I had this marvelous notion that the husband and I could read a self help book together for fun.  I know it’s unusual, but I am really stretching out my mind, soul, spirit “thang” and it seemed like a good idea to tackle it as a couple.

When I mentioned it to him, he did the only appropriate thing an anti-baby powder man can do; he said “of course”.  I’m very clear that this in no way meant he thought the idea was cool, worthwhile or possible.   It was more of a “yeah babe” than an “I’m in”.

Nevertheless, I purchased two books and charted a course for ultimate couple-dom!

So I’m in bed, reading MY book.  He’s in the office sorting through old slides and fidgeting with tools.  After page 25 I was convinced that self help cannot be shared in the bedroom.  I’m going to take this one alone, dog ear it, highlight essential passages and then gently set it on his side of the bed and see what happens. BRAVO!

Oh, yeah, the book report:

the 21 day consciousness cleanse by Debbie Ford

It’s all preamble at the moment. The concepts seem solid and I’m going to begin the exercises on Monday like any good diet.

I will post a follow up once I am finished, but I can already tell it is worth reading cause page 3 hit me with the following quote:

“Until you are able to see who and what you are at your core, you will settle for the self that you know, and may endure immense and often needless suffering.”

I wonder what’s on husband’s mind right now…

I bit off more than I could chew. I spent New Year’s Day dreaming of all the ways I was going to excel at human being”ness” in 2011.

I very carefully constructed ways to ensure I was connected.

I promised to work out more and eat less. I mean, don’t we all?

The Talk Project was created out of a desire to communicate with a world  larger than my cluster of girlfriends and my children.  I was committed to having one meaningful conversation with someone different for 365 days.  It was going so well in my head until I realized that I’m just not ready to strike up conversations in the elevator.  I discovered that I am much more insulated and time challenged than previously imagined.  So with a heavy heart and a minor sense of failure, I must give up the daily notion of The Talk Project.

I’m going to keep an open door on interesting conversation and see what happens.  I promise to explore meeting now people in 2011 and I will certainly document any great talks that come my way.  The 365?  Well, I’ve got some other things going on right now, including searching for new deodorant.

But call me, we’ll talk.

I’ve been with my husband for 11 years.  We have an open and honest dialogue between one another and he is my greatest champion.  What I am about to tell you verges on the ridiculous.

This morning my dear husband was compelled to tell me (after 11 years) that he does not like baby powder deodorant.  MY baby powder deodorant!  Actually he said, “Babe, would you mind if I bought you a different deodorant?”

There is no response to this kind of question.  After confirming that he was indeed serious, I smiled and politely agreed to replace the said offender, Suave Solid Baby Powder Scent.

I have to stop here and tell you that beyond my shock and disbelief that he was just now getting around to telling me that, to him, I’ve stunk for a decade, I was somewhat charmed by his blatant and obvious naivete.  Did he really think that he could throw that into our marital hat without consequence? Was it his wild imagination that led him to believe that I’d be receptive to such a thought?

I know I may have acquiesced in the moment to avoid any bloodshed, but I hope there is an understanding that I am going to work this exchange into every little morsel of conversation and social activity that I can possible imagine until we are well into our seventies.

Some examples:

At our next dinner party when someone says, “Please pass the salt”, I could respond, “I would but apparently, I shouldn’t raise my arms.”

On car trips: “I’m sorry. I thought the cow smell would mask my odor.

On airplanes: “Maybe the middle seat will be empty so you can get a little extra room between you and my stank.

In grocery stores: I can hide my stench by hanging out in the diaper section.

During sex: “Would you care for a nose plug?

You get the picture.  He’s toast and I love it!

There is a sad side to this story. I’ve been loyal to my baby powder deodorant for 20 years, long before marriage came along.

To Suave Solid Baby Powder: Farewell my dear friend. We have been together over 8000 days. I will never forget you. They say love is blind but it’s olfactory senses are powerful.

MORAL. STORY.  If you can wait 11 years to get something off your chest, you might want to consider going for the 20 year mark.

Disclaimer: To my dear husband, I am just poking fun because you made it so easy ; )  Now if you casually mention that you do not like brunettes, we might have a problem! xoxo

Question: What would you give up for your partner?

I know. It’s the buzz. Everyone is griping about TSA policies and procedures.  Some people are outraged and some stand firm in their assertion that if it makes us safer than we should fall into line and shut up. I’m not going to get political about the conversation.  I’ve had my dealings with the TSA more than once. I’ve been sent the nasty letter threatening to fine me because I didn’t want my 6 month old patted down at the Idaho airport.  I’ve taken off my shoes, unloaded my laptop, watched them search my suitcases and had hair conditioner confiscated because it was half an ounce over the limit.  It hasn’t deterred me from travel.

Recently, on the way back from a family gathering in Las Vegas, I was asked to step through the x-ray machine. I froze. I didn’t expect that it would give me pause and yet, in an instant I was devastated.

I realized I had to get naked. Not in front of everyone, but in front of someone. Someone I didn’t know.  I mentioned to the TSA agent that I felt uncomfortable going through the machine.  She had obviously been told to dissuade me from an extensive and time consuming pat down. She used words like ‘intrusive’ and ‘private parts’.  She told me I would feel much less violated by the machine than the pat down.  I was told it was the machine or the airport police.  I felt powerless.

I could have held my ground. I could have refused, been greeted by airport security and have my name written down in the book of bad airport citizens. I could have left my sister standing on the other side of security, rented a car and driven the 4-1/2 hours home where my family was anxiously waiting.

I didn’t. I suspect most people don’t. We have planes to catch and lives to lead. It’s no excuse, but it is a reality.

