments when things do go wrong, that doesn't mean I want to live alone for the rest of my life. Learning to be self-sufficient will eventually help me be a better partner when I do remarry, which I hope to someday.

In the meantime, I have smoke detectors to vanquish.

On leaving NYC and being in charge of your own happiness.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 28 Oct 2013 15:18:00 +0000

It's been over fifteen years since since I turned my back on my hometown of NYC. Sometimes I miss it, but more often I don't. When I tell people here in Dallas that I spent my adolescence riding the subway to school and knew my way around Central Park and got into my first cab accident on the way to my prom and was mugged at 13, they do one of two things: ask why I left, or how I managed to survive there in the first place. New York City seems like an exotic place to some of my neighbors, with their tidy suburban homes and sprawling mega churches and somewhat bland uniformity. It's true that it was a difficult place to grown up in. I didn't have a backyard or washer dryer. A pigeon pooped on me on my way to kindergarten. My parents struggled to afford a place for my brother and I to grow up in, with good schools and low crime and friendly neighbors. And let's not talk about the traffic, noise, sweltering summers and frigid winters.

But it could be magical, too. I have 24 years of wonderful memories from growing up in the city. There was the Bronx Zoo, where I went trick or treating as a child among giraffes and elephants. And the nice lady at the library who always gave me a cherry lollypop because she knew it was my favorite. There were oak trees a thousand feet into the sky on the playground of my elementary school and hot bagels from the deli on the corner. As a high school student, I befriended the crazy homeless woman who perched near my subway stop. Between her mutterings, we talked about politics and whether the grafitti was getting worse on the F train and what happened on Beverly Hills 90210 the night before. I had my first kiss in the whale room at the Museum of Natural History and my first heartbreak in the corridors of Carnegie Hall. I met Diane Keaton and Dennis Miller and the guy who DJ'd for Madonna in the nineties. And I never much missed having a washer dryer - on a cold winters day, the warm hug of the laundromat was better than anything else in the world.

I moved to Dallas as a newlywed in 1999. It felt like landing in a foreign country. The food was weird, the people loud, the houses sprawling. All the open space terrified and fascinated me. Over the last 13 years, I've relocated from Brooklyn to upstate NY to Texas to Long Island to Georgia to Texas to Iowa back to Texas again. It's been over three years since I've moved back, and it's finally staring to feel like home. I'm not 100% there yet, if I'll ever be. There are still moments of lonliness and fear, but that's art of being human. The location has nothing to do with it.

I occasionally come across articles online about living in Dallas, and how pretentious and unfriendly it can be. This is not an easy place to live. Dallas is a messy, complicated city. It's populated by some of the wealthiest people you'll ever meet in areas like Uptown and Highland Park, and some of the poorest in South Dallas and parts of Oak Cliff. This is a land dominated by sprawling suburbs in the north, home to mid-level executives who work for Frito Lay and their stay-at-home housewives who stain the air with the carbon runoff from their gigantic SUV's and block the sun with their rhinestone bedazzled jeans. It's not easy to make friends here. While the south has a reputation for being home to friendly, hospitable folks, I've found Dallasites to be quite the opposite. They can be judgmental, and standoffish, and often just plain rude. It can be hard making friends here.

I've read similar articles about the challenges of residing in NYC, including this smugly self-congratulatory one in The Cut. Most of these articles annoy me, not because they aren't true, but because they cling to the notion that a place should make you happy. I think one of the enlightening truths unveiled to us as adults is that you must choose happiness, no matter the circumstances. You aren't owed happiness because you live in a big city, or a small town, or someplace in between, and these places aren't capable of handing you the happiness you might think you deserve simply because you live there. You, and you alone, are in charge of determining what makes you happy, and you alone are responsible for finding it.

Happiness begins with the basics. It's choosing a job that fulfills, challenges, and inspires you. A job that leavs you exhausted at the end of the day, but also excited to come back the next morning. A job that you're excited to talk to friends about and adds a new dimension of fulfillment to your life.

Happiness is choosing friends that make things better. It's having one friend who you share your deepest fears, anxieties, and truths with, someone who doesn't judge or laugh at you and gets you out of your house when you're holed up wallowing in your own depression.

Happiness is choosing a significant other who adds something to your life, who isn't just your best friend and a shoulder to cry on and a warm body to see movies with, but someone who understands and supports you and loves you unconditionally.

It’s finding a place to live that can be your refuge, a place where you can go to escape from the world, where you feel safe and relaxed. It's a place for you to keep clean, and light candles and hang up pictures and invite people over and make your bed every morning. It’s up to you to make it somewhere you’d want to live, and get out if you can’t.

As for me, I'm finding a little more happiness within myself every day. I can thank my job as a teacher for keeping me busy in a challenging but inspiring way. Getting to know Dallas better is also important to the process. It's like we're dating -- the relationship is still kind of new, and it's taking some work. But it's really worth it.

The big fat lie of closure.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Thu, 24 Oct 2013 12:19:00 +0000

When a relationship ends, there's one thing most of us obsess over: Getting closure. Whether it's a romantic relationship, friendship, or a divorce, you might find yourself finding excuses to contact the other party. You may send a text that didn't really need to be sent, or go out of your way to put yourself in their path.. You might suggest seemingly clandestine meetings, to talk about the kids or family members or your schedule or something, anything, to keep contact. You may tell yourself, "Well, I just need to get some closure." Seems innocent enough. You're in need of an apology, or vindication, or validation that your gut was right and ending the relationship was necessary for your sanity.

I didn't really feel any closure when my divorce became final, and I haven't found in the months since. There's been no tidy ending to what was a fifteen year marriage, no ceremonial goodbye. During those last few gut wrenching conversations my ex and I had at the very end of our marriage, he said things I knew not to be true. He clung to misconceptions in an attempt to avoid taking any personal responsibility. He blamed me for everything. While it's true that I was the one who initiated our divorce, we didn't have a conclusive conversation regarding what went wrong, why we each shared fault, and why our divorce was ultimately best both of us. The lack of such a conversation eats me up sometimes.

Fortunately, the truth is that closure - that thing that ties up the relationship in a nice neat bow and explains it all - it a big fat illusion that eludes everyone after a split.

When I was a high school student in the flush of my youth, my friends and I delighted in dissecting the end of our relationships. The arguments and debates and break-ups between us and our boyfriends were studied with the exacting deliberation of a forensic scientist. We analyzed the love letters, notes, answering machine messages and gifts from our ex's with the gut-wrenching solidarity only teenagers have. We were lovesick girls. We cursed and yelled and cried a little, and then we felt better. Mostly.

Closure has become central for explaining what people supposedly need to find in order to heal after a loss. Yet there's no agreed upon answer for what closure means or how you're supposed to find it. Closure has been described -- in contradictory ways -- as justice, peace, healing, acceptance, forgetting, remembering, forgiveness, moving on, answered questions, or revenge. There's even an emerging divorce party industry attempting to cash in on the desperation people feel to find closure, with break-up party games, cakes, cards and invitations.

