Karen Pasacreta

Summer on Walnut Beach, Milford, CT

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 03:39:00 +0000

WALNUT BEACH, Milford CT from Karen Pasacreta

A Weight Loss Story

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 15:49:00 +0000

Karen pasacreta: a weight loss story: jan and kelly curtis have lost over 180 pounds from Karen Pasacreta

Banded Together—High School Bands Strike a Community Chord

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 14:38:00 +0000

Banded together from Karen Pasacreta

Rock & Soul

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 01:54:00 +0000

Jack & Jill Magazine

Know Your Credit Score

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 20:25:00 +0000

Know your credit score! healthy life ct

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Stick To Your Life Plans—Or Should You?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 04:43:00 +0000

Eight years ago Lynn Naliboff put together a journal of dreams impeccably detailed with all the things she wanted to achieve. She lined each page with inspiring images from magazines to keep the visuals fresh in mind, reminding her that her goals were important. Then she put it in a drawer and referred to it when she got off track. The journal incorporated all Naliboff’s passions: to travel, be a food writer, be in a job she loved, and someday be married with children. Each page was dedicated to something she wanted in life.

“When I started it I wanted to push myself to achieve more in life, so I wouldn’t get lazy,” says Naliboff, a Stamford resident. “I wanted to remind myself ‘I can’ and to figure out how I would.” Naliboff, a direct marketing writer, has achieved many of her goals. Paris and Spain were amazing and Napa Valley was stunning. She’s also developed a food blog of low fat recipes (lynnsfavoriterecipes.blogspot.com). But at 41, she feels time is running out for marriage and children. While she was out forming a career and building a life that was self-sustaining and interesting, the dream of a family took a back seat. It hasn’t fizzled, but she says she’s not going to expend energy on it the way she did in her 30s.

How did I get here?

“I try not to think about it, but it’s just so not where I thought I would be. I am trying not to regret it, but I do a little bit,” says Naliboff. “And I really hate living my life with regret, so I need to focus and really strive to achieve the things I want to achieve.” So, she is reevaluating her plan.

Naliboff has the attitude you need, says life coach Cynthia Mayer, whose practice is in Westport. “Grieving the loss of a fantasy is sometimes harder than a person,” says Mayer. “It can hit hard. Sometimes people get so attached to their life plans they forget to leave space to be open and flexible.”

Many of us wake up one day and find ourselves asking: How did I get here? You could be talking about your relationship, lack of one, or a job. It’s kind of like a line straight out of the Talking Heads song, “Once in a Lifetime”—a sort of midlife crisis theme song. We are just kind of going along, “the same as it ever was,” without direction because complacency is sometimes easier. Mayer stresses getting on track means finding out what’s standing in your way. But it’s hard to take a deeper look. Why are some of us so afraid? Then one day we wake up, and we’re 50. Is it too late to start over?

Why do we need plans?

If you subscribe to the philosophy that you only get one shot in this world, it is never too late to get off the couch and get in control. Because we don’t want to find ourselves “rudderless, floating on a sea without a direction,” says Kathy Caprino, Norwalk-based woman’s career and executive coach. Caprino, who is also a licensed therapist in Fairfield County, documented it all in her book, “Breakdown, Breakthrough,” which highlights hidden crisis working women face and how to overcome them. After a year of interviewing women who are successful, she “found the happiest [ones] are the ones with a direction.”

Caprino’s journey to her own enlightenment began about 10 years ago while she was a corporate executive in a job that wasn’t fitting with her life. Even though the high-paying salary was a motivator, her personal life was suffering. Then, after an 18-year reign, one day she found herself pushed out, and out of work. Just like that.

“When I got bumped out of the corporate world, it was an awful thing to be discarded,” she says. As she entered her 40s, she was forced to take a good look at her life. Her therapist told her now was the time to ask yourself: Who do you want to be? And she found the things she wanted as an adult were not so far off from the things that she wanted at 18. “We don’t recognize the things that are easy as skills.” That’s why she thinks it is important to start a life plan while you are young, so you can identify your skills. She explained, “When you look back on who you were, you’ll find the core of who you are is unchanging.”

Caprino stepped back and got what she calls an empowered perspective. “We think we blew it when things go bad,” she says. “We don’t understand it is all there for our growth.” Caprino, now 51, is doing all the things that she loved in her youth: writing, coaching, and even singing (she married a musician). She also formed Ellia Communications and now invests a lot of time to changing the workplace model she once found so stifling, so women feel they can have it all.

Be persistent.

The road to success can be long and winding. Ellen Makar can tell you all about that. While growing up in Trumbull, she had ambitions. She wanted to go to college, but didn’t really feel like there were many female mentors to guide her. She didn’t know what to even look for. There was no Internet to conduct Google searches back then.

So, she decided on a traditional female-dominated field: nursing. But after experiencing high-pressured life and death emergency room situations, she realized the clinical side wasn’t for her. Administration was. The idea was first planted in Nursing School, but would require furthering her education with a bachelor’s and masters. So she set a lofty goal: by age 30, she would have it all. Then maybe she’d be able to stay home or work part time when she had kids.

But that didn’t work out. Love came along a lot sooner than later and so did the kids, and she had to reevaluate her timetable. The 1990s brought a weakened economy, and Makar wasn’t about to give up her job. Instead, she was working two jobs at an insurance company and a nursing facility, while taking classes, and sharing kid duty with her husband, who was also going to school.

Her motivation and her persistence kept her going. It was a long haul, but finally she got her bachelor’s and ultimately landed a job at Yale Medical Center. She was climbing the corporate ladder in administration and was on her way. But something was missing: her masters. This time she applied to Yale University.

Makar feels had she stuck with the original plan, she would have missed out on this life-changing experience. Call it serendipity. “[Yale] was an absolutely transformative experience for me. I would like to think everything I did led me to be at that college.” By leaving room to be flexible, Makar was able to achieve her goals. “It took me 15 years to get there, but I did it.”

Follow your heart.

The key to a life plan is to identify that one thing you love, to stick with it, and to learn from your mistakes along the way. “You need disappointments to grow,” Steve Jobs told the 2005 Stanford University graduating class. And though the words in this commencement address may seem cliché and over-Tweeted since Jobs’ death, the core of it still rings true. By making mistakes, you can start over and begin again. Call it luck.

Even though meeting a man is no longer one of Naliboff’s top goals, she’s still planning on attending a speed-dating event. Because, “you have to remain open.” And that’s why Makar is staying on top of her industry, in case she needs to reinvent her skills once again. As for Caprino, every time she visualizes what she wants to be, new doors open and she goes for it. “The ability to keep going and stay focused on whatever you are doing,” says Mayer, “that’s creating your own luck.”

A version of this article is published in HealthyLife CT.

How do I form a life plan? In five easy steps!

1. Know yourself. What do you truly want in life: A new career? A relationship? More travel? More education? Ask yourself what’s missing and what will make you happy—and why.

2. Write it down. Begin to form a blueprint of your life by adding inspirational anecdotes, pictures, and quotes of milestones you want to achieve—to remind you why you chose these goals in the first place.

3. Set goals that are realistic and highly targeted to what you want (keeping some far-reaching ones in mind). By forming a well-constructed plan that involves all your goals, you are creating something you know you can achieve.

4. Do something every day that puts you closer to reaching your goal: Make a phone call, send an email, or research your topic more. Remember, you can’t make progress unless you do something about it.

5. Refer to your goals often and, most importantly, stay positive.

Layering Trends: Fashioned-Challenged Moms Can Make It Work

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 21:42:00 +0000

Anyone who knows me knows I know nothing when it comes to fashion. Phew. Say that 10 times fast. I think that profound statement came from a lack of sleep stemming from a household of sickness.
It's true, though. I pretty much wear the same thing all the time: jeans, cardigan, boots. I hardly wear any make-up and, with small kids, I don't have time to get my hair done regularly. I cut my own bangs a lot.
I am so in awe of people who are put together. But I just want to know: How do they have the time? Is this some sort of gift I am lacking, kind of like missing that math gene? Is there a course I can take: Evelyn Wood Speed Fashion? It would take me hours to look good. I have really thick, long poker-straight hair. Curling that mane is a part-time job.

Recently I did an article on a trend in fashion: layering. My original piece featured a really cool mom, my friend Marcy. The one that got published featured a story on layering for winter (not as fun, plus where's our New England winter??). Marcy is a work-at-home mom who is just super awesome. And super busy. She's like me—and a lot of other moms I know: She just doesn't have time to cater to every magazine's idea of how we should look. Here's her story and how it relates to the layering fashion trend, mixed in with some advise from some great layering gurus. I hope you enjoy!

