Hope some of you can join me on Tuesday evening to shop for a flirty summer wardrobe and sip champagne! Feel free to contact me with any and all questions. Thank you, Intermix!

First order of business: Thank you. For reading my admittedly very vulnerable post yesterday. To be honest, I was very scared to publish those words. Scared to put myself out there. Before publishing, I read those words to Husband and he said to go for it. That those words were honest and raw and heartfelt. And that they were me. And so. With shaky hands, I hit publish. And then I sat there, shrouded in soft silence, waiting for you. Your words. And they came swiftly and sweetly. And, throughout the day, I lapped them up, your sentiments, thoughtfully strewn here in my space. And, magically, meaningfully, I felt stronger. More secure. Before I knew it, smiles, real smiles, returned.

And today? Today I am happier. Happier because I allowed myself to stop pretending and strip down for you. Happier because you allowed me to be something other than polished perfection. You allowed me to be me. Today, I am happier for another reason though. Last night. Last night was pure celebratory magic. Last night was another Happier Hour. The third I’ve hosted so far. This time, the party took place in a gorgeous four-bedroom apartment with fabulous city views in a new building on the Upper East Side called The Azure. We women sipped delicious wine donated from a wonderful Argentinian label called La Linda and talked about Commitment & Celebration. And my co-host was the incredible Jes Gordon. And because I know many of you are new here (welcome!), I will read you what I said to the cluster of sixty or so women who gathered to listen and learn.

Welcome all to this beautiful apartment on this beautiful evening. Many of you know the idea – both simple and profound – behind Happier Hours, but it’s worth repeating for the rookies here. The idea is that a chilled glass of wine is a scrumptious way to bookend a long, hot day, but that conversation and connection are what truly make us happier.

And tonight, I am plenty happy. I am happy because my first novel Life After Yes debuted a little over two weeks ago. Some of you might know that I had a bit of trouble coming up with a title for my story. Up until the last few months, it was called BlackBerry Girl. But then one random Wednesday afternoon, as I was wrangling my little girls on the Wild Wild Upper West, my editor called and told me – very diplomatically – that we needed a new title.

At the time, I wanted to cry – and I’m pretty sure I did – but after many brainstorming sessions at Starbucks, I came up with Life After Yes. And it is the perfect title if I do say so myself. Because, yes, it captures the subject matter of my book – an engagement and a maybe wedding. But more so, because, really this story is about something bigger. It is about saying Yes. About commitment. Not just to a man, but to happiness, to a city, to a career, to friends, to dreams.

And what is life, but the commitment and re-commitment to people and places, to passions and purposes? And so. Tonight, we celebrate commitment. Tonight, we commit to celebrate. Conversations and connections. Life and love and literary ventures.

But my book is not all that is making me smile. Hardly. Tonight, I am giddy because my good friend and event planner extraordinaire Jes Gordon is here with me. Sure, Jes is a rock star in her own right. She runs her own very successful business and she too just published a book. But what means something to me, a great something, is that once upon a time, Jes planned my wedding to Husband. I remember waltzing into her studio with Mom, sitting and talking and dreaming about my big day. I remember her showing me the tiny white ski vests that became our totally ridiculous, over the top, and amazing save the dates. They said: “Take a snow day!” Jes was incredible to work with and thanks to her love, creative genius, and imagination, my wedding day, the day on which I committed to my forever guy, was perfection. Not fairy tale perfection. But my kind of perfection.

So, thank you, Jes. For helping me celebrate my commitment more than five years ago and for helping me commit to celebrate many magical moments in my own life after yes.

Like this one.

And then I turned things over to Jes. Unlike me, she had nothing planned. She did not clutch a piece of computer paper between quaking fingers. Instead, she just talked. About her story. About her commitment to helping people celebrate. She was articulate and engaging and wickedly funny. She threw around a naughty word here and there which made us blush and giggle. I wish I could tell you everything she said because she was really that good, but I will stick to one thing. One brilliant thing.

Jes talked about being naked. About how writing a book and putting it out there in the world is like standing naked for all to see. She also said that this is what happens when we are brides; we think we are there tucked away in our expensive tailored gowns, but in reality, we are stripped down, naked, there to be judged. And that this is a scary and amazing thing. As Jes said these things, I stood beside her, smiling and nodding. Yes, because I love me a good metaphor. But more because she is right. I remember my wedding day. Standing there in my vast princess dress. Surrounded by people looking, watching, judging.