Unfortunately, parties and forgiveness and all those things probably won't provide the emotional comfort that's needed. In the months immediately after my divorce, I asked myself, “When will I start feeling better? When will things get back to normal? I wanted to banish all the sad, confused, angry feelings from my life, putting them behind me so I could move on. But what an odd concept really, closure….as if I could turn the lock and throw away the key, as if I could truly shut the door on my emotions and feelings for a marriage lost.

Perhaps it's better to lose the idea of closure and reframe in terms of healing and growth. Learning to live with some questions is okay. Recognizing the loss and giving myself time to grieve, taking the high road and letting go of anger, and giving myself permission to release of the guilt and shame that's haunted me are much more achievable than the arbitrary concept of closure.

Now I ask you: Have you ever felt a need for closure after a relationship ended? How did you manage those feelings? Did you ever find the closure you were looking for?

Currently 10.21.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 21 Oct 2013 12:23:00 +0000

Reading: Did you ever find yourself absolutely immersed in a book? I'm talking about a book so good, so rapturously luminous, that you can't eat or drive or go to work or make dinner or do much of anything except think about it. It is your reason for living, this book, with its lush prose and complex characters and sublime setting. The book that recently had such an effect on me is called Someone, by Alice McDermott. In a concise 240 pages, she presents the full and absorbing life of an ordinary woman named Marie. Chapters from childhood, adolescence, marriage, motherhood and old age reveal the abundance of Marie's life and family. In these laconic pages, McDermott allows readers to enter post World War II Brooklyn and experience a depth of emotion and human experience common in the most ordinary lives. Much like McDermott's protagonist, I too lived among Brooklyn's Irish Catholics, and felt that she very accurately captured the feel of that life.

Cooking: Every year, in the fall, I get an urge to cook. Not just cook. Oh no. I want to orchestra five course meals. I want to bake pies and crumble and bars and cookies. I want to fill my house with the intoxicating scent of butter. (Oh butter. How I love you.) I want to plan elaborate dinner parties, with complicated appetizers and candlelight and appropriate wine pairings for each course. I scour Pinterest for recipes. I leaf through back issues of Southern Living. I shop for ingredients like a smart bomb dropped from a F-22. I'm tactical. I have lists. This weekend, I made fried chicken and mashed potatoes and two loaves of apple muffin bread and crockpot cinnamon applesauce, for no real reason at all. It was lovely.

Listening To: Joni Mitchell. John Legend. Ben Howard. Daughter. With a 25 minute commute to work, I've learned that listening to something calming keeps my blood pressure down and hand off the horn when some moron cuts me off. Ben Howard is especially medicinal.

Concerned About: Money. Before my divorce, my ex-husband took 100% control of our finances. He solely supported our family and he largely directed where and how the money was spent. I often had no idea how much we even had in the bank, much less what he was spending it on, and almost no say in our personal finances. It was humiliating and infuriating. One of the best things about being single is that I"m now in charge of my money. I know where every cent is, at all times. It's a learning experience, all this budgeting and accounting and frugality, but it feels pretty great. I'm doing okay for now but I'd really like to be saving more - to finish paying off my credit cards, to start a college fund for my children, and to take a much-needed trip to NYC. A couple of you sent me emails recommending apps for keeping track of my personal finances, and I'm so glad you did! The Mint app is especially good.

Watching: So many shows. Parenthood (the best.) Anthony Bourdain Parts Unknown. Modern Family. Scandal. Grey's Anatomy (even though I might be the last person in America who cares about Dr. Bailey and Mer and McDreamy.)

Loving: That autumn is finally here! Honeycrisp apples, thrifting for chunky sweaters, decorating my front porch and walkway for Halloween, preparing fall crafts for my school class, watching my daughter take to the lacrosse fields every weekend (she scored her first goal of the season this Saturday! Proud mama here.) Sipping whiskey and talking late into the night with my boyfriend. Just my boyfriend in general.

So, how about you? What are you up to today? Got any book recommendations?

Date yo self: Being out alone isn't as scary as you think.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Fri, 18 Oct 2013 02:23:00 +0000

The first time I took myself out for dinner and a movie, I had just thrifted three new sweaters for fall. I paired one with my favorite jeans and requested a table at a local Vietnamese restaurant, indulging in the largest bowl of pho they offered. I ordered spring rolls as an appetizer and iced tea to drink and at the theater I purchased one ticket to Gravity. (Unrelated: George Clooney, I'm beginning to think you're a bit overrated as an actor.)

This happened this past weekend, eleven months after officially leaving my marriage of fifteen years. In the past I'd grabbed a bagel and coffee, or a quick salad from a deli, or a hot apple cider from Starbucks alone. I'd even had a memorable solo meal in Little Italy once, where I escaped last summer after officially announcing my separation to my family.

I've had friends look at me, wide eyed with disbelief, when I've told them that I've eaten out alone. Some of them have confessed they might consider having a drink at a bar by themselves, maybe, if they were waiting for their husband or a friend to arrive, but never an entire meal. And certainly not a movie as well. Nope. Not going to happen. No way.

So what's with the stigma?

Eating and watching a movie at home is one thing. You're in the comforting womb of your living room, listening to the predictable hum of the refrigerator and that dog who lives next door, barking all night. It's safe, and secure, and occasionally a bit suffocating. For many if not most of us, eating alone is relegated to home or a quick bite somewhere anonymous, like a deli or bagel shop, where it’s more about sustenance than experience. Especially, it seems, for women. A quick poll of just a handful of my friends reveals that women still don’t eat out alone at restaurants with a sense of comfort or security, and it’s a shame. A shame! Because learning to enjoy a meal out with only your own company or that of a good book is an outright empowering experience. The sense of independence that coexists with ordering a meal and not asking what others are having or wondering if they'll approve of your choice or if they’ll want to share is something we all deserve to experience.

In case you were wondering, there’s a name for the fear of dining alone. It’s called solomangarephobia, according to psychologist Lillian Glass, and just about everyone has it. It boils down to solo diners thinking that other people are looking at them, when those eating around them are, in fact, focused on their own food.

I wonder if we don't eat out alone more because we aren't taught how. From the time that we're young, we learn to eat in the company of others. In preschool, children sit in groups of eight to ten when sharing a meal, and are pulled out to eat alone if they misbehave. As a teacher myself, I've witnessed what just the mere threat of being forced to eat alone does to my students. They freak out. Eating alone is considered punishment, a punishment worse than missing playground time. In middle school, kids realize that the ones who eat alone in the cafeteria at lunch are the ones that no one wants to eat with. Eating alone is a sign of social suicide. I'm certain that, whether by choice or not, every single person reading this post ate a meal alone when they were in school. This experience leaves a lifelong scar we carry into adulthood.

Let's not even talk about the stigma that comes with seeing a movie alone. Almost any human being with a pulse trembles at the thought of being in a movie theater alone, surrounded by happy couples sharing extra large tubs of popcorn. That crap is scary. I get it. I couldn't help but feel self-conscious when Gravity started, as I noticed couples curl into one another with the easy sense of intimacy they have with a significant other. Doing things alone can be outright terrifying, expecially if the activity at hand is synonymous with dating.