THE STORY!

“Sometimes I gaze into my closet and wonder when I hired a fashion-challenged male teenager as my wardrobe consultant,” says Marcy Kelman, a stay-at-home mom in Monroe. Kelman’s closet consists of what she considers to be very boyish pieces: jeans, t-shirts, polos, Converse, and hoodies. She thinks she’s dressing for the skate park; kids probably consider her the coolest mom in the carpool.

“I’ve been working from home for the past 10 years, raising two kids,” says Kelman, who writes children’s books for Disney Publishing. “Since I don’t work in an office, I haven’t had the need to buy ‘nice’ clothes.” Comfort has been her go-to. But do we have to sacrifice fashion for comfort? How do you achieve a polished look without needing an entirely new wardrobe?

Making it work. Welcome to layering ladies! It’s all about “making it work,” a catch-phrase we might be sick of hearing, but has particular significance when you want to be fashionable and not spend a ton of money. “You don’t have to reinvent the wheel,” says Rowayton-based Fashion Style Consultant Trish McQuillen. “People need to learn how to make more outfits out of what they have.” So they stay classic and not get tired.

And who wouldn’t want to look like they just stepped out of a Vanity Fair photo shoot meticulously styled by Rachel Zoe so every obsessive detail looks utterly effortless? Dare a woman to say no.

A good staple. Here’s how layering works. Start with a good base piece, like a Henley or a T-shirt. Then pair it up with a cardigan or a vest, and cinch it with a belt—a great slimming feature for all body types. You can even layer in different ways to make a few pieces in your wardrobe go a long way. Add a faux fur collar to your cardigan or a beautiful scarf to create something more sophisticated, taking your outfit from day into night.

“Play with proportions,” suggests Jennifer Sauer, Milford fashion and handbag designer of the line Vessel Couture. “Things look more fashionable when they are peaking out—the longer pieces under shorter pieces and long sleeves under sweaters.”

A total fabrication.

“Textural dimension in outfits is important,” explains Andrew Mitchell-Namdar, Vice President and Creative Director of The Mitchell Family of Stores in Westport and Greenwich and Huntington, New York. “Think wool sweater or think cashmere underneath.” Or trying paring corduroy with cotton or a tweed jacket with a T-shirt and suede riding pants topped off with a pair of riding boots. Or substitute that pant for a pencil skirt, that jacket for a cable knit sweater.

Layering is as much for function as it is for fashion. It will keep you warm, but it’s also a lifestyle. Think of it as a philosophy, it’s a fail-proof way to make your old clothes new again. It’s practical, utilitarian, decorative. Not to mention sophisticated. It feels very Abercrombie—or on a higher level, Ralph Lauren.

The Layering Movement. It’s actually Brunello Cucinelli, says Mitchell-Namdar. Research Cucinelliand you’ll find he refers to himself as the Italian Ralph Lauren, and his devotees refer to him as the father of layering. With his different fabrications and uses of soft-muted colors like grays, browns, navy, and dusty rose, his looks are so timeless, his designs so clean, you can’t help but aspire to achieve it. It’s inspiration for everybody, transcending age, gender, body type, and fashion-challenged women everywhere.

“Its really taken hold in the last year and a half,” says Mitchell-Namdar. “It’s been gaining more strength as a fashion [statement].” One that you can easily take into the spring, too, he says. For warmer weather, layer sweaters with lightweight cotton blend dresses or adding in a micro-cashmere vest helps seasonally as well. Transitional seasons add the bonus of shedding a few layers and adding them back on.

Boy, oh boy. Vests, sweaters, T-shirts? It’s all sounding very “boyish,” isn’t it? Kelman is blindly aware that she is already ahead of the game! All she needs is the confidence to put it all together and switch up her wardrobe.

“People tend to have these go-to outfits that are only using 20 to 25 of your closet,” points out McQuillen, who spent most of her career at Giorgio Armani and now runs her company Design Inc. Most people aren’t aware of all they own and will go right back to what they know, wearing the same outfit over and over again.

“I’d like to have a closet that includes all-purpose staples, like black dress pants, stylish shoes, skirts, and nice blouses,” explains Kelman. “These go-to items currently don’t exist in my closet. If I could find dressy alternatives to the things I enjoy layering, I think that would open up a lot of options for me.”

McQuillen can help. She provides consultation services to pare down a client’s closet by creating a clothing inventory to style a few outfits out of only a few pieces of things you already own. Whatever is missing, she’ll recommend as “fillers,” like a great scarf, belt, or trouser. She may even take you shopping for it. A wonderful service for those who are too overwhelmed to shop solo or just too busy.

Busy? Sort it out. To make your life easier during the hectic work mornings, you might want to try basic organization: sort your closet into sections. “I put all the outer pieces like jackets and vests in one area, button-down shirts in another, and short and long sleeves in another,” recommends Sauer, who is also Department Chair of Fashion and Merchandising at Sanford-Brown College in Simsbury, formerly Gibbs College in Norwalk. If you know what you own, you can expand your wardrobe three-fold.

Runway ready. So how do you turn those old pieces into something beautiful, so you feel like you’ve stepped out of Vogue?

Modern fashion is all about color blocking or mixing, says Sauer. You combine different colors that support and compliment. Look through any fashion magazine and “everything is a mash-up. Gone are the days of matching your shoe to your bag,” she says. Hello to taking risks. Add in your leopard, zebra, or bright yellow accents. Play with your accessories like adding chunky necklaces or a textured bag to pop against your outfit.

Once you do it, you may get hooked, because it’s just fun.

Christmas Traffic: It's Mad!

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 16:46:00 +0000

Here we go: Christmas traffic. You’re actually enjoying Christmas shopping this year. You are finding everything. What luck! You reward yourself with a little Christmas music. Nothing can touch your mood. Call it Holiday Magic. "The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!" Half way into your personal best of "Feliz Navidad," you can feel something huge approaching. You check your rearview mirror and an 18-wheeler is sneaking up behind you with big bold letters spelling

T-R-O-J-A-N emblazoned across the front, side, and top of the truck (LP: 919270—BTW). “This cannot be good."

Out of nowhere this Spartan speeds up, cuts you off, and turns onto the highway faster than you can yell “D**K!” And just like that, there goes your Christmas spirit. Now you are Scrooge.

After years spent driving 95 and witnessing stories like this on a daily basis, it’s gets harder to curb the language. Or the fear.

Years ago when cell phones used to be car phones, I witnessed something that made me break that receiver right out of the case, put is against my ear, and call 911. I was driving along and came to a complete halt. That’s the way it is on I-95. One minute you are going 55 mph, then next you’re going 0. And there was this woman was rocking in the middle of the road, right in front of her car that had spun around and was facing oncoming traffic (me). It was a scene out of a movie. A hearing-impaired gentleman signed to me asking if I had a phone. I didn’t know any sign language except for learning the alphabet in Girl Scouts (which would come in handy later when I had my kids), but I understood what he wanted. So I made the call. There were enough Samaritans surrounding her, so I left, completely scarred. I still wonder how they were able to get her off the road and keep her safe.

Then there was that time in Bridgeport when I saw a truck ram into an SUV—twice. The truck was in the middle lane, the SUV in the slow lane. I saw the whole thing: the horror on the woman’s face thinking “Will I survive?” then I noticed her middle schooler in the back seat. The truck hit the driver’s side twice, and didn’t even stop. My car phone was a cell now, and I used it to call 911. Every time I think of someone in a life or death situation, I picture this woman’s face. That’s what last moments look like.

Then there was my own accident. I foolishly headed to work during a snowstorm. The roads seemed okay, there were certainly enough people on them, until I decided to get out of the middle lane and cross into the slow lane to let people pass me. I hit an ice patch, and all I can remember was spinning and hearing loud noises as I bumped along the guardrail a few times. Thankfully I didn’t hit anything else. Not one car. But I totaled mine. As I was spinning, I saw that woman’s face. Man, 95 sucks, I thought.

So consider this a public service message for safe driving during the holidays or any time, really.

Watch out. Cause it’s not you. It’s the other guy. Mad drivers are everywhere.