And that is how I feel now. My book is out there. Which means I am out there. A piece of who I am is floating about. But I am also still here. In my yoga pants and glasses. Behind a soothing screen. A human being. One with dreams and doubts and fears and flaws. One who is just now realizing how powerful, truly powerful, vulnerability can be. How it can free us, and connect us, and make life real and good.

Thank you, Jes. For your unique and unwavering friendship and support. For making me – and all of us – realize that buttoning up and playing it safe is not what makes us happy. No. It is being naked from time to time – at our weddings, in our words and wishes and ways, that makes it all worth it.

Today I am happier.

Thank you, Jes.

Thank you, all.

___________________________

• Do you agree that there is an immense power inherent in vulnerability?
• Do you agree that life entails constant commitment and re-commitment to people and places and purposes?
• Do you have a hard time stripping down and letting go?
• Are you good at celebrating life’s sweet moments?
• Are you afraid of commitment?
• Did you feel naked at your wedding or at other times in your life? Was this scary or amazing or both?
• Do you think that in blogging we are in many ways stripping down, exposing emotional and existential skin?
  

I had the most maddening experience yesterday. Okay, not the most. But it was plenty maddening.

Here’s the setup: Sister C and I recently enrolled our little ones in the same music class (my Baby and her Baby Bulldog). We figured it was a stellar idea. We’d convene for a late afternoon date on a rainbow carpet where our little ones could run about dancing, shaking germy maracas, and live it up. And then the best part? We could grab a quick bite for the babes/glass o’ wine for the moms at the yummy vegan restaurant right next door right after!

(Yes, it is yummy and vegan.)

Anyway. Yesterday was the first day of said class. And at the last minute, I called Sister C to tell her that Baby was a little under the weather after her uncharacteristic three hour nap. Her 101 temp confirmed the fact that she should not be frolicking with her baby cousin or other anonymous NYC tots. Fine. But I told Sister C that I would still meet her for Part B of our genius plan; at the vegan restaurant.

So. We met up. Got ourselves a table in the back of the mostly-empty restaurant. Sister C placed her hunky (and walking at nine months!) Baby Bulldog into a high chair, scattered some organic cheddar bunnies on his sticky-placemat-deal. We ordered some baby-friendly fare and two glasses of wine. Perfection.

But then. About ten minutes into our quasi-meal, Baby Bulldog got a bit antsy. (Because this is what babies do.) He even let out a little protesting squeal. (Again par for the course in babyland.)

At this point, a fellow patron of the restaurant, a much older man, screamed out, “Helllooooo! Helllloooo! My ears! My ears! Helloooo! Helloooo! My ears! My ears!”

In all honesty, this man made far more of a ruckus than my little nephew. Far more. And the odd thing is that this man wouldn’t let up. He shot daggers at me and rolled his eyes. And I looked at him and very politely said, in a hushed tone, “Sir, he is a baby.”

And then he rolled his eyes at me and said, “And this is a restaurant.”

And then I said, “Sir, it’s 5pm.”

The deal is that both of us were 100% right. Baby Bulldog is a baby. It was a restaurant. It was also 5pm.

The man did not let it go and it became clear that we were being evicted. From this family-friendly restaurant that shares a wall with a place called Kidville. From this place that offers discounts to diners with Kidville memberships. From this little light-flooded eatery on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a world that might as well be renamed Strollerville. And so. Sister C and I asked for the check and for our food to be packed up and we slipped out. Leaving this old vegan man behind.

(It’s worth noting that I am not a bad mom because I left my feverish tyke. Husband was home from his travels and Baby was actually quite happy given her temp. Also worth admitting that I have no idea whether this anonymous curmudgeon is a vegan. And I also have no clue about his medical history. He could have issues with his ears. It’s possible. My hunch? He was just a meanie.)