Bu what if you don't feel like sharing the popcorn? What if you want to see a movie in 3D but 3D makes your friends queasy and your boyfriend twitchy? What if you want to go to a movie ridiculously early, like at 5 pm, a time reserved for seniors fresh off the early bird special? What if all you want is a date with yourself? What then?

I say, put on your favorite jeans, swipe on some lip gloss, and take your own self out. Screw the so-called shame in going out alone. Movie theaters are pretty dark, and chances are no one will notice you. In addition, most people are incredibly narcissistic anyway, worrying about what their dates think of them and their taste in movies than notice you exist/are there alone/are audibly sobbing while Sandra Bullock tumbles through space towards almost certain death (spoiler alert.)

You probably feel a little anxious with the thought of going through with all this. That's okay. That's normal. But if you're willing to set aside your fears, you too could get the chance to bask in the joy of riding solo.

Thanksgiving negotiations.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Thu, 17 Oct 2013 11:53:00 +0000

My ex left me a couple of text messages last week concerning our Thanksgiving schedule. According to our divorce decree, he is supposed to have custody of our kids the duration of their Thanksgiving holiday. (Their school holiday encompasses an entire week.) Technically, Thanksgiving week is "my" week with them. The week prior is his. This means that, conceivably, he could have custody both the week before Thanksgiving and the entire week of the holiday.

Cue problem.

This is where divorce and custody gets complicated. The fact that we decided to have joint custody with alternating weeks makes our situation better than most. We don't have to wrestle with 'two days on, three days off, every other weekend, one Wednesday night each' as I've heard other divorced families do. For the most part, we communicate effectively and are able to handle schedule changes with an impressive amount of maturity.

Then there's Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving will always be difficult for me to negotiate. This will be the first year I won't spend the holiday with my children, and the thought of that is almost unbearable. The fact that I don't have family within driving distance makes it that much worse.

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that has always had special meaning for me. I've spent past years curdled up with my children on the couch, watching the Macy's parade -- just as I did with my mother when I was growing up. I made green bean casserole and pumpkin pie while my ex watched football with his brother, whose holiday visits from our home state of New York were a tradition. The kids enjoyed a couple of days off from school, and we were fortunate to enjoy time together as a family.

When the ex and I worked through our divorce settlement, we agreed to split holidays evenly. I took Christmas Eve and morning. He got Thanksgiving day and the Friday following. I took every other Hanukkah, he got every other Easter. I know ex-spouses who have split an actual holiday itself - Thanksgiving morning with one parent, the evening with another. But we didn't want to shuffle the kids around any more than was necessary. That's not fair to them, and ultimately they matter more than anything else.

With the U.S. Census Bureau counting nearly 4 million divorced parents in this country, many parents are facing similar challenges of negotiating holiday custody schedules and the pain of being apart. Our holiday agreement is very fair, and on paper, it makes perfect sense. But it feels much, much worse. When the ex called me to talk about it, I'll admit that I wasn't exactly in the best state of mind. I was immediately hostile and defensive. I snapped at him, jumped to conclusions that he was going to ask for more than he was already getting. Eventually I was able to communicate why I was having trouble staying even-tempered, that the holiday arrangement hurt too much and this pain was affecting my ability to discuss our arrangements rationally. We were able to talk it through and work out an alternate schedule, and everything is as okay as it's going to be.

When we were married, my ex delighted in telling me that I felt things too strongly and was overly emotional. It impeded our communication even when our marriage was relatively good. Every time I struggle to communicate effectively with him, it's as if I'm proving him right. I hate that. I feel like a failure.

I have no intention of crashing my ex's Thanksgiving, which means that starting this year, I get to create a new holiday tradition. I'm thinking about doing some volunteer work that day, helping serve homeless families a meal instead of sitting at home feeling badly for myself. It'll be good to give back, and might provide a much needed dose of perspective.

In divorce, there will always be negotiations. Things will never be perfectly balanced. I'm learning to deal with that, one tiny step at a time.

My ex's new girlfriend, and the process of disentangling.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Thu, 17 Oct 2013 01:19:00 +0000

When women talk about the current romantic lives of their ex-husbands, it's common to hear refrains along the lines of "I couldn't care less who he's with. What a nightmare, she can have him, good riddance." And they usually add "As long as she's nice to my kids, that's all I care about."

Really? You don't care at all? You're not curious? No twinges of jealousy? What if she's younger? Successful? Skinnier? None of this stings at all???

I don't believe you.

My ex introduced my children to his new girlfriend and her children this weekend. I've known that he's been seeing someone since before the ink on our settlement dried, despite his proclamations that he'd never be able to date again and would spend years alone mourning our marriage. I wasn't particularly surprised that he'd partnered up. This is a man who moved one of his parents in with him the day after I moved out. Of course he would be eager to move on, to find someone else to accompany him to office parties and tell him how intelligent and successful and wildly attractive he is. Of course he would immediately search for a replacement.

So why do I feel uncomfortable now that he's made his relationship public? Why does my knowledge of his girlfriend's existence give me pause? I want my ex-husband to be happy, I do. He deserves to have a life. I have one, after all. It's healthier for the kids to see him settled and partnered than sitting home with his dad at night, watching ESPN like a zombie. Do I want my ex anymore? No, most definitely not. Do I miss him sexually? Hell no. Do I suspect his new girlfriend is getting something I want or need? No, I know for sure, surer than I know anything, that he is incapable of giving me what I want. I knew that for years preceding our separation.

But there's something about the idea of my ex and his girlfriend being with my children and hers, acting like a family, that stings. In these moments I have to remind myself what it's like when my kids are with my boyfriend. (My children haven't met his kids yet. Though he and I are crazy about each other, we're in no rush.) Is it threatening to my ex's role as their dad in any way? Of course not. Would anything about them being with my boyfriend be objectively unacceptable to my ex? No, not even remotely. It's just a part of us all moving forward, separately, building a new life.

I'm not the only one whose having difficulty with this new development. I spoke with my daughter on Saturday night, and she was very, very upset. What she was told would be a brief introduction to my ex's girlfriend and her kids over frozen yogurt had turned into an all-day event. (Why he felt the need to include her children during this first meeting is beyond me.) They spent the afternoon at his house, had dinner together, and went to see a professional soccer game. My daughter did mention that his girlfriend was nice, and that her children were friendly. Of course, I didn't expect my ex to date a hag. I'm sure she's a nice woman, nonthreatening and uncomplicated. A simple girl. The opposite of me, with my churning brain and intellect and tattoos and "issues" regarding my long struggle and recovery over anorexia.

"It's all too much, mom," my daughter told me. "It's just too much." She never wanted to go to the soccer game. She didn't feel as if she had any say in what was happening. I was infuriated. Absolutely infuriated. I wanted to pick up the phone and roar at my ex and ask him why, for a relatively smart man, he was so God dammed clueless. I wanted to defend my child, who was in obvious emotional turmoil. I wanted to cry and scream and throw things and curse the heavens for marrying him in the first place.