Breast Cancer Awareness—Get Screened

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 21:37:00 +0000

Breast cancer story pdf

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A Mother-Daughter Road Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 01:22:00 +0000

Mother-Daughter Road Trip: Atlanta, 2005

We were running pretty late for a road trip. It was already 9:30 a.m. and my daughter still wasn't ready—or fully packed. "Michaela!" I yelled up the stairs. "Let's go!!"
"W-H-A-T-A?! I'll be down in a minute!" she screamed with attitude.
Teenagers can be so loving.

My daughter and I have been taking "mother-daughter" bonding trips since she was very little. We've been to Atlanta, Nashville, New Mexico, San Diego, Block Island, and Punta Cana. This time we were headed to Plymouth, MA, to visit my college roommate like we had done so many times before. Looking back it doesn't even seem possible that I was the one who ended up making us late. But I confess. It was me.

Michaela came down the stairs in a half-eyed haze and plopped herself down on the couch, hair so tangled and mangy she looked like she had been playing drums all night at Grateful Dead concert in between selling falafels and playing hacky sac. She opted for sleep instead of a shower. And her hair is wavy and curly, so this is what it does when it's not brushed.

I took a good look at her. "I am NOT doing braids," I told her. It would take three bottles of Frizz Ease and 20 minutes just to get through the uncombed tangles sleep causes. Maybe another 10 for the braids. This was time we didn't have.
"I didn't ask you to do braids," she said. True.
"Is that all you have?" I asked. One bag. Seriously? One bag? I had been calling up the stairs for an hour and this is all she was bringing.

Time check. 9:50 a.m. I threw our bags in the back of the Volvo. "Hit the bathroom," I said. "It's a long drive. Get something to eat. Get up. Get off the couch!"
She convinced me Dunkin' Donuts was the way to go. Anything to get on the road. We headed out to the car. The car I hate because it drives like a truck.
"Can you grab the GPS under the seat?"
"It's not there."
"Maybe it's in the back." It wasn't there either.
Panic. I ran into the house to grill my husband. Maybe he took it out and put it in the other car.
He was waiting at the door. He knows I always come back in before getting on the road.
"What did you forget?"
"Where's the GPS?"
"I don't know, where you always keep it."
"It's not in the car."
"Then, it's stolen." He always thinks things are stolen.
"Are you kidding me!" I needed that for directions.
We spent the next half hour looking for the GPS while Michaela waited in the car.
Time check. 10:25 a.m. Now, we would hit beach traffic, my husband reminded me. Better take 84 instead of 95.
"Screw the GPS," I said. "I have to leave. Can you write down the directions? Wait, I'll call you from the road." I had to get going.

I have been to my friend's house a ton of times, but there's this rotary on 495 that always confuses me. That and the fact I always forget to go through Providence and take the wrong exit 3. With 84, I'd bypass all that but 84 was a new route for me. Everyone who knows me knows I have no sense of direction. I drive by my own exit all the time. I needed that GPS!
Ok, I am going to be honest. I am a winger. In all my optimistic preparation, I still just kind of go with the flow and whatever happens, happens. And this is very typical of what happens. Whenever I travel, I am always late. I always get lost. And I always have to call a million times for directions. Even if I bring them. One time I was looking at my directions to Plymouth (which were neatly written out) and they flew out the window. They literally flew out the window.

"Call John (my husband)," I told Michaela. First mistake.
"Put him on speaker phone and write down the rest of the directions."
Second mistake.
We couldn't hear him, and she was in no mood to take dictation.
And this is where I lost it. Third mistake.
"Why can't you just write down what he says? Why is that so hard?"
"WHAT-A? I couldn't even hear him! OMG, you are a crazy person. Just do it yourself."
"You can't talk to me like that. I will turn this car around."
"You can't talk to ME like that."
"You are stressing me out, and I don't want to feel stress when I have to drive three hours!"
"You are stressing ME out!"
"Stop talking!"
"You stop talking."
"STOP TALKING! You better not say even one more word. DO NOT TALK!
Silence.
More silence.
Five minutes of silence.

Contemplation. Hmmm. I wanted to have a fun mother-daughter road trip, just like our others. We used to have so much fun together before the teen years hit. Before I got remarried and had more kids. Before other people took the place of her, she always reminds me.
I turned and looked at her. I have her for only four more years then she's off to college, I thought. I miss her already. At the rate we're going, she'll probably only wave when she leaves. And right now she is still calling me Mommy. Who knows how long this will last? I need to enjoy her more, I thought. She's a great kid. I need to tell her more often.

Me, Michaela, now 14, and Lydia, now 3.
Time is flying.

I glanced in her direction. "Ok, I'm sorry for acting like a freak."
Nothing.
"Hello? I said I was sorry, so now you say you are sorry for being so rude to your mother."
Silence.
"Say you are sorry."
Nothing.
"Talk."
Nothing but the tires hitting the potholes.

"You better say something. TALK! START TALKING! NOW!"

It's official, I thought. I am crazy.

I turned to her and saw that familiar "Michaela smurk" spread across her face.

"You told me not to talk," she said.

I knew this was coming. "You have permission to say I am sorry to your mother."
"But I'm not sorry because you were rude."
"Say you are sorry, so we can move on with this stupid, ridiculous conversation that has already taken too much time off my life I will never get back."
"I am sorry, Mother." I wish you could have heard how she said it because it was so quintessentially Michaela. Mother sounds like Mutha, and there is the silliest look on her face which says, I won but I am letting you think you won.

We were only at the Hamden Tunnel on 15, twenty minutes into the drive. If this was the start of my weekend, I may as well get a flat tire and wait all day for AAA (been there!).

But the bickering stopped. And soon she fell asleep. I concentrated on the road, sang to the radio, and didn't get lost. We ended up having this awesome weekend with each other and with friends. Neither of us wanted to leave.

That night after everyone went to sleep, Michaela and I stayed up talking until 2 a.m.
It was great.
"Go to sleep. I'm tired of talking." I joked.
"Me, too. Good-night, Mommy."
"Good night, honey. I love you."
"I love you, too."
I went to bed thinking about my other two: the three year old and nine month old. It was only a few short years ago Michaela was that young.
It all goes by so fast—isn't that what they say?
Well, guess what? It's really true.

Men In Leisure

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 15:53:00 +0000

Men in Leisure

When my friend Melissa and I were going into our senior year of college (well, my extended senior year), we took a weekend trip to Boston. Melissa just got this incredible new Nikon, and we decided to roam the city documenting “men in leisure.” A "man in leisure" can be defined by us as: any man seen relaxing in a leisurely way with his eyes closed.

It was an accident, really. We were in the Museum of Fine Arts (my first time), and as we walked out the door, we noticed some guy splayed on a retaining wall. We couldn’t see his face, but knew he was cute. I think it was the way he draped his body along the wall. He was laying on his side as if he were about to do Pilates sidekicks. One of his knees was bent up to his chest. For a guy who was getting some shut-eye, he had great balance. He was so cool. His body was perfectly sculpted as one would think a serious cyclist would be—and he was serious. How did we know he was a cyclist? He was wearing very serious, body-contouring, tight bike shorts. I really didn't need to see all of it, but there it was. "I am a Golden God!" He probably said that to himself a million times. He was definitely a mirror-worshipper. Perhaps he had too much sun because that day his bike helmet provided a tip of shade, and his expensive racer bike was purposely propped up against the wall so any minute he could sit upright and jump on it. He was definitely a "man in leisure" with a purpose. He probably spends his life running away from love. The moment deserved to be captured. Snap! Man in Leisure (MIL) number 1.

We walked away joking about our MIL and how we may have some great new concept on our hands. Or it was just the most hilarious idea we had ever thought about and the one thing we needed to fill up our summer — and take our minds off our relationships, or lack there of. We couldn't stop giggling on the T, wondering what our next find would be like. We just roamed through the streets, I am not even sure where we went next, but ultimately found Man in Leisure number 2. This guy was slouching on a park bench. He was the opposite of Leisure 1. He was old and rather rotund, his rolls hanging from his core, as he slept with his feet to the ground, arms dangling from his sides like two blocks of ice melting. It was a very hot day. A prime candidate for mugging, I thought. But I am ridiculously paranoid about these things.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the protruding rolls—each were so full, so hearty, and had clearly enjoyed a lot of living, I thought. I stared at that fat guy for a long time. You know when you get the sense someone is looking at you? He knew, but he didn’t care. He didn’t cock his head when he gave me the stink eye. He hardly moved at all when he opened one eye barely enough to stare back. He shut it quickly. He had been judged before. I started to make up a story about him in my head. It was lunchtime, and he had just punched the clock for his daily walk—at least that’s what he tells his coworkers back at at the shop. But he never gets too far, because he plops down on his favorite bench for his much-needed respite from his rolls of life. As happy as he is (he had a smirk on his face), he is dying inside because he will never be the person he set out to become when he was a kid. All those dreams… Now he was just going through the motions. He once had a purpose and now, he was just a MIL without one. Getting through the day can be so hard, I thought he thought. (What can I say? I live in my head.)