Truth be told, it was not a big deal. These things happen all the time. I know this. And yet, I was angry. Shouldn’t we all be able to dine out with our tiny creatures at early hours in scarcely-populated restaurants? Shouldn’t everyone – no matter what age or dietary leaning – who walks into a restaurant in broad daylight in a neighborhood overrun by babies and dogs assume the risk of hearing a baby cry for a moment or two? Am I hugely biased because I am a mother of two young girls? Will I feel different about this fifty years from now?

I don’t know. I really don’t. I do know though that this very thing has happened to me with my own kids in this very same restaurant. But it was with a different guy. A much younger guy. It was many months ago and when, during our meal, Baby’s babble gave way to a cry, this guy pierced me with his glare and then put on big soundproof headphones in a huff. To me, it was a bizarre and dramatic response to normal baby behavior. And that was during lunch!

Anyway. It doesn’t really matter. There are no universal conclusions to be drawn here. But I am beginning to wonder whether certain people – (vegans? men who frequent vegan restaurants?) – hate babies?

__________________________

• What do you think?
• Am I so entrenched in my identity as a parent that I cannot see a certain angle of this story?
• Have you ever had a similar experience when dining out?
  
• Have you ever been on the man’s side of things? Have you ever told a parent to quiet his/her kids or leave?
• Do you think particular people (say, those who do not eat dairy or other animal products) are missing a baby-loving chip?

My book hits stores in ONE WEEK, so I must add the below image. Thanks to many of you, Life After Yes is now up to #68,768 in the Amazon rankings. With a few clicky-clicks on your part, maybe it will be at #50,000 by the end of the day? And at #84 by next week? Hey, it’s hardly illegal for a (nervous and nauseous) girl to dream, right?

Here’s the deal. My book hits shelves in twenty-eight-ish days. (Too lazy to count.) And in the off-chance that certain people come calling (Oprah! Martha! Barbara! Kelly! Kathy-Lee! Rachel! Tyra! Anyone! Ha!) and I have to make a spontaneous on-air appearance (double ha), I want to look good. Like Gisele good (triple and final ha).

And so. It’s time to deal. As per the advice and challenge of my friend Foodtrainer and nutritionista Lauren Slayton, I have agreed to boycott bread.

(A moment of silence, please.)

Onward. This is tough. I do not consume vast amounts of bread these days. But. I do enjoy a big fat bagel from time to time. And kids’ birthday parties? One of the main reasons for attending is the slices of pizza they hand out on SpongeBob plates. Yummers.

Enough of that deliciousness crap.

No bread.

For one month. One month is not long, right? Thirty days give or take a few. We can give up most anything for this period of time without ill-effect, right? Right?

I think so. And so. Here I go.

Is this about vanity or insanity? Likely a bit of both.

It’s important to tell you (and me) that I’m not going Atkins. I will not be seen at the local diner scarfing plates of bacon and blue cheese. No. I will be doing my normal fruit and veggies and protein and brown rice thing, but resisting the tantalizing bread basket (sob), the party pizza (whine), and even the fabulous Saturday scones at Alice’s Teacup (cue the tears).

It’s also important to tell you that I am looking for subtle, but sublime results. I am not a candidate for Biggest Loser. Thanks to grueling workouts with two tiny trainers, I am in pretty good shape. But I am also a human being. And a woman. Who wants to look her best. And feel her best. On a big day. On every day.

So no nutritionally-void bread-ish things. Just for one month. I can do this.

But why? Really, why? I told Sister C about this bread-free plan in a taxi yesterday. Which was not very nice because it was her birthday and who wants to hear about someone’s wacky-and-gratuitous dietary agenda on her birthday? Anyway, as I told her about this decision to boycott bread products, I realized something. And I said this something aloud.

“This is a scary time for me and I have very little control. This no-bread thing? It’s my attempt at controlling something.”

She nodded as we pulled up to Bergdorfs where we lunched and drank midday rose wine (no bread in there!) and spent money on things we didn’t need. (Skinny seersucker jeans for Toddler? Oui oui.)

So. Why am I dragging you into the shallow end with me? Scorning bread is hardly a meaningful and metaphorical topic. It’s barely worth writing about. I know this. And yet. There is something under the cosmic crust here. A challenge. To live without something. To buck up. To pare back. To be healthier.

And rumor has it that people who embark on these crazy endeavors do better when they have partners-in-crime.