I was up all of last night thinking about what had happened. Sure, I was infuriated that my daughter was so upset. But why was I really angry? Why had I spent a night awake, wondering about this new woman, if she was pretty, smart, successful? It wasn't really about my daughter. She'll be fine. I suspect she was more annoyed about giving up a night playing her new Pokemon download than going to the soccer game. Here's what it is, what it boils down to: this guy was my friend, my husband, my father figure (sorry, it's true), for awhile, the bulk of my adult life. Since we split, he hadn't yet officially "replaced" me. I'd still been the only woman, aside from his mother, who really loomed large in his life, for better or worse. And now that's changed. So it pulls at the wound. It's a reminder of the loss.

That's the thrust of it: even though we've been estranged for over a year, and we've both moved on, the process of disentangling continues. My complicated feelings about the new girlfriend are about us all taking yet another step apart. It's not about her in particular; she could be anyone. Who knows if she'll even stick around. It's about the sadness of divorce, of one family unit ending and morphing into something else.

I believe it is genuinely possible for people to move on. Some marriages, like mine, were mistakes. Jealousy can often be confused for regret, and I suspect that's what I'm feeling - regret for wasting so much of my time with someone who didn't value, notice, or appreciate me. I have nothing against the girlfriend. Her presence doesn't affect me personally. As long as she isn't cruel or abusive to my kids, it'll be fine. These complicated feelings won't kill me, not by a long shot.

Bits + bites 10.11.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Fri, 11 Oct 2013 12:35:00 +0000

Bits + bites 10.11.13.

1, 2, 3: Scenes from the Texas State Fair. I won a sock monkey (yay!). The ferris wheel was our favorite ride. Our other favorite state fair thing, not pictured: Deep fried Oreos, which we hastily shoved into our mouth parts.

4. Chile rejeno from Avila's in Dallas. Credit for the drool-inducing pic goes to my boyfriend, who encouraged me to try something besides fajitas from a Mexican restaurant. It was amazing.

5. Thrifted this 1950's plaid poncho a couple of weeks ago. Bring it on, fall.

Staying "friends' with an ex.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Wed, 09 Oct 2013 12:25:00 +0000

Today I came across a truly depressing fact: According to a blog post I read regarding divorce recovery, it takes one year to recover for every five years of marriage. That means that I have two more years of grieving ahead of me, and that I've only just begun to scratch the surface of overcoming my own dysfunctional marriage.

Fun times.

I suppose I was fortunate in the fact that my divorce was relatively calm. Sure, there were occasional bouts of profanity. My ex broke a crucial promise to me not to hire a lawyer (as he's an attorney, we had agreed to do the divorce ourselves to save money.) He emptied our bank account, leaving me with $12 in my wallet and an empty gas tank, and had a sheriff serve me with papers at work, which is a humiliation I will never, ever get over. But we managed to be mostly agreeable throughout the negotiations of our divorce. It helped that I was resolved to show kindness and respect towards him during that time, no matter how he chose to behave. And I was pretty successful at that. When he tried to taunt me, I refused to respond. Instead, I prayed for him, and for myself. I prayed for strength. I prayed for resolve. I prayed to stay calm and stoic when he tried to enrage me.

All that prayer left me relatively unaffected when our actual court date arrived. I was relieved to put closure after eight months of vitriol and tension while we lived together before finally separating. I was thrilled that he chose not to attend court with me, leaving just my lawyer and judge to see my tears.

There's another negotiation happening now that I wasn't prepared for: the type of new relationship the ex and I have. Before the divorce, I entertained all kinds of fantasies that he and I would be friendly. Maybe not friends, but friendly. I thought we'd be able to occasionally meet for coffee to catch up on news about the kids. I was sure we'd be able to trade texts if we needed to talk about schedules. After all, we'd spent 15 years together. We had three children together. We'd been there for each other during the most difficult challenges a couple can face. I supported him as he changed job after job after job while forwarding his career. We relocated out of state multiple times for his new positions. He stayed with me through relapse after relapse and family drama that left me estranged from my mother. While our marriage had ultimately collapsed, we still had a huge history to fall back on. He was my best friend during most of my adult life, and I was his.

I've read books and watched movies and read blog posts about couples who were friends after their own divorces, despite the fact that one of them cheated or was a drug addict or was convicted of a felony. They meet for pizza in busy restaurants or celebrate birthdays together and while there's an occasional bubble of tension, they still managed to communicate effectively. I don't know what real life couples those books and movies and blog posts are based off of, but I'm convinced they're crap. I don't know how to reinvent our relationship after the divorce. There are times when I am so enraged that I can't bear to look at him. Then I have moments when I miss what we had when our marriage was good, in those halcyon newlywed days. There are times when I'm thrilled he's out of my life, followed by what-if daydreams - what if we'd gone to therapy sooner, what if I'd used my voice instead of my emaciated body to communicate my needs, what if I'd refused to tolerate certain behavior on his part, what if I'd been strong enough to say no when I'd needed to.

Truthfully, I'm not sure I even want to be friends with my ex. And I doubt he wants to be friends with me. While it would definitely make our co-parenting more effective, I don't think either of us is capable of it at this point, and I'm not sure it'd be the healthiest thing anyway. He can be passive-aggressive and uncooperative. I can be overly emotional, defensive and mistrustful. Maybe there will come a point when we'll be friends. Maybe not.

The divorce process naturally pit my ex-spouse and I against each other, training us to view each other as enemies. Any future alliance seems impossible. But because we have children, he is still my co-parent. It takes a lot of maturity to make amends with the person who has just torn apart your life, or has behaved in an unforgivable way. But just as it takes two to determine the marriage dynamic, it takes two to make a good - or bad - divorce.

Now I ask you - can you be friends with an ex? Whether it's an ex-boyfriend or spouse, I'd love to hear your opinion.

Reinvention.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Sun, 06 Oct 2013 20:10:00 +0000

I haven't blogged in a week. I could blame it on lack of time, distractions from my children, even a shortage of energy resulting from shepherding 19 preschoolers around all day. But that would all be untrue.

I've been struggling with the direction that this blog is going in. My life has changed quite dramatically since I starting blogging here three, almost four years ago. When I began this blog, I was a married stay-at-home mom in the early stages of recovery from a long battle with anorexia and bulimia. My husband was gone frequently, traveling out of state for work. With my children in school all day, I had loads of time to research topics for blog posts. I could roam around thrift stores at leisure. Eventually, I would even write and publish my own book on vintage and thrifting. I could blog about body image, sharing my own struggles as I tentatively tiptoed into recovery. When I felt lonely, or abandoned, or undervalued (which was often), I wrote a post, eventually cultivating a community of friendly, supportive readers who were also thrifters and vintage lovers and appreciated my occasionally wacky sense of personal style.