A photo of my husband with our youngest—
and SURPRISE! Look in the background. A Man in Leisure.

When I think about this MIL collection, it could have been so interesting. I don’t remember how far we got with it that day—what I remember most is the heat and how we high-tailed it to the Christian Science Plaza to dip our feet in the reflecting pool, along with many, many others. We didn't find any other MILs that afternoon, but Melissa put her Nikon to good use. She got some great shots of kids being kids, running around splashing, jumping, laughing. It was really fun to watch them have fun.

And, my own Man in Leisure—my husband.

Men in Leisure. It has such a great ring to it, doesn’t it? I still look for MILs. And now you are aware, you probably will, too. And if you look close enough, you can find one everywhere you go—even in your own home.

Block Island: You Never Forget Your First Time

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 13:52:00 +0000

"This year is the 350^th anniversary of the settlement of the island."

Stepping off the ferry and onto Block Island is always the same. A gust of sweet sea smell rises up to meet you—and like a first date with that guy you immediately know is the ONE, you feel like you’re home. That’s the way it was for me, so many years ago, and is still. I've been back many times since, sharing it with friends, boyfriends, with just my oldest, and now with my husband and little ones. Incredible things happened to me on the Island.
But you never forget your first time.

It was 1989, and I was a senior in college staying up for the summer to take a class, but mostly to maintain my freedom. A girl living off campus was doing the same thing, and we became fast friends on the prowl for fun. We were newly legal and single. Why not? So, when she suggested going to BI for a night, who was I turn a good idea down? There was a bunch of us staying up that summer, girls and guys, which made for many beach trips and a few bar closings.

stock photo.

It was the Fourth of July weekend. We landed in Old Harbor to the cutest little parade—beautiful bronze-faced kids proudly waving the American Flags while sitting atop a convertible yellow VW bug. These kids seemed to be everywhere, walking with parents, roaming with friends. Block Island is that kind of place—there's little you have to worry about. It’s for families, it’s for friends, and it’s for old and new relationships. You may not know a soul when you arrive, but you become fast friends with everyone by the time you leave.

And that’s the truth.

We stayed at the Gables Inn II back then and couldn’t even afford a bathroom in our room. A hardship for some, but when you're on the Island, who cares? You are all there for the common goal. Like those little bronze beauties, everyone has that sun-kissed look of too much of everything. Too much food, drink, walking, bike riding, mussels (on the deck of the National Hotel), and sea smell embedded in your hair. During the day, we rented bikes and took them uphill to the Southeast Lighthouse, then on to Rodman’s Hollow. If you’re exhausted and thirsty like we were, chances are a bunch of those kids are selling lemonade and cookies. And we got lucky. That night we hit Captain Nicks. We waited in line! People were dancing everywhere on the floor and the balcony to the coolest music. I think there was a band, but I can’t be sure. We befriended a nanny who lived on the beaches every weekend. If you're looking for Mary Poppins, that's not what you'll find in BI. She was caretaker by day, Deadhead hippie Friday through Sunday. She was all granola and sunrise. There are a lot of college kids like nanny that come to the Island for the summer to work and hang out with other like-minded college kids. Just like how I never studied abroad, this will also be a regret of mine.
After many drinks with nanny, we ran into our best male college friends, and we all decided to take the party to nanny’s weekend “house,” and off we went to Mansion Beach. It's not far, so we walked. The moon was so large that weekend and just kind of guided our way. When we got there, we all jumped into the water. I don't know whose idea it was but some were with clothes, some were without. And that's all I have to say about that. I remember being thankful someone had a blanket. It was over 20 years ago, but the youth of it all really seems like yesterday. We and the guys hit the blanket hard, just listening to the slight ripple of the water as the waves billowed up and crashed ashore. No one made a sound.

I got my first BI kiss that night. The next day we all boarded the same ferry to Pt Judith (nanny stayed on the beach)—and by the time we were home, everyone seemed to forget the magic. But it’s hard to forget something so right. It’s still with me now. I dated that BI kisser for a long time, then it was time to say good-bye. We wanted different lives. Sometimes I wonder how he's doing. Though I have to confess, I haven’t thought about the nanny until now.

A Block Island Retrospective

1994: Pt. Judith Ferry

1994: Me and my girlfriends bike riding on the Island.
The roads were lined with
blackberry bushes, and we would stop to fill up!

1994: Stopping for water. This place is all uphill!
We took a ride to Rodman's Hollow onto
the Southeast Lighthouse, then down, down, down
wooden steps to the beach. And had our pictures taken on a huge rock.

Southeast Light House. Stock photo. My friends and I were there the last time it was moved.

And this is why it would have to be moved. Stock photo.

The National Hotel. Sit on the deck, eat mussels, and people watch. At night come back for some beautiful acoustic guitarists singing old favorites. I can't tell you how many times I requested "Eyes of the World." Stock photo.

1996: I can't tell you how many times I stayed here with my girlfriends!
Great breakfast muffins, btw. There's Kate and Debbie on the front steps. This hotel is a great location: right on the main strips, steps to the beach, shopping, nightlife, and the ferry at Old Harbor.

2009: My beauties at the Manisses Animal Farm. We saw a kangaroo and a camel!
And, if you are in the mood for some truly breathtaking views, keep on going straight past the farm to the Spring House Hotel. Kick up your heels and enjoy a drink on the deck.

Llamas at the Manisses Animal Farm.
For young and old alike!

2010: Me and my daughters on the bench at the North Lighthouse.

Another girl on the way!

2009: We stayed with friends for a night at the houses on Crescent Beach. Beautiful.

Scenery on Corn Neck Road.

Spring House Hotel. Stayed here twice: With oldest daughter
on a Mommy and Me trip, and recently with hubby. Perfection.
That deck has the most beautiful views. Getting married on the Island? Many are booked here.

BI Historical Society. So worth the $5 donation.

More scenery on Corn Neck Road. Look at that sky. It was about 7 a.m.
By 11 a.m., it will be crystal blue.

2011: New London, CT, ferry woes.
People got up at 4:30 a.m. to make a ferry that wasn't coming.
Hey, Pt. Judith: all these people are headed your way!

2011: Cushman House. You can only get here by Corn Neck to Ministers Lot—
a long, winding, one-way road. Our taxi driver was 13th BI generation
and still had to call the police dept to ask for directions!
This was the site of our friend's wedding!

Wedding decorations. The bride made them all herself. Table arrangements were adorned
with driftwood highlighting the couple's favorite Island spots, hurricane lamps filled with sand and flowers, and shells and beach glass were scattered around the tables. Look up and you'd see blue and white paper balls in the tent and in the tress. Stunning display.

This was by far one of my husband's favorite weddings because you could have a beer while the bride and groom were saying their nuptials. And I could go barefoot. BI, we love you!

Me and my hubby at the wedding.

The groom wipes tears after seeing his bride for the first time.
That dress affected everyone. Gorgeous!

2011: The year of the Bruins. The Statue of Rebecca, adorned with helmet and

Stanley Cup—the handiwork of a taxi car driver's daughter. (I texted this picture to one of my friends whose son just got drafted to the NHL!!)
Check out Rebecca's story at the link—she was first erected in 1896 by a women's Christian movement in hopes of curbing alcohol consumption. On Block Island...really?

Me, gazing at the North Lighthouse, Block Island.
The year was 1997. We were biking and stopped for a much-needed break.
I was in the first trimester with my oldest, Michaela, and I was exhausted.
She was born February, 1997, by far, the biggest light in my life.
You never forget your first.

Women Need Women and Little Black Dresses

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 13:54:00 +0000

Is there any such thing as a guiltless mother?

When I quit my job to stay home with the kids I thought I would have all this time on my hands. I honestly did. Don’t laugh at me, Mothers. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to be home. I thought I’d be able to organize things around here, finish decorating the renovations to make it feel like home, and spend time writing what I wanted to write—not what clients or bosses needed me to write. I started my blog around this time. And I got back to my journalistic roots—I began pitching stories to news outlets again. I had things I wanted to accomplish. I had lofty goals.