So. This is when I blush behind my applesauce-stained screen and ask you to be mine.

Will you join me on my no-bread-brigade?

It’s just one month. Less than. On May 18th, in celebration of LIFE AFTER YES’s cute little debut, you can march on over to your local bookstore, buy my book and then say yes to bread!

No? Not buying this? Fine. I get it. Bread is pretty yummy. And I am annoying. I understand.

But me? I’m sticking to this. Because I might have little to no control over how my literary baby fares, how many reviews come in or copies sell, but I can control what I put in my nervous little mouth. And so I will.

My track record on such endeavors? Terrible. I’ve done this very thing. And I lasted two days and promptly determined that quitting was delicious. The minute I make rules, I get a mischievous glint in my eyes (so says Husband) and want to break said rules. So we will see how this goes.

And if it goes well (Optimism, say hey!), I will look fetching in my cat-hair-covered yoga pants as I walk to Barnes & Noble on May 18th, trusty Starbucks cup in hand, to score several copies of a certain book that is currently #212,219 in the Amazon Sales Ranking (yay!).

(I know this post is prime evidence of my insecurity. I know. There is a reason my blog has its name.)

________________________________

• Any interest in joining me in my month sans bread? Twitter buds @barbaraoneal, @Trishryan, @jennyonthespot, and @abbyisawkward are already quasi-onboard! (We can all commiserate because I bet we are going to get a bit snippy without proper carbs!)
• Have you ever embarked on a diet or fitness regimen during a time when you were anxious and had little control over certain important variables in your life?
• Are you a good dieter or do you fashion grand plans from which you veer almost immediately?
  
• How much bread do you regularly consume? Have you ever gone without it? Did you feel or look better?

ILI DAILY CHARM: A NEW FRIEND

We all know that writing can be the most solitary of endeavors. But blogging? It quite literally connects us to others. And, along the way, relationships – even friendships – are formed and forged. One of my very favorite new blogs MWF Seeking BFF is all about friendship. Its author Rachel is a talented (and soon-to-be published!) writer and keen observer. In her post today A Blog Eat Blog World? Not Really Rachel celebrates the inclusiveness of this cybercommunity. Check out my friend Rachel’s brand new baby blog. You can thank me later

As promised. Here I am. Back with more about the first Happier Hour. I don’t know where to begin. I feel overwhelmed. Immersed. Buzzed. Jazzed. Humbled.

Happier.

Yes, in my humble (or elitist) opinion, this wine/women/words thing seems to be a recipe for lasting smiles.

Wine. One measly hour before the party started, I realized something. I was dressed (distressed skinny jeans, nautical navy and white T, navy boyfriend blazer with gold buttons, outrageous yellow kicks, Flirt polish on nails and toes. Because you care. Right.) Anyway, something grave occurred to me: I had not bought a single bottle of wine. Not one. And this was meant to be a cocktail and conversation soiree, a gathering for wine and words. The fact that I had not ordered the booze made me smile because it was prime and hilarious evidence of my absentmindedness and general ineptitude, but also because it underscored for me that this was really about conversations/words/ideas. And it was. (Don’t worry. Two cases of wine arrived and were promptly consumed!)

Women. More than sixty women arrived for the first Happier Hour. Husband, the only man (other than the two hunky caterers) braved the sea of estrogen. To be honest, I have imagined Happier Hours growing to include men. I am a product of a coed education; I like the idea of male voices in the mix. But over the course of the evening, several women approached me and told me how wonderful it was to be among just women, that it seemed to make everyone feel less self-conscious. A friend noted that by making it for women, there were no couples which facilitated mingling insofar as people weren’t glued to their dates. Interesting.

Words. My apartment is not tiny – certainly by Manhattan standards – but that doesn’t mean it comfortably held this crowd. It didn’t. We were packed in here like happiness-seeking sardines. When the time came for the evening’s “program,” people perched wherever they could find an inch of space. I think there were at least twenty-five women on the floor. So, it was cozy. Comfortable or no, we all talked and talked. About things silly and serious. And when Gretchen began to speak, we were all captivated. She said so many interesting things about happiness, about the process of writing her book. She was witty and warm and wise.