Flash forward to today. I'm a somewhat recently divorced full time preschool teacher. Because I have joint custody with my ex-husband, I see my children every other week. My previous wardrobe of vintage sequins and silk skirts and distressed jeans has been replaced with clothing that is stain-proof, durable, and sensible - far from the fashionable outfits I used to wear. I'm lucky if I have the time to thrift once a month. Instead of researching and crafting eloquent, engaging blog posts, I use my free time to browse Pinterest for classroom management tips. I'm on an extremely tight budget, leaving little room for shopping aside from groceries and fall clothes for my kids. Most nights I collapse into bed riddled with shame for ending my marriage, stressed about money, missing my children and wondering when I'm finally going to feel my life stabilize.

Don't get me wrong. I'm far, far happier than I was in my marriage. I feel more content, more confident, more energized than I have in years. I have a sense of independence that eluded me most of my life. I know where my money is at all times. I don't have to revolve my life around the needs of my ex-husband. For the first time, I get to do things on my terms.

Which leads me to this blog.

It seems silly to continue on the same path when so much has changed since I started. Doing outfit posts feels trite now, especially since most of my daily wardrobe is decidedly unfashionable. I have overcome my anorexia and bulimia, and am no longer riddled with the poor body image I once had. I don't feel the need to write about the same topics I once did - fashion in specific - because my values have changed so much. These days, I get far more excited about paying off a credit card or hearing one of my students tell me that they love me than this month's issue of Vogue. I still get a thrill from a great thrift score, or getting dressed up for a night out with my boyfriend. But fashion in and of itself doesn't hold the same weight.

I feel a need to do more personal blogging. I want to use this space to write about where my life really is now, as a divorced middle aged woman just starting to hit her stride. While I'll always be interested in personal style, it isn't that important to me anymore. I'd rather feel free to explore this new start as a single woman, as a person mourning the end of her marriage, as a single mom and a teacher and introvert and perpetual cheapskate. Truthfully, after so many years of starving and faking my way through my marriage, I don't wish to put on a facade and pretend to be someone I'm no longer for the sake of my readership here.

Thrifting 101: Is thrifting getting too expensive?

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 12:27:00 +0000

Last week I made a quick thrifting pit stop while on my lunch hour, and I came across this:

Maybe it's a product of living in a major metropolitan city, or maybe it's something that's part of a growing trend. I'm talking, of course, about how ridiculous thrift store prices have become.

The tag above was for a vintage 1960's double-faced wool dress. Almost certainly adorable in its day, it was now moth-eaten and peppered with irreversible yellowing along the hem. I found it in a little hole-in-the-wall store tucked in the back of a decrepit strip mall, the kind of dusty place where you're more likely to discover avocado green Tupperware, macrame plant holders, Burl Ives records and men's butterfly collar polyester shirts than designer items - far from the high-end, curated shop that can justify overpriced vintage.

I was absolutely baffled by this price tag. Really? Forty-five dollars for a stained dress? For that price, I could go to a reputable Etsy dealer or local vintage shop and invest in a gorgeous piece in nearly perfect condition. Why on earth would I pay nearly fifty dollars for a stained dress?

Whether it's a charity shop or larger-scale thrift store, prices are definitely on the rise. Blame the faltering economy or trendiness of thrifting (personally, I fault Macklemore,) thrifting has never been so popular. Resale shops are thriving, popping up across the country. In 2011, the number of resale shops has increased by 7%. According to Britt Beemer, founder and chairman of America's Research Group, much of the recent growth can be attributed to young shoppers, many of whom are passing on trips to the mall in favor of thrift stores. About 20% of people shop in thrift stores regularly, compared with about 14% in 2008. Jim Gibbons, CEO and president of Goodwill states that Goodwill Industries has expanded into 2,700 stores in 15 countries since its inception in 1902. The total donated goods revenue for the Goodwill network is more than $3 billion.

At my local Goodwill, I've seen H&M dresses for $19 - more expensive than their counterparts on the sales rack in an H&M store. The bottom line is that all thrift stores, including Goodwill, get their merchandise for free. While some stores use proceeds from sales towards supporting charities, there are others that don't. It's also worth noting that at $719,147, Goodwill chief Michael Miller is the highest-paid nonprofit CEO in Oregon, and one of the wealthiest CEO's in the country. The Goodwill store of Columbia-Willamette booked $106.4 million in 2010 revenue.

So much for non-profit.

So now I ask you: Have you noticed the same thing in your area? Are some thrift stores too expensive? What's the most you're willing to spend on an item in a thrift store?

{Outfit} Peasantly. 9.24.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Tue, 24 Sep 2013 12:37:00 +0000

Vintage 1970's peasant blouse? Thrifted. Jeans? Old Navy. Minnetonka booties? Consignment shop. Louis Vuitton 'Speedy' bag? Thrifted.

I've been feeling kind of under the weather over the past few weeks. As a new teacher, this is not surprising. When I started teaching, I was warned by my coworkers that I'd be exposed to a whole new world of germs and pestilence. They spoke of terrifying things like hand-mouth disease and hacking coughs from bronchitis and pink eye. So I took action. For the first few weeks in the classroom, I diligently applied hand sanitizer, stuffed my pockets full of tissues, and sprayed Lysol in great foaming clouds. Then I got cocky, decided I was overdoing it, and stopped.

And then I got sick.

I wore this recently thrifted peasant blouse as I nursed my aching head this weekend. Some people lounge around their homes in their sweats when they're sick; I wear vintage.

Keep calm and don't stop smiling.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Fri, 20 Sep 2013 12:49:00 +0000

I'm five weeks and a few days into my new job as a preschool teacher. A certain degree of routine has begun to emerge. Every morning I look into the mirror and think, "You are a strong confident woman and these hoodlums will not get the best of you."

Kidding.

Maybe.

Why did I decide to teach preschool? I wonder on the very worst day. (This is typically a day I've been spit, farted, peed and pooped on; bit, smacked, and screamed at.) It's not a particularly well-paying job. On occasion, I have to spend my own money to get the materials I need to expand a lesson plan. There's an enormous amount of work, a school director I can't seem to please and parents determined that I guarantee their offspring entrance into Harvard. At the end of the day I'm covered in various bodily fluids, paint, and glue. Play dough is buried under my fingernails. I am often so tired that I can barely parent my own kids.

Yeah, it sucks. I should seriously consider quitting.

But I LOVE my job. The absolute joy I feel when I connect with a child is beyond compare. The excitement I see in their eyes when they make a discovery makes up for every germ that makes me sick. The hugs, the tickles, the unrestrained giggles, the frantic begging for one more story Miss Elissa!!! is enough to fill my heart. I find myself getting attached to my students, even the ones who seem determined to break my spirit. Especially them. The children who are most resistant are the ones that challenge me, inspire me, and energize me the most. I think about them on my commute home. I research their behaviors during my lunch hour. And I make lists of activities to do to keep them engaged, occupied and happy.