Things that inhibit creativity. Of course, you Mothers are snickering at me right now because you know what I didn't—I can hardly do anything. I can’t take on the work I want, or the work will suffer. And if the work is good, the kids suffer, because that means they were neglected. And my husband doesn’t think we should have a child care expense if I am home. So I feel kinda stuck. It’s a super hard thing to admit, cause the kids are so deliciously adorable. But everything I read tells me this feeling is normal. It's all that guilt that comes with motherhood and wanting to fulfill your childhood dreams of what you thought you'd be when you grew up. I’m finding that I am losing a little bit of me more and more every day, but my kids must be gaining because they are pretty happy. Especially the teenager, who now has a personal chauffeur to take her all over town. Still, I can’t help but miss myself.

Things you can't live without. Truth is, I think about writing all the time. To me, it's like this great girlfriend you want to spend more time with, but can’t because things keep coming up. Pretty soon, six months go by and you still haven’t seen each other. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what happens with my girlfriends. But you do keep in touch. Because you text these ridiculously long conversations about daily life. I love texting. It's just convenient and fast. (And technically, I am writing something.) It’s so much better than email ever was. Kind of like how some laud Lady Gaga as a better version of Madonna. People everywhere are inspired by rare Grade A beef head pieces, bubbles, and sparks coming out of their crotch. It got us to totally forget about that weird sex book and pointy bustier. I remember in high school how we suntanned on the tennis courts, uniforms hiked, listening to "Borderline." Those were the days...lace gloves were cool and so was your Boy Toy belt. But trends fade. Email got formal. IM was fun for awhile, but who wants to be tied down to a computer? Then along came texting, and now I can't imagine a life without my iPhone.

Things that take too long and sounds you never want to hear. Anyway you want to debate it (pointy bustiers vs. meat), I do realize this is a sad commentary on language and friendship (and fashion—yeah, I said it). Madonna got old, so did the girls that worshipped her, and so did conversation and getting together. Or so it seems in my world. I think a majority of me and my friends just don’t have time to talk. I hardly ever answer the phone. An actual speaking conversation doesn’t fit into my life right now. It takes too long. With texting, you can pick up wherever you left off, whenever you want. And that really works when you have a baby that always wants to be held. (A gr8 workout, btw. My rms r totally pumped.)

Of course, you can’t hear someone’s inflection, tonality, or cadence—or see their forehead rise when they utter, “OMG! What the heck is she wearing?”

Cadence and tonality are especially important. I once broke up with a guy over the way he said my name, “KaRRRRReNNNN.” His consonants were so hard it sounded like he was smashing metal cans in his mouth.

Girlfriends are good for our health.

Things that keep friends connected. The other day my girlfriend and I texted: “Hey, let’s get together in an hour.” And we did. So I packed up my two youngest, grabbed the double stroller, and headed over to her house for a long walk along the beach. It was so great to catch up in person. Last time I saw her, I was pregnant and it was our 25^th high school reunion. The baby is now 7 months. This is possibly my oldest friend. We were part of a girlfriend group that went Friday night ice skating together in grammar school, survived Sister Mary’s Latin class in high school, were cheerleaders for the boys school, visited each other in college, introduced each other to boyfriends, husbands, were in each other’s weddings, grew apart, came back together, grew apart, only to find a common ground in technology so we can text long conversations about—absolutely everything and nothing.

Points important to make but take too long. The point of all this rambling is: Women need women. We need girlfriends to guide us, to console us, to bond with over similar interests, to introduce us new to things, to text with during Glee, to brag to about our kids, to get ridiculously silly with over wine—while we whine about how life is too busy to see each other because the kids keep us so busy. And, most importantly, to help us through the rough times when you feel guilty because you feel like you have lost a bit of yourself in motherhood. Husbands are nice to have, but they’ll never be your girlfriend. And they'll never feel that same guilt we do. Plus, they’ll never go to your favorite movie unless you strike a deal to see three of theirs. That’s one “Old School,” one “Wedding Crashers,” and a “two-for-one” Hangover DOUBLE to a single viewing of “When Harry Met Sally.” Long live Frank the Tank and the Wolf Pack.

Things we need. Women have been forming posses long before bromance movies came along. And apparently it’s good for our health. No, really. This article I read recently discussed reasons why hanging out with your girlfriends is imperative. It actually cited a UCLA study that concluded “girlfriends are stress-busters for women and have an impact on overall mood.” When we’re together, we release oxytocin and some serious euphoria happens! And if you are a new to this staying-at-home mother stuff like me, a little euphoria can go a long way. The study also goes on to say that our risk of death decreases the more we are around our girlfriends. You need your girlfriends to talk you down off that ledge.

Conversations so silly, they're needed. So, ladies, I wanted to share a fun night me and my girlfriends had years ago but could absolutely be relevant today. Naturally it started with alcohol, which led to some silly reminiscing, then moved on to more serious conversation that we discussed FOR HOURS. It went something like this: “If you were on a deserted island which cuisine would you bring? What CD would you bring? Which book would you bring? Which shoes would you bring?” "Which of your friend's husbands would you bring? (there's always one troublemaker in the group!)" “Which Little Black Dress would you bring?” And as we each drew our favorite black dress while we sipped our wine (no one answered the husband question), we were connecting and enjoying, releasing oxytocin and developing a pulse again—to help us get through guilty motherhood moments. We really lived it up that night. We had to. Who knows when we'll all see each other again? At least there's texting.

Essentials for a deserted island: Black Dresses

Deb would bring an Audrey Hepburn dress.

I would bring a black mini with an open back.

MK would bring a sweetheart cocktail length.

Kate likes a front slit and low cleavage.

Kate also likes embellishments with a bolero jacket—and low cleavage.

And Kim likes it classic with two sweet bows.

Profile: Twins Survive Premature Birth

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Mon, 16 May 2011 03:34:00 +0000

Better health survivor story

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Tongue-Tied and Twisted... Are Our Brains Really Shrinking?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 11 May 2011 03:30:00 +0000

My third round of "momnesia" —
belly front and center

I just read an article about how we lose a little bit of brain power every day. Apparently, as we get older, our brains get smaller. And mothers have “momnesia.” So considering I’m an older mom, my rate of brain loss is probably double than yours. Hmmm… and all this time I thought it was stress. If I get rid of the stress, my momnesia will be cured! Well, it turns out the only way to get mo-mom-memory back is not ginkoba, it’s walking, three times a week.

And this goes for mo-male-memory, too.

This memory thing got me thinking. And I have to admit it hurt. But I did it anyway. If my brain is shrinking, then surely it would explain so many of the things that have been happening to me lately. Like forgetting my exit on the way home from anywhere. I just get so caught up in the concert I am giving myself in the car, that I forget to get off the highway. After all, you know life is a highway, and I want to ride it all… night… long. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) The truth is, most of the time I don’t even make it out the door to the car, because I always forget where I put my keys. Thankfully I never forget the kids.

But I also say things that are so weird. I twist words and meaning, and nothing comes out the way I first thought it in my head. “Put your sheets on,” was me telling my daughter to get ready for school. One time I blurted “Sing it out!” in a restaurant. But there wasn’t any music. And no one was talking, either. It was in my head. And here’s something I say almost hourly: “Give me that thing that’s behind the thing in that thing on the thing (finger snap snap). UGH, you know what I mean!” “MOM, WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?!!” Yeah, that’s how it typically goes down. My husband, he usually stares and waits patiently… then comes out with a snarky, condescending comment. “Now, use your words.” Smart ass. Yet, somehow I always beat him in Scrabble. The game may take up to a week, but I’ll beat him.

Snarky husband

My head really does hurt. I’m not kidding on that one. I put my finger up to my head and rub it just to jostle the thought I had exactly one second prior because it no longer exists, and I am left to stare at some familiar object that I can’t remember the name of (keys), all while my hand is clutching it. I get completely upset with myself.

Sometimes my speech is like an iPhone text blood bath when it auto-corrects your words. My husband showed me some chain email from a popular blog that was going around recently featuring people’s text mistakes. I was CRYING with laughter because I do that on a daily basis. I am reading it now with tears just streaming. CLICK HERE! It’ll make your night.

But seriously, why, WHY do I do these things? I can’t blame it all on age. Take this story. A little over a week ago I went out with the girls. We were celebrating a birthday at a karaoke bar. We got talking like girls do, and one was recounting her dog’s death, something to which I can certainly relate. Hers had reached the end of his long, lovely life, but she still couldn’t imagine life without him. Mine had a seizure disorder. One minute my doggy was going through the seizure; the next she was gone—all while I was on the phone with the vet. You can just imagine the deathbed pose. (These are the images that keep you up at night.) Ok. Enough about the sad.