And after saying a few words, she opened it up for questions. The questions were thoughtful and tricky and triggered a fascinating back-and-forth. Here’s a sampling:

Can happiness and ambition coexist? Gretchen referred to a professor she once had who said that these two things cannot coexist because ambition entails being in a perpetual state of dissatisfaction. Gretchen acknowledged that feeling simultaneously ambitious and happy can be a real challenge, but suggested that it is possible and involves focusing on process instead of just results. She alluded to something called “the arrival fallacy,” that belief that once we arrive somewhere or achieve something, we will be happy. Often, once we arrive at our imagined destination, we are not as happy as we thought we would be.

Would you still be happy if your book flopped? Leave it to superstar New York Times reporter Louise Story to ask this tough one. After emphasizing the importance of enjoying the processes of our lives, not just the successes of them, Gretchen was put on the spot. Would she be smiling today if here wonderful book had made no literary splash? Gretchen said that she had so much fun creating the book and doing her happiness project that she was much happier than before she started these things. But. She did admit that she would be disappointed if no one bought her book.

What do you tell your children about happiness? Maybe it is because I am knee-deep in rookie parenting, but this one grabbed me. Gretchen acknowledged that when most parents are asked what they want for their kids, the parents respond that they want their kids “to be happy.” But what does this mean? Gretchen said that she learned that this meant (1) supporting risk; and (2) Getting out of the way. Most parents think that the best thing they can do for their kids is to offer security, but Gretchen notes that children who are allowed to take risks are the most happy. (Gretchen notes how supportive her own parents were when she decided to abandon her illustrious law career to write.)

Gretchen also implored us parents to get out of our kids’ way, to let them spend their time doing what they love, rather than hovering over and trying to enrich them at all times. She said something which I cannot shake now two days later. She said that the people she knows who are happiest in their adult lives are pretty much doing what they were doing when they were ten. One friend used to watch endless television as a child and now he is a television writer. Another friend played with dollhouses much past the point of “social appropriateness” and is now an interior decorator.

This Dollhouse Hypothesis (she does not call it this) is compelling to me as a person and professional and parent. As a person, it means that we all already have the raw materials for well-being within us. That we have clues to idiosyncratic happiness in our childhoods. As a professional, it means that we are not all supposed to be following the same path. Each of us has a different proverbial dollhouse and life to play with, tinkering its contents, rearranging its cosmic furniture. As a parent, it means that it is good not to schedule every minute of my girls’ days. It means that space is good, that one of the best things I can do is let my girls become the people they will become.

Anyway, I am getting up there in words because that is what happens when I get excited and let my fingers fly. But the takeaway here is that it is good to think and to talk and to ask. It is good to dream. It is good to have scores of interesting women under one’s roof sipping wine and words from time to time.

It is good to take the time to imagine one’s childhood dollhouse, real or metaphorical. What did it look like? What went on in that little world? When the little people perched on diminutive arm chairs in the boxy little rooms, what did they talk about? When they slept in those itty-bitty beds at night, what did they dream about?

________________________

• Do you feel less self-conscious around members of your own sex?
• Do you think happiness and ambition are at odds?
• Would you be happy if you never felt true “success” in life? Is subjective enjoyment of the process of moving towards our goals “enough” or do we need some measure of objective achievement to be happy?
• Do you believe that parents should support risk-taking by their kids?
  
• Are you most happy doing what you were doing at age ten? What were you doing at age ten?
• Did you have a dollhouse when you were little?
• Was the fact that I wasn’t particularly fond of playing with my dollhouse a conspicuous and early sign of my lack of domesticity?

*Leave a comment here between now and 6am tomorrow (3/26/10) for a chance to win an early copy of LIFE AFTER YES. Yesterday’s winner of THE HAPPINESS PROJECT was… Jessica!*

ILI DAILY CHARMS

Writing about happiness and homes, dreams and dollhouses made me think of two posts I’ve read recently and love. And the posts are written by sisters! Speaking of sisters, Sister C was able to attend on Tuesday night and she and her college best friend stayed late chatting, sipping, and scarfing leftover cocktail sandwiches with me which contributed nicely to my Happiness Hangover. But enough about me! Check out: 

You Can Never Go Home by Gale of Ten Dollar Thoughts; and

A Lost Art by Anne of Life in Pencil