Life has kept me out of the classroom for the past decade. Between the births of my daughter and twins, personal health struggles, and marriage to a man intent on relocating us every 2-3 years, it was simpler for me to have part time retail jobs than manage a classroom of 20 rowdy children. Fortunately, teaching isn't really that much different than any job. Here are some commonalities:

1. Keep a positive attitude and be sure you're always smiling.

As a preschool teacher, you always need to have a smile on your face and a calm demeanor. This is because children can sense when you're defeated/exhausted/overwhelmed and will retaliate with the pent up energy of a starving lioness stalking a herd of axis deer. Also, if you stand in a preschool classroom for only 5 minutes you will see a child spill something or break something and hear screams and screeches from every corner of the room. When you watch a kid spill an entire pitcher of juice all over that morning's art project (my experience yesterday), your natural reaction may be to scream in their face, “Why do you have the worst motor skills ever? And why would you think your tiny ineffectual little baby arms are strong enough to properly handle a gallon of liquid?” but you can’t do that because they will freak out and cry and probably develop some strange complex where they're terrified to drink juice. Instead, you force a smile, take a deep breath, and say, “It’s OK. I’m glad to see you're trying to be independent, but sometimes we need to ask for help.”

The same rule can be applied to customer service. Imagine you're working with a customer trying to sell a dress. After a long morning of failed sales, you might be a bit defeated. Instead of being an energetic, creative, competent employee, you might sound like Dwight Schrute. If you appear miserable with the customer, they won't want to do business with you. But if you're smiling, you'll find that people are more likely to make a purchase.

2. Your attitude affects those around you.

One of the most important things to be mindful of in the classroom is the way you speak to your students. If you're a screaming, screeching harpie, your students will eventually speak to their classmates in the same manner.

The same is true in any office job. If you come into work and act like a big cranky pants, eventually it's going to rub off on your office mates. The way you speak to a client will affect the way they interract with you too. Which brings me to my next point.

3. It's not personal.

As we age, we learn how to control our emotions, which is something that preschoolers do not get. Sometimes a child will be playing with a toy they can't figure out. Instead of calmly and rationally asking their teacher for help, they will scream with the pitch of a cat in heat and throw the toy across the room, where it will bounce of the head of a innocent classmate. Most likely this little terror didn't get enough sleep last night, or they're missing their mom, or they didn't eat enough for breakfast. In any case, the problem usually isn't the toy, and when you hand them the same thing tomorrow morning they'll happily play with it.

Though we adults mostly have control over our emotions, this isn't always the case. At my last job, I saw a customer accidentally back into another customer's car in the parking lot. When she was confronted about it, she launched into a verbal assault so nasty, so vitriolic, I blushed. Hard. Maybe she got bad news that morning; maybe she didn't get enough sleep. Everyone has bad days. Giving them the benefit of the doubt can go pretty far.

We all have cellulite. Big woop.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Wed, 18 Sep 2013 11:57:00 +0000

I have cellulite.

I'm not sure there's any subject more ubiquitous to women than the admission and discussion of cellulite. It's a fact that 85 to 90% of all women have it - skinny, overweight, tall, short, young, and old. A genetic condition, it dimples our thighs and contours our butts and sometimes pops up on arms and stomachs. A January 2013 study commissioned by Cynosure Inc. about women and cellulite revealed that women who report having cellulite have a different perspective on how they appear than those without cellulite. On a ten-point scale, with 1 being 'extremely unattractive' and 10 being 'extremely attractive,' women with cellulite rated their own appearance on average lower than women without cellulite (6.4 vs. 6.7, respectively). In fact, ninety-seven percent of women with cellulite shared that given the opportunity they would change a part of their body. Of those, 82% would change their stomach, followed by their upper legs (62%), then 50% their buttocks and lastly, 37% their arms. Only 23% of women with cellulite find their lower legs most attractive, while 18% selected buttocks, 10% choose upper legs and 4% believe their stomach is most attractive.

The results confirmed that women with cellulite have tried many approaches to hide the bumpy appearance on their bodies. This includes, but is not limited to, avoiding certain types of clothing (72%), keeping the lights off while intimate (28%) and shunning communal fitting rooms (15%).

The very presence of cellulite is enough to send us into a shame spiral involving the purchase of expensive caffeine laden creams, "skin tightening" treatments, and hours spent perspiring on cardio equipment. There are complicated diets, liposuction, juice fasts, massage, dry brushing and endomology.

And yet it remains, stubbornly mocking our attempts to eradicate it.

America is hyper-obsessed with body image, pairing photoshopped images of emaciated models alongside scintillating exposes of celebrities with cellulite. Headlines scream both about the latest actress they've exposed as anorexic, and those they've "caught" with visible cellulite. This is presented as something shocking and downright dreadful. Our culture tell us, in no uncertain terms, that cellulite is just Not Okay.

I started getting cellulite about nine years ago (I'm 39.) Despite the fact that I was somewhat underweight, there it was, peeking out on the backs of my upper thighs. I thought about my cellulite a lot. I wondered if women whispered about it when I was at the community pool in my swimsuit. I worried that it affected the fit of my clothing, and quit wearing yoga pants, even in the privacy of my house. The shame of having such a common genetic condition sent me to the internet, where I researched skin tightening products. I seriously considered liposuction. I restricted my diet down to the bare bones.

The cellulite stayed.

These days, I don't think about my cellulite at all. I've found comfort in the fact that there really isn't anything I can do about it and that there was nothing I did to cause it, aside from being born into a family of genetically cursed women. From the Mayo Clinic:

“Cellulite is caused by fibrous connective cords that tether the skin to the underlying muscle, with the fat lying between. As the fat cells accumulate, they push up against the skin, while the long, tough cords are pulling down. This creates an uneven surface or dimpling.”

This is a matter of physical mechanics. Cellulite is not caused by poor circulation, sugar, toxins, poor diet, laziness, or any of the other ridiculous things charlatans have come up with to sell us ‘cellulite cures’. Men are less prone to cellulite for three reasons: their connective tissues have more of a criss-cross pattern, their skin is actually thicker so any unevenness in fat below the skin is less evident, and they store more fat viscerally (around their internal organs) than subcutaneously (between the skin and muscle). In other words, their bodies are structurally different.

I have to ask myself why so many women are willing to shell out ridiculous amounts of money and sometimes even undergo surgical procedures to attempt to eradicate something nearly all of us have. And it comes down to this: the media and out culture have made us feel ashamed about something we have literally no control over, is perfectly normal, and almost all of us have. In response, we spend our time, energy, and hard earned money chasing after an unattainable ideal.

Screw that message. We can do so much better.

Here's what it comes down to: Cellulite is not a problem. It is not a flaw. It's a normal function of the way women's bodies store fat. Lean women have cellulite. Healthy women have cellulite. Celebrities have cellulite. Vegan women, paleo women, gluten-free women, lactose-free women have cellulite. Body builder women have it. Bikini models have it. Women in isolated hunter-gatherer tribes have it. Women with unlimited access to plastic surgery have it. Most of the women reading this blog post have it. There's nothing wrong with you.