Now this girl is a fun, rockin’ chick. So I picked out a rockin’ song I knew she could just kill, you know… to take her mind off things. I really wanted to help her. “You should do this one,” I said, giving her the karaoke book. She took one look at the book and one look at me. I grabbed the book back. Florence and the Machine. What’s wrong with that? I thought. Then I saw the title: “The Dog Days Are Gone.”

Now, I can’t tell you why this happened, but it did. I don’t even feel like I can blame it on my loss of brainpower. Although I REALLY want to… instead I think I’ll do what scores of other people do.

I’ll blame it on something that happened in my childhood.

Four score and some 37 years ago, I was a kindergartner. This was back in the 70s when you walked with the neighborhood kids, not your mom. My buds were Joey and Walter. Oh, we were a cocky group of kindergarteners. Every day we passed by this little girl not yet old enough for school. So one day we pointed it out. “Na na na na na, we go to school and you don’t!”

I really didn’t mean it that way. I liked her and wanted her to be able to come to school, too. But it came out so mean, and Joey thought it was sooo funny—and the laughter ended up being so contagious. Until she started crying and her delinquent cousin came out, created a huddle, then knocked our heads together (true story). Then it felt like a disease. I’ll never forget that kid’s scrunched up face when he came toward us. “That’ll teach you.” No remorse.

We were late to school that day. There was a big hullabaloo and the office called my mother to ask if she sent me to school with a big bump on my head. She came down and asked me if I wanted to go home. But everyone was being so nice and, in housekeeping, they appointed ME the mother, not the step-sister or the family pigeon. I was a rock star with a swollen head. I was getting ready to ride the highway. So I stayed. I could have had a concussion, and I wouldn’t have cared. Later that year I did get mono and was forced to leave for weeks only to come back and have to climb the social ladder all over again. Yes, it's true. Everything you need to know, you learn in kindergarten.

Here’s the question I struggle with: Is it possible I had some sort of PTSD post traumatic stress disorder/head trauma all these years that has caused me to act this way? I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. But in the years that followed, I can only tell you there are many more stories like the karaoke one. Sometimes I think I have serious problems and need an MRI. What if I have a brain tumor? The very sad thing is that we have had brain tumors in my family. It affected us deeply. And, I have kids. And I’m petrified of death because of them. I don’t want to know if I am dying. So, for now maybe I will blame it on age. Although age does lead to death… But at least that’s the natural way and that’s something I can live with. And, if I can turn all this around by walking, like the article stated, I’ll do it. But not before I get a pedicure.

Nia: A Fitness Potion High on Emotion

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 02:44:00 +0000

Check out this SlideShare Presentation:

New Haven May2011 Nia

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Strawberries: A Story of Allergic Proportions

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 02:29:00 +0000

Last week something really scary happened to me that I want to share. I had some Activia yogurt, the “Light” strawberry version, and within 10 minutes I blew up. Jamie Lee Curtis promised potent digestion; Instead, I got an oxygen tube up my nose and an IV in my arm.

It happened so fast. My stomach got upset, my eyes started to burn then swell, and I couldn’t see. Then my head and hands began itching. And my throat and ears started to close. I truly panicked. Was this anaphylaxis shock? I had no idea. This was the first time anything like this ever happened to me. I read that’s how it can happen. You can eat something your whole life, then all of a sudden your immune system can be sensitized to it. It produces immunoglobulin E (IgE - an antibody) and histamine to respond to the allergy. The first time can be mild; the second time can be fatal. Your reaction can happen quickly after the exposure, can be severe, and can involve the whole body. That was me.

Years ago a little girl from the town over died from a reaction to nuts. I don't think anyone who lives around here will ever forget it. My oldest daughter's father did a story on it for the local paper. I imagined that one minute she was happy and joking with her friend, the next she was struggling to breathe. I read she didn't have her epipen and had eaten something with "filberts" embedded in the ingredients. This was before the FDA warning labels. But search the Web. There are still so many stories with the same outcome. Even after we supposedly know so much.

When I had a little girl and she went to school, there was a "Peanut Free" table. It was treated as a very special table, and they rotated who could sit with the children who had these allergies. There was actually a waiting list. I have to be honest and say I felt so blessed my child did not have that allergy. My friends and I have been known to say this statement many times: "Where was this peanut allergy when we were growing up?" There are so many things in raising children that are potentially harmful. An allergy this dangerous was one less to think about. Yet, I did think about and feel for those parents. It must be so hard to deal with. I had long discussions with a few of those parents. I know how it was for them. Yet, I didn't. I say this all the time—You can't really know until it's you or yours.

A Few Facts...

—Allergies do not discriminate on the basis of age

—Allergic reactions can develop at any time in life: from one day old to 60 years old (peak age being late teens)

—Most common causes of fatal allergic reactions are shellfish, peanuts, cod, yellow jackets, and imported fire ants

—BUT… You can lose sensitivity to certain foods and have a tolerance later—like babies who have allergies to cow’s milk

I am 43, and am experiencing an allergy of that potential caliber for the first time. Thank God my mother was over—even though she was the one who suggested eating the yogurt in the first place. I was getting over the stomach flu. “Have yogurt, you’ll feel better.” We joked later... so much for a mother’s sage advice! But who could have known. When the swelling started, I took some children’s Benadryl. But I only had a few drops left. So I called my sister, who happens to live around the corner and is a nurse. She brought me more children’s Benadryl. For some reason, neither of us had the adult version.

My sister made me go to the ER. And she made them take me right away, because it was actually taking awhile. And while I was waiting I was totally freaking out. I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t breathe. And I was getting chest pains. They immediately gave me oxygen. Then shot up both arms searching for a vein. Why can't anyone ever find a damn vein in my arms? Then the doctor came by and assured me I would be okay after the meds. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not on my watch.” He said this twice, but neglected to tell me how long he was on duty.

My whole life flashed before my eyes. My kids, my husband, my husband being home with the kids, OMG my kids! It was probably the most eye-opening life experience I had ever had. I kept thinking how fast things can change. One minute everything is fine; the next you are struggling to breathe.

I had to stop thinking. I needed the meds to work. And finally I could feel the swelling go down a bit and I could see. After a while I even took off the oxygen tubes myself. The medication had taken effect, and I was left feeling like I had just tripped on a whole Benadryl bottle. The modern-day version of the "Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test."

I saw kaleidoscopes, heard voices, felt things crawling up my arms, and was saying things I don't remember. I do, however, remember getting up to use the bathroom and not being able to find my way out. I had to follow the voices outside the door to the knob. Knock, knock, knock. "Karen, are you ok?" Are you kidding? I never felt so good.

I was in the hospital for only two hours. But this IV concoction of Benadryl, Steroids, and Pepcid AD had me laid up for days. I still can’t even believe it happened. Strawberries. I've been eating them my whole life. Until now. No more strawberries in champagne, no more of my sister-in-law's decadent strawberries covered in chocolate. (I will soooo miss those!)

I will be following up with an allergist soon. And the doctor reminded me I will be carrying an epipen for life.

Mean Girls and Mentors

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 04:45:00 +0000

Ah, youth.

About a month ago my teenage daughter had a sleepover. It started with one girl, then she asked if so and so A could come, then so and so B, and by the time she was finished asking, we practically had A to Z. Ok, we had A through E, but that’s a lot to fit in a small-ish house that is getting smaller by the minute as my family gets larger (we just had our third child).

No worries. These kids squirreled themselves away upstairs and wanted nothing to do with me—until the morning. After all, they were up all night talking, and it made them hungry. And I was the pancake maker/flipper/server. Little did I know I would also become the mediator.

The kitchen table was lively that morning. Someone said something about the way someone looked that set off a firestorm of insults. Actually, it was more like an inferno. It kind of went like this: “Well, your skin is so pasty white you look like a ghost.” “Well, your skin is so red, it looks like you are on fire.” “Well, you’re so dumb you failed your science test.” “I don’t know what planet you are living on. Dumb— you must be talking about yourself.”

This is the tame version.

One insult after the other, I felt like I was in a scene from Mean Girls. Actually, that would be an analogy from my daughter’s generation. My generation, brought to you by the incredible Judy Blume, would say this was closer to a verbal version of Slam Books. That’s when you write down everything you don’t like about someone and then let them have it… in print. A living, breathing document you can put in a keepsake box to linger forever. Ah, memories.