As she instructed me to life my arms in the air, a tear swelled in my eye.  I don’t want to be dramatic about it, but I felt violated. I didn’t think it would have that effect on me but I felt stripped of my basic right to privacy.  I felt naked.  Exposed.  Vulnerable.

I don’t even really get all that naked for my husband, so it felt really raw to know that some random TSA agent was seeing all of me.

I collected my things, continued on towards the gate and wept silently.  It was a disgusting feeling.  It was a moment where my thoughts on being an American were led by negativity.  I know I am not alone.

I don’t believe choosing between the lesser of two violations should be our way of life, but that’s just my American talking.

Cindee is one of the chicest women I have encountered as an adult.  She believes in the power of basic black and the necessity of a fantastic belt.  On a weeknight hall pass, I caught up with her over roasted Brussel sprouts and a glass of wine.

Cindee is hitting a wall in her business.  It’s the kind of wall that chases a person down the street, trying to edge in front of them for attention.  She and the wall are not getting along.  It’s bringing her down and chipping away at her motivation.

We discussed small ways to overcome some of the obstacles she is experiencing as a new entrepreneur. I had no easy answers.  There are times when we are talking to people and our only desire is to offer solutions.   I’m not sure Cindee wants to conjure up solutions over beef kebab.  It’s nice to have deep conversations about love, life and happiness, but sometimes, it’s nice to just sit back, lean up against the wall and rest.

And I’m learning that part of having a really great talk, is listening.

I’m having a panic attack.  The education of my children has proven a more difficult endeavor than expected.

I dialed for help and Mrs. Lisy answered.

By all accounts, she is qualified to give advice on the subject. Her role in student services and education for a local private school, gives her insight on education. And besides that, she’s a mom; qualifying her to speak intelligently on just about any subject.

I’m at a crossroads with my boys. One is a wide eyed sponge for unassisted learning and the other is a methodical student that crosses his I’s and dots his T’s.

I’m torn about schools, grade levels and social aptitude. I’m constantly convincing myself that I am ruining their chances of true success and happiness. Mrs. Lisy understood.  She conveyed that I was not alone. Parents all over the world are second guessing decisions right now. I mean as I write, there are parents worrying about some thing they did or did not do.

Mrs. Lisy shared a secret and now I would like to share it with all of you:

They will survive in spite of our efforts.

This is calming information.

Mrs. Lisy stayed on the phone with my for well over thirty minutes until it sunk in to my psyche.

I’m realizing that every once in a while I can give my parenting doubts a break.

I hung up and gave myself a hug. As a parent, I’m going to be okay.  Just ask Mrs. Lisy.

Dee is a good friend of a good friend.  She’s always been the kind of girl that you expect to be married but hasn’t jumped off that cliff yet.  Yes, it’s a cliff.

We ran into each other while helping pack up our mutual friends kitchen for a move. The last time I saw her, she had lost her mojo and was feeling ready for change.

Dee works in television and has been living on the road, producing segments for the past year.  We talked about how the hotel rooms, condos and transient friends can lead to shifts in your thinking about life.  She told me how the shift from girl to woman happens when you step outside of the box.

It was apparent that she was out there doing something for herself instead of sitting back in her comfort zone dealing with bad office politics. She’s taking risks with her life.  Making leaps and bounds without a well mapped out landing.  It’s hard to be a single girl looking for something beyond love.  Dee wants more than a boyfriend, she wants to come into her own.

I think she has come to a point in her life where being single does not define her.  I have never seen her more content, more confident or more sure of who she has become.

Mad props to Dee.

It’s awards night. Besides the dresses, bad hair and sizzling accessories,  we talked about:

• Cougars
• Cubs (think six pack not Chicago)
• Celebrity husband stealers whom my sister affectionately calls a “hot mess”

Nuff said.

Saturday is all about sports in our house.  With two boys, I am either on my way to a game, watching a game or securing snack for after the game.  Don’t get me wrong, it is with much love and adoration that I share my soccer mom personality with my family, but I’m awful at small talk so the communicating with other parents kills.

Today after the game, one dad was aloof; standing back from the rest of the parents in a fabulous pair of sunglasses with his arms firmly crossed.  I approached.

The icebreaker: ” How old is your little one?”

“Four.” he retorted.

Another chip at the ice: “He’s tall for four. Does he play basketball like his brother?”

“He’s not interested.”

This is the moment when your subconscious should tell you to retreat. I seem to be missing that gene. I insisted on moving forward.  I couldn’t tell if he was a snob or if he had no interest in my ilk.

I continued to ask benign questions about kids and sports (all topics that should be of interest to a man at a kids basketball game).  He wasn’t really relaxing. I called for backup.  I waved for my husband to come over. He sauntered over and melted the ice.

The conversation opened up and soon we were going over child discipline, LA communities and private school ethics.

And while I still felt a slight twinge of arrogance in the air, I was consoled by the fact that he was not completely adverse to me. He’s just not that comfortable talking with humans that produce milk.

The moral of the story: Stick to the snack prep and let sports dads have their small talk.

Some people cause you to feel better about yourself.

That’s Sira.

12o pounds of pure energy and love that can make you believe in yourself on a bad day.  Except, Sira has been feeling a little off center.  I think the holidays and working on two businesses coupled with raising two children, can put a strain on the most inspirational person.

Every once in a while, Sira and I have what I consider a “check in” conversation.  We start asking each other questions about life paths, driving forces and goals.  So often, as busy urban people, we forget to “check in” on our happiness.

Sira comes up for air every once in a while to evaluate what’s going, create oxygen and then dive back into life with gusto.  That’s the outcome of a introspective, enlightening and motivational talk with a good friend.  We get to bounce ideas, take stock of our daily grind and refuel for the coming hurdles.

Now, if I could only get to pilates class.