You're normal.

Last night I took a good hard look at my cellulite. Then I had a slice of red velvet cake.

It was delicious.

{Outfit} Friday on Monday. 9.15.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 12:47:00 +0000

Cardigan? Loft, thrifted. Blouse? Loft, thrifted. Jeans? Old Navy. Flats? Old Navy.
Vintage satchel? Coach, thrifted.

I took these pics before I left for work last Friday. In case you didn't know, Friday is my new favorite day of the week. Okay, let's be honest... it's always been my favorite day of the week. Friday is payday. It's date night with my boyfriend. It's Shark Tank on TV. It's staying up late because I can sleep in the following morning. It's strutting out of my classroom with the comforting knowledge that I won't be peed, spit, puked on or hit until Monday. And now, Friday is jeans day - the one weekday teachers are permitted to wear denim to school, a relief from the khakis that normally cloak my legs.

So yay to jeans. And yay to Fridays!

Just four more days to go.

Bits + bites. 9.13.12

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Fri, 13 Sep 2013 12:26:00 +0000

Bits + bites.

1. Rows and rows of vintage cowboy boots at Dolly Python, the raddest vintage shop/antique mall in Dallas.
2. After an exhausting day of pooping in the house, glaring at neighbors through the dining room window, and escaping through an open gate in the backyard, Max is ready for bed.
3. Fried chicken, vintage thrifted china.
4. Merry Go Round Thrift in Sherman looked like a hoarder's basement. On steroids.
5. Rebeca's 13th birthday painting party. One of my sons pained a blue chihuahua. Hilarity ensued.

Guess what? We all have emotional baggage.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Wed, 11 Sep 2013 12:41:00 +0000

Being in a new relationship can be uncomfortable at first.

I've been divorced for over a year and have a new man in my life. He's attentive, and romantic, and kind. He buys me my favorite flowers and writes me poetry. He lets me cry on his shoulder when I've had a tough go of it. We make dinner together and explore Dallas neighborhoods and see movies and share tumblers of whiskey in dark, cozy bars. He is my best friend, deepest confidant, and can make me laugh harder and longer than anyone ever has.

And I'm happy. Really and truly happy.

Of course, when you're dating someone, there are things you aren't supposed to talk about. Especially when you've somewhat recently left a fifteen year marriage. There are topics we stay away from because they fear we'll make our dates wish they were anywhere but across the table from us. We worry that their eyes will search for the exit when we delve into the messy abyss of our struggle with depression or our estranged relationship with our mother or that time we got arrested for shoplifting. Sometimes there are topics we're afraid to come near ourselves, because they're too painful or too emotional or just too damm messy to tangle with.

But what happens when your whole life is a bunch of messy things we don't talk about or acknowledge, otherwise known as baggage?

I meet people easily, but I don't tend to keep them around. Sometimes I feel lonely and untethered but more often I don't. I enjoy my independence, but the truth is, I find safety in the fact that my baggage remains mostly in the dark. The details about the tribulations of parenting autistic twin sons and thoughts about my struggle with anorexia and the trials I faced throughout the course of my marriage are things I tend to keep to myself. Friends, and even family, have often been left in the dark.

I worked with twelve other women at my last job. Funny, friendly, gossipy young women with boyfriends and designer jeans and addictions to reality TV. We chatted easily at work and bitched about our boss and bought each other diet Cokes from the sandwich shop next door.

We didn't talk about my family. How could I explain the messiness of being estranged from my mom to other people?

We didn't talk about my eating disorder. How could I talk about something that makes most women uncomfortable?

Of course, everyone over the age of eighteen has acquired some sort of emotional baggage. It's the stuff we carry into new relationships that weighs us down and has left us scarred. But it's helpful to know that we all have it., that even the most “perfect” upbringing has its baggage. It doesn’t require a traumatic event or abuse or screwed-up childhood. I'm learning that the crap we drag with us can either weigh us down and put a rift in our relationships, or make them stronger. It can strengthen the connection between you and your spouse/boyfriend/best friend, creating a bond that only the two of you share. It all depends on how much power we give that baggage and whether we let it define who we are.

So I'm making vow to be more open and honest from now on. I promise to give it all a real chance. Because we all come with baggage. It’s just whether or not I choose to let it define me that will determine how much a role it will play.

Currently 9.9.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 09 Sep 2013 12:25:00 +0000

CURRENTLY....

Making me cry:

My girl turned 13 on Friday. Thirteen! It's like the pages are flying off the calendar like they do in cartoons. Rebecca is lots of things I am (creative, thoughtful, emotional, impatient) and plenty of things I am not (fiercely opinionated, willful, mathmatical, snarky.) Thirteen is an interesting age. It's the in-between of childhood and adolescence, the cusp between cuddles and eye-rolling. It's not often I know which one to expect. Thankfully, Rebecca exhibits far more hugs than snark. She's on the lacrosse team, and plays upright bass in orchestra, and likes to draw and read and text her friends Dr Who memes found on the internet. All in all, she's a pretty well adjusted, remarkable kid.

Stressing me out:

A month ago, I started teaching pre-k. I had taught preschool years ago, back when I was a fresh-faced newlywed flush with creative energy. I gleefully spent my evenings cutting things out of construction paper and making homemade play dough. Now, I am a mostly exhausted middle-aged divorcee and mom of three who spends her evenings cutting things out of construction paper and making homemade play dough. I adore teaching. I feel very at home in my new school and overall am having a blast. But making lesson plans, scheduling parent-teacher conferences, and establishing a dominant position in my classroom has been stressful to say the least. Some of my kids are angels; others are more...challenging. Sometimes I feel confident, and others like I have no freaking idea what I'm doing. It's an adventure.

Reading:

The Bookstore by Deborah Meyler. I came across a review of this book on a blog I follow and was immediately hooked. The setting is a used bookstore in NYC, and our heroine a sweet, likeable Englishwoman with an unexpected pregnancy. There are literary references and quirky characters and wonderfully descriptive prose. Of course, I'm intrigued by any book set in my hometown, so this was an easy choice.

Craving:

Fall. Pumpkin spice lattes and cozy sweaters and the crunch of leaves underfoot and hot apple cider and roaring fires and jeans with boots and essentially any temperature below 90 degrees. The weather here has been blazingly hot. Our weather forecast should just be a red-faced, profusely sweaty guy standing outside with perspiration stains under his arms. It's that bad.

Wearing:

Khakis. Cropped khakis, long khakis. Khakis with Old Navy tee shirts and khakis with short sleeve blouses and khakis with sleeveless tops and cardigans. Sometimes I scroll through this blog and wistfully recall my past outfits featuring vintage sequins and leather maxi skirts and distressed jeans with holes in them. Unfortunately, those outfits are just not appropriate for teaching preschool. Sad face.

Spending time with:

My boyfriend. Yes, I have a boyfriend. He brings me flowers every week and takes me out for tacos and beer and fixes things around my house and loves thrifting almost as much as I do. He's gentle, and kind, and creative, and makes me really, really happy. More on him soon.