The whole thing was getting ugly. And I just couldn’t take the negativity. My daughter said, "This is what real friends do, Mom, they tell each other the truth." I said, noooo… real friends build each other up and make each other feel good. Here’s a tip. If someone constantly makes you feel bad about yourself, she is not your friend. One of my friends aptly put it this way (the lovely Marina). There’s a bus. You’re driving. And you stop and you let people on, but it’s crowded and not everyone can stay. Some mean people have to get off to make way for the nice people. In essence, if you’re a jerk, get off the bus. As a matter of fact, stay away from the stop, too.

Well, these girls weren’t jerks. They were adorable, well-spoken, articulate young ladies enduring a very serious power struggle to outdo one another for the prized throne of leader. These were also girls who clearly enjoyed being with each other. After all, they spend every weekend together at each other’s houses. They just needed a refresher on how to treat one another. So I pulled a little kumbaya, got out my guitar, and made them all sing Joni Mitchell songs. Just kidding. I made them sit in a circle and tell each other just what it is that they liked about each one. I guess you could call it a friendship exorcism. I was helping them clear the air of cruelty. They wanted tattoos and piercings; I wanted gumdrops and lollipops. We settled somewhere on sweet and salty pretzels. It had an after taste and could snap any minute, but looked good enough to try.

Here’s the thing. Girls don’t have enough mentors. Who are they looking up to? I hate to get preachy. I really do. But, if your daughter is like mine, she sneaks in that ridiculous, inane MTV show, “The Jersey Shore.” And she thinks the Snooki vernacular is cool. Enough said about that. It’s beyond my mental comprehension. I still can't understand why they are on TV in the first place. That and the teen pregnancy show. Dear TV Gods, Really? I mean, really???

Here’s the point. These are the role models that are being elevated to stardom, given all the press, to bring into your living room and made available to impressionable young girls like mine. To borrow my two year old's favorite word: “Gross.” And it is... gross.

I tried. Lord knows I tried. When she was a baby I put together a binder of all these great authors and important historical female figures. I introduced her to Margaret Mead when she was five, I bought books on Eleanor Roosevelt, the women’s movement, Amelia Earheart, and downloaded obituaries of interesting personalities so she would be inspired. I know there’s some kind of oxymoron in there, but it was about their accomplishments. A “Hey! You can do that too if you try!” sort of thing.

You should see my children’s book collection. It is awesome! Have you ever read “Mirette on the High Wire” by Emily Arnold McCully? That is the most inspiring book for young ladies. The author is even more inspirational. (I got to interview her years ago after she won a prestigious prize for children’s literature.) As a result, my daughter was an avid reader. We were always buying books and going to the library. And as she grew, she found books more appropriate to her age group. She read every American Girl book she could get her hands on. When she was 10, she read “When a Tree Grows in Brooklyn” from cover to cover and cried at the end. She talked about it for days. I was in awe of her intellect.

Fast forward to the sleepover, hurling insults, and MTV.

Role models, mentors, whatever you want to call them. They can absolutely transform your life. When someone believes in you and your ability, and takes the time to build you up with important constructive criticism, you feel empowered. Like you can do anything because someone cares. I knew a person like that. Actually, I knew two—both teachers. My third grade teacher influenced me with her positivity and absurd writing assignments. They were so silly, and I was silly. It was a tremendous outlet for my own absurdity. And she celebrated it! The second, whom I really want to pay tribute to here, was in college. And it is because of this woman I found the confidence to write professionally. She said, “You don’t have to be the best, but you do have to try. And it all begins with your heart. Find your voice deep inside of you, get your thoughts down, and edit later.” Great advice. I follow it to this day.

My mentor and I became great friends, despite our 50-year age difference. She shared so many parts of her life with me, openly and willingly. Her quirkiness fit so well with mine, and we could laugh for hours about the silliest things. She loved to share her love of the arts, and we attended some wonderful shows together. She once brought me to Jacob’s Pillow in the Berkshires to see a dance performance. Every single one of those dancers was naked. I didn’t know whether to stare out of curiosity or to look away out of respect. And there was my friend, eyes all lit up with admiration at these dancer’s incredible abilities. She turned to me and said, “Ah, don’t you just love the human body? Isn’t it so beautiful?” That's how she saw people—as beautiful.

We stayed in touch through the years, sent Christmas cards, then lost touch. Lives get busy, and I had a second baby later in life. I sent her a birth announcement with a long letter inside, but I didn’t hear from her. I figured she was too busy, and I just didn’t follow up. Recently, I found out she had suffered a long illness and passed away. I felt robbed and devastated. And lucky... just to know someone like her. She was an amazing, inspiring woman that touched many people's lives. She was just so... positive.

So here's what I want to say to my teenager: Words are powerful and can be quite affecting to those who are quite vulnerable. All it takes is one gesture, one kind word, or act of kindness to influence a life.

Try it out on your friends. Nice is making a comeback. It's cool, it's edgy, and it's hip. Spread the word. I love you, Mom. P.S. It was really fun seeing Soul Surfer with you. They should make more inspirational movies like that!

Here's a book I bought for my daughter when she was in 3rd grade. We read it cover to cover, over and over again. I recommend it as a great resource for parents dealing with any friend issues.

The Last of the Old West. Discovering the Pioneer Spirit of Wyoming

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 00:20:00 +0000

Check out this SlideShare Presentation:

Wyoming

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Forever Grateful: An American Travel Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 21:59:00 +0000

Check out my SlideShare Presentation on traveling to Grateful Dead concerts:

Forever grateful

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Organizing the Home Office

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 21:58:00 +0000

Check out my SlideShare Presentation:

Organizing the Home Office

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Chocomania. It's Madness.

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 21:57:00 +0000

Check out my SlideShare Presentation:

Chocomania

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A Mother Knows

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 04:29:00 +0000

I’m living in teenage hell.

The “glitter is more, cleaning is a chore, mothers are a bore, in two seconds flat you are at war, and YOU just want to yell, ‘Shut the front door’” kind.

I’m not really sure how else to describe it.

Today I was asked a plethora of questions from the minute I picked her up from school, til the 10 minutes it took to get us home. It started with, “How was your day?” and quickly progressed to “Why are you always so mean?” ending with, “Are you starting menopause?”

I felt like I arrived fresh-faced, then emerged with scars so deep that hours of Heidi Montag plastic surgery wouldn’t smooth them out.

Yes, parents ruin lives. That is exactly what we set out to do when we have children. I actually made a conscious decision that I would be in labor for three days, beg for drugs only not to receive them, give birth, put in important mommy time by introducing her to BIG ideas and fostering cognitive development just to squash any dream she may imagine for her life.

Hey, go big or go home, right?

But tomorrow I am seeking revenge. I am going to wear her Uggs. And her favorite shirt. And then, I’m going to test-drive her jewelry, use her new straight iron, and make-out with her life-sized Justin Bieber cut out. Well, not really. Cause that would be creepy. But I am going to wear her Uggs. Just because I can. And I may use her shirt as a cleaning rag. But that would be over the top. You know what? Maybe I won’t even go in her room at all. Take that.

Truth be told our relationship blurs the lines of friend and mom. It’s probably 2.3 parts friend; 1.7 parts mom. For a long time it was just the two of us. Then along came a spider who sat down beside her stealing her curds and whey (figuratively that would be me, the mom). And there were three… then four... then five of us.

And it’s hard. It’s hard enough to be a teenager, let alone find yourself in new situations where you have to share your mom when you don’t want to do it. Let’s face it. Divorce sucks. When I hear people who have kids talk about how they want a divorce, I have profound words of wisdom—like, "It sucks." Sure, you’ll have all this time for you. And at first, you’ll think this party could be pretty great. I’ll re-read my favorite book! I’ll paint by numbers! I’ll raise chicks! Then you’ll be so depressed you don’t see your kid, you won’t do anything. That new passion for artistically creating cut-paper dogs of many breeds (yes, I actually did this—it’s all in the weight of the paper) will soon collect dust while you sit in front of the TV and get up only to tinkle. And people won’t come to this party. And those who aren’t divorced won’t understand. They say they will, but they won’t. Cause they can’t. Someone actually had the nerve to tell me “if that were me, I would miss my child so much.” Really? Cause I never missed mine. No, I never crawled up in a ball in my bed and cried myself to sleep worrying about how my life was affecting my child’s. Not once. The sad part is I think that remark was meant to make me feel better.
It didn’t work.

Before you know it, three years go by. And, finally that spider crawls past and you don’t feel like crushing it. Cause it’s a nice spider. And then your teenager tells you HER life is ruined. And you are even more depressed than when you got divorced. Man, kids can break your heart more than any man who tells you you’re fat. Which, I’m not. And if any did, I’d kick him in the privates. Exactly like I taught my teenager to do when she was little.

Pain is difficult on any level. It doesn’t matter how old you are. I thought about this for a very long time and tried to figure out how to address the pain my teenager was coping with when the new babies came along. I came up with this poem. I tried to turn it into a children’s book, but it was beautifully rejected as having “wonderful cadence, feel, and a great message.” Man, those agents really know what they are talking about!

Anyway, my poem really helped us. I am referring to it once again.

And, I hope if you are in my situation, it helps you, too.

A MOTHER KNOWS

By Me

Mommy, will we always be together?

Why of course.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

But what if I get lost?

I will find you.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

What if we climbed a really tall mountain and I ended up on one side and you were on the other side?

I would find you.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

What if we were swimming in a great big sea and a huge wave took me away from you?

I would find you.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

What if we were flying kites and a strong wind carried me high up into the clouds?

I would find you.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

What if we were sledding down a huge hill and a giant snowball grabbed me and rolled away?

I would find you.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

Mommy?

Yes?

What if you got a new baby and you loved her more?

How do you know?

I know a mother's love is taller than a mountain, bigger than the sea, stronger than the wind, and warm enough to melt a giant snowball.

Mommy, will I always be your baby?

You will always be my baby.

How do you know?

A mother knows.

Washed Away

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 17:16:00 +0000

Devastation caused by the tsunami in Japan.
Google Images.

It's hard to turn on the TV and not be deeply affected by the devastation in Japan. Especially when I get the privilege to be in my warm bed, nestled in with my kids. The images are so harrowing. I am sure these people would give anything to have a warm bed again. I'm sure these people would give anything to just have their loved ones back again. Today it was reported that the death toll reached close to 7,000.
Seven thousand people... washed away.

I once traveled to an area that was devastated by a tsunami. Many years back I went to Nicaragua with a group of professionals. I was there to observe, take notes, and ultimately report on this delegation of people. We visited many areas—one was on the coast outside of Managua, Nicaragua's capital. This beach-side landscape stretched for miles and was hailed as a once-beautiful vacation spot. It was an area where the then-president (Violetta Chamorro) had her summer home. It was anything but beautiful when we were there. I remember the feeling of a death and likened it to singed hair frayed at the ends. You had to trim back the layers and hope to make way for something healthier. Looking at the barren land, it didn't feel like growth could ever occur again, but it was—slowly. You had to look deeper. For many of us, who had collectively traveled all over the world and had seen waters so blue and architecture so extraordinary, it was just so hard to get past what we were seeing.

We were told people survived only by climbing up a tree and holding onto it for 90 seconds. I remember looking up at the trees. They were palm and seemed flimsy in the face of a natural disaster. Surely they would be washed away? I imagined if I would have the strength to hold on with winds raging and waters pulling. I didn't think I could; I'm just not that strong. Who knows, maybe adrenaline would kick in. Maybe a will to survive, too.

And there were bugs. Big flying bugs everywhere. We were told the bug infestation got worse since the tsunami. The five-inch flying "cockroach-like" bugs perched themselves on the ceiling in our room and at night would drop onto our beds, creeping into our hair and covering our bodies. Every time they dropped from the ceiling they made the worst sound. It sounded like someone stepped on it. C-r-u-n-c-h! You quickly learned to sleep with the covers on your head and prayed for the bats not to fly through the windows. Bats were everywhere. But here's the irony—through those windows we could see the most beautiful sky. Stars illuminated it. Someone told me it has something to do with the Celestial Equator, though I am not skilled in astrology. Every night a bunch of us would gather at the edge of the beach forming a ring of chairs and just "night watch." There was such beauty among the ruins. I actually saw a shooting star. I was in amazement long enough to be distracted by the large wild pig that grazed across the sand. "Did you just see what I saw?" we all asked each other, hoping it was a mirage. It wasn't.

You don't forget the things you see. It stays with you for a long time. You can try and describe the images to other people, but they can't really comprehend unless they see it for themselves. And we can't fully understand what it is like right now in the areas hit the hardest in Japan. We can hear about the homeless, the radiation levels, that food and water are scarce... but we aren't there. And mostly what I have found is people are only deeply involved in what they are doing at the moment—the things that truly affect their own lives. Who isn't guilty of this? We are busy making up a life for ourselves and our families.

I was there about two years after the tsunami hit the area. Though I felt a deep connection with the country and the women's movement that was beginning to happen there, I never went back. I don't know what development has occurred since. I have read a lot of reports that Nicaragua is fast-becoming a retirement destination. I guess it's safer now. I do know I met a lot of strong people who have had to overcome extreme obstacles and had stories so gut-wrenching it would make the milk in your morning cereal curdle on the spot. But these were resilient people. Life would go on. It always does.
But still...

Life will go on in Japan. People will rebuild. Growth will happen. But it will take years... years of sifting through memories and things that make up a life that was washed away only to end up in piles of debris.

White Kitchen Inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Pasacreta) — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 17:40:00 +0000

So many people I know have books of inspiration for their entire lives, not just for rooms in their house. My friend Lynn has a beautiful book filled with cut-outs from magazines to inspire her life goals. It's gorgeous and, well, inspirational!

Finding inspiration and interpreting it in a way that is your own is important. I've been on incredible creative teams that have come up with some beautiful story spreads, awesome ads, and fabulous promotional materials doing that. So use other designs to influence looks you want to achieve. Maybe it's a color you love, textiles, a fabric motif, a cool word to use as wall art... you have to experiment.

This is the philosophy I applied when coming up with ideas for my kitchen. I combed through magazines, books, and the Web for inspirational pictures I could build on and make my own. The big joke about my kitchen is how long it took me to do this. But had I done it immediately when I purchased the house 12 years ago, it would look completely different than it does today. Back then I knew I wanted something white, but I probably would have settled for a directly out-of-the-box kitchen. I was too green in the process. Plus, it would have also represented my life in another marriage. Waiting helped me begin a new life with something fresh—a new perspective. And the more I waited, the more I honed it what felt right. It also gave me time for me to learn more about the design principles and for my tastes to mature. I discovered how much I love architectural details. I may actually be addicted!

My house was built in 1890, so it deserves to be revived in a way that mimics interesting architectural details of that era and modern ones, too. Below were the three pictures I used as the basis for my kitchen. I think I found a couple on the House Beautiful website. Each has gorgeous eye-catching architectural detail. Remember—it all starts with a vision, then a picture, then one thing happens, and all of a sudden you are creating around it. And before you know it, a year later in my case, you have "the thing." (For pictures of my finished kitchen, see post the kitchen.

This is the first white kitchen that really made me fall in love. That back wall is so interesting and works beautifully in that space. I just couldn't make it work in mine. But I loved that white marble carrara. So I sourced it out. I ended up finding a company who sold it for a really good price, and they threw in the ogee edging free. Sometimes you pay so much more to get the edging you want. It can get ridiculous. Try and negotiate. The worst thing they can say is no, and then you go somewhere else. Don't you just love that table?

My interpretation for below.
I still need a switch plate, but finding the right one could take awhile. The three objects represent my girls: a rattle, a cup, and an apple.

I fell for this white kitchen next. I actually loved it so much I mimicked parts of the back wall. I owned a similar clock and thought, what a great place for display. I even went out and bought very similar island pendants — then quickly returned them. I ended up going for milk glass pendants, instead. I needed more white off-sets. Plus, I love milk glass. Growing up, my mother displayed it all over the house. The tile, well, I borrowed that idea, too. Who doesn't love classic subway tile? Now this kitchen has some pink hues—not for me. But it helped me visualize how different shades of white could work.

This kitchen uses all the styles I love: rustic, traditional with a hint of modern. It's pure bliss! It was the inspiration for my island. I wanted to incorporate brown, but couldn't visualize it. This kitchen makes it easy. My island has cabinetry with a built-in console I bought off a friend. It was very country-like. So we added the island legs, created a bookcase at the bottom, added wainscoting (see above photo), switched out the knobs for ones I found at Anthropologie, then painted it BM Bittersweet Chocolate. It softens up the entire room!

My island built-in painted brown.
And a little bit of sun from my best friend, Annette.