Loving:

The support I've received for my return to blogging. Thank you for the kind comments and for being a reason to be back.

25 things I (re)learned over the past few months.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 01:33:00 +0000

1. Before anything else, always, always, always ask your best friend first.

2. Remember to take care of and protect your own feelings.

3. Making homemade play dough is one of life's secret pleasures.

4. In so many cases, all you can do is watch and wait (being anxious as hell the whole time is entirely optional.)

5. Some people are going to be angry, and petty, and self-righteous, no matter what you do. Remember that this is their problem, not yours.

6. Whataburer eaten in bed at eleven at night tastes better than consumed in the dining room during daylight hours.

7. Choose the one who loves you more, who is willing to do as much for you as you are for them, and who'll be physically there for you when you need them.

8. Let people assume what they want about you.

9. You have the right to draw boundaries in your life wherever you need them.

10. If it hurts, remember there's always whiskey.

11. Rehashing the what-if's is fruitless.

12. Chances are, nobody thinks as badly of you as you do.

13. It's okay to invest your money in things that make you smile, just for the hell of it.

14.Grey's Anatomy season 2 - better the second (or eighth) time around.

15. You will never, ever make as much money as your ex-husband does. You'll never be able to spoil your kids rotten the way he does. This is okay. Your children know you love them and appreciate them. They value your time and attention more than anything store bought.

16. If you see something intriguing at the Salvation Army, get it. It will not be there the next time you are.

17. Sometimes holding someone's hand is more magical than a kiss.

18. High heels are rarely worth it.

19. Loud is sometimes good but quiet is never bad.

20. The colors grey, pale pink and green do not work on you. Move on.

21. Never underestimate the value of a long talk with family. They understand you better than you think.

22. The crock-pot: summer's most underrated appliance.

23. The gift of aging is that you can draw on past experience to know what will be successful for you and what won't.

24. Jersey sheets are a revelation.

25. No matter how hard things might seem, you are going to be okay.

Coming back home.

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Mon, 02 Sep 2013 00:20:00 +0000

This place, which was essentially my second home for so long, has been quiet for the better part of nine months now.

And if I’m being honest, it wasn’t very loud in the months leading up to that. A pitiful smattering of vague-isms, monumentally bad outfits, and a few brave moments I probably shouldn’t have published (but am ultimately glad I did, and not just for the e-hugs I so desperately needed at the time).

I’m surprised at how that stretch of silence has ticked on and on, honestly. I suppose the past nine months were just such a roller coaster, it was all I could do to live it, never mind find the energy to share it. I’m not sure yet if I’ll regret how much time I missed getting down on paper; how many memories will disappear because I couldn’t find the wherewithal to save them here.

But it is what it is, right? And I can either continue to sit on my ass and ponder that, or I can shut up and start to hit publish again.

So that’s it, for now. I’ll try to play catch up over the next couple weeks, and get back to a place of normalcy here, so that it’s no longer this big, fat, bully of a blank page that stretches on for eons and can’t possibly be filled. Instead, it will just be my little old life, day by day-ish, again – a place I once again love to call home. There will be more personal thoughts, rants, and musings, so get ready for that.

{Daily outfit} The best medicine. 1.22.13

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 15:42:00 +0000

St John tweed cardigan? Thrifted. Silk J Crew blouse? Thrifted. Citizen of Humanity jeans? Thrifted. Ballet flats? Old Navy.

It seems like all I've been hearing about this winter is how bad flu season is. "Stock up on Lysol!", newscasters screech. "Get your flu shot!" doctors proclaim. "Build an underground bunker complete with air filtration system, Army food rations and sterilized gas masks because you are all going to DIE!!!" says the TV. Though that advice comes from the maniacs on Doomsday Preppers, and they say that kind of stuff all the time anyway.

This year I got smart. I got my flu shot. I bought enough Lysol to spray every surface in my apartment a thousand times over. I even invested in those special Kleenex tissues, the overpriced moisturizing kind that promise to trap and kill 99.8% of all cold and flu virus and provide a false, though pleasing, sense of security.

And I got sick anyway.

This is what I wore when I first realized I was coming down with something. An almost entirely thrifted outfit might be the best medicine of all.

Vintage muse: Jackie Kennedy

noreply@blogger.com (Elissa) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 15:17:00 +0000

Today I'm starting a new series focusing on style icons - women whose individual style permanently impacted fashion. I really enjoy learning more about woman who have embraced fashion and created trends of their own, and I thought you might too! I decided to start the series with Jackie Kennedy, because though her style transformed dramatically over the course of her life she is thought of as a sartorial muse to this very day.

Jackie Kennedy was born in 1929 in Southampton, New York. She is mostly know for being the wife of President John F Kennedy and her efforts to protect and restore many of America's historic buildings (did you know that she led an extensive campaign to save from demolition and renovate Grand Central Terminal in Manhattan? I didn't!) She is also regarded as the definitive style icon of the 1960s, for her chic, perfectly tailored suits and dresses, and delicate details such as elbow-length gloves and three-strand pearl necklaces.

Jackie Kennedy retained French-born American fashion designer Oleg Cassini in the fall of 1960 to create an original wardrobe for her as First Lady. A long time family friend, Cassini persuaded the first lady that she should use him as the creator of her total look, a decision that proved pivotal – setting the style for the 1960s with her clean suits, knee length skirts, 3/4 sleeves on notch-collar jackets, sleeveless A-line dresses, above-the-elbow gloves and famous pillbox hats. From 1961 to late 1963, Cassini dressed her in many of her most iconic ensembles, including her Inauguration Day coat and Inaugural gala gown as well as many outfits for her visits to Europe, India and Pakistan. In her first year in the White House, Kennedy spent $45,446 more on fashion than the $100,000 annual salary her husband earned as president. Although Cassini was her primary designer, she also wore ensembles by French fashion legends Chanel, Givenchy, and Dior.

More influential than any First Lady prior, her style was copied by commercial manufacturers and a large segment of young women. She is credited with not only making politics fashionable but also inspiring women around the world to adopt her look.

After her husband's assassination Jackie attempted to escape public scrutiny by moving her family from Washington to New York City, but she was continually hounded by paparazzi nonetheless. In 1968 she married shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis, and her trademark style changed dramatically - from politico wife to woman of casual seventies elegance.

Wide-leg pantsuits, large lapel jackets, silk Hermès head scarves and large, round, dark sunglasses replaced shift dresses and pillbox hats. She often chose to wear brighter colors and patterns and even began wearing jeans in public. After Onassis died in 1975, Jackie took a job as an editor at Doubleday, where she worked to advance the contributions of African-American writers. She played an active civic role in the city as well, working with the American Ballet Theatre, the Literary Lions of the New York Public Library, the Central Park Conservancy, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Municipal Arts Society, to save Grand Central Station from the wrecking ball.

Polished, chic and sophisticated until her death in 1994, she never had a bad fashion day and never took a bad photo. She is still referred to as one of the most influential women in fashion.