natalie's next adventure...

nat & zach

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love. Sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely. 

Nat: Pours her heart out about Zach ending his paternity leave, worried about being alone with newborn daughter, conflicted about being a working or stay-at-home mom.

Zach: Consoles her. Then, without skipping a beat… “I can’t believe my rice exploded the other night in the microwave.”

Nat: “Why are you still thinking about that??”

Zach: “I’m reminiscing.”

Nat: “Reminiscing about rice?”

Zach: “Yeah.”

Nat: “Wow.”

Portrait of a Not-So-Perfect Pregnancy: Part One

My sister was the ideal pregnant woman. Twice. She planned her pregnancies, entered into them in the healthiest way possible, relished being with child, had no problem gaining weight, ate whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted (and it stayed down!), and breezed through it all with a patience and positivity that is now reflective of her parenting style.

I’ve had a slightly different experience. (Please note, it’s slightly TMI and I apologize in advance.)

Mine’s gone a little something like this…

While on a relaxing and over-indulgent trip to Lake Como, Italy, let’s just say “things happened” and I woke in the middle of the night after the happening knowing two things. One, I had a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI) and two, I felt certain I was pregnant (more on that later). At the time, you couldn’t have convinced me which was worse.

My husband and I frantically called down to the front desk to be told in very broken English — neither of us speak much Italian — that there was an all-night clinic on the other side of town. So off we went in a taxi to the clinic in sketchy town where we paid our cabbie to wait for us (The last thing we needed was to be stranded at 3 a.m. in the middle of nowhere, not speaking the language with a raging infection inside of me and my unborn baby). We struggled once more to communicate with the poor doctor on call.

She didn’t speak a lick of English, and my spotty Italian wasn’t getting us anywhere. In a last ditch, frantic effort, I asked if there was any chance she spoke Spanish. She did! Did I? Well, I did. Once upon a time. In high school and college, but it had been years, and I was rusty at best. You’d be amazed what the mind is capable of when in dire situations. Suddenly, I was rattling off words I didn’t even know I knew. It wasn’t so much medical or technical terms, more like “pain” and “down there,” but she got the gist. I hadn’t been that proud of myself and my language skills since I was 25, drunk and trying to impress guys. (C’mon, we’ve all been there. There’s something about being intoxicated that makes you want to speak a foreign language.) I managed to convey what was going on and obtain a prescription for antibiotics to clear up the infection.

Next stop? The only all-night pharmacy to pick up said meds. Thankfully, the cabbie was still there. He drove us up to a little slat in the side of a graffitied brick wall and I rung the buzzer. Within moments, a set of eyes were peering back at me. This time, I chose to stay silent and let my piece of paper do the talking. Soon enough, I was paying for my pills and on my way to relief.

But first, I had to go back, pack and take a five-hour train ride to our next destination: The Amalfi Coast, a beautiful, scenic trip if you’re not burning below and having the constant urge to use a public, tiny, mobile, lurching bathroom. Within a day, I was feeling like myself again. Except different.

Inside, I knew I was pregnant. I didn’t feel physically changed, but mentally, it had all shifted. My husband thought I was crazy, but I was convinced. Did that stop me from drinking wine every night and eating questionable cheese? No. I was in Italy! Can you blame me? (If you can, please don’t comment below.) And, really what were the chances I was pregnant? We weren’t trying, (TMI alert again!) and every story I’d ever heard was how difficult it was to conceive. How couples had actively tried for months, years even, while using calendars, charts and medical intervention to help it happen. I’d never had a pregnancy scare in my life. And, once I went off the pill after ten years, I had been diligent, much to his dismay, about using condoms. Except, of course, this time.

I tried to put my irrational thoughts out of my head and enjoy the rest of our trip. But during moments like when I was walking through Capri up a ton of stairs in 95-degree heat, I knew. A fairly fit person, I was finding it much harder to climb than I should have. On a boat to the Blue Grotto, I started feeling queasy. Now, I practically grew up on the water, spending most weekends on my grandparents’ boats and never ever got the slightest bit seasick.

Back home in CA, I raced to the drug store. Those two minutes were agony. And when the negative sign appeared, I was met with a mixture of elation, confusion and sadness. My husband was smirking with his “I told you so” expression as he gave me a consolatory/celebratory hug.

With just a few weeks until I started a new job, I fulfilled all the obligatory rituals: running errands, spending time with friends and seeing every doctor for my annual check-ups. While at the dermatologist, she convinced me to get a chemical peel for the hyper-pigmentation I had accumulated over the years from being a fair-skinned sun lover.

The next morning, I awoke to an inferno on my face. I darted to the bathroom mirror to see Sloth from The Goonies staring back at me. I shrieked. My husband came running in and the look on his face confirmed it. I was a freak.

My face was so swollen and inflamed that I was unrecognizable. The doctor said there would be some redness, but this was molten lava. I immediately called her on the phone and shared my saga, to which she replied it was normal what I was going through, feeling and looking like. I said nothing about this was normal and demanded she see me. I was in her office thirty minutes later. Her staff could not stop staring at me as I waited for her.

She walked into the room and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, you weren’t kidding!” I wanted to kill her. Yeah, this was my idea of a funny joke, how I got my giggles these days. She proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes consulting books and others as to what to do. Really reassuring. I promise this woman is board-certified, works in a posh area of LA on high-profile clients and came strongly recommended. I wasn’t seeing some quack in Compton, although I might as well have!

Next, she brought out the big guns: steroid creams, antibiotics, pain relievers, gel-infused packs, hydration machines… I even had a few sessions in a hyperbaric chamber à la Michael Jackson.

After a few days of being on such a strenuous cycle of healing, I started to look a bit better, but I felt worse than ever. I had terrible cramping, as if my period would come at any minute, but it never did; my breasts were sore and I was unbelievably tired. I convinced myself it was due to being abroad, having a different routine and schedule, being on a ton of meds… all of it surely wreaked havoc on my health. Then I started having intense pressure in my lower abdomen. In all of my years of being on this planet and a woman, I had never felt this sensation before.

I knew what I had to do. There was one remaining test in the pack of two I’d purchased and it needed to be used.

This time, the sign came within seconds.

This time, it was positive.

To be continued…

(Source: The Huffington Post)

nat & zach

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love. Sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely. 

At the airport…

Zach: Give me your purse; I’ll carry it. (Looks down at himself.) I’m now carrying 4 bags. What are you bringing to the table?

Nat (8.5 months pregnant): I’m carrying a HUMAN.

I’m Pregnant… and Freaked Out

                              

I’m pregnant… and freaked out.

While being a mother has been on my life list for as long as I can remember, I did some serious soul-searching before I decided to embark on this journey. I even went so far as to tell my mother and sister it was off the table completely — partly to push their buttons, but also prepare them for the possibility that it might not be for me.

Ultimately, I decided that while I could live a full and happy life without children of my own by committing myself to being the best aunt and volunteer imaginable, I realized not becoming a mother would be one of the biggest regrets of my life. I believe with everything in me that in addition to other roles, I was put on this earth to become a mother. I have so much love to give, amazing role models and a large community of phenomenal friends and family members who will enrich a child’s life. I’ve also learned quite a lot in my 33 years, and continue to work hard on myself. I believe that all of this will help to shape and mold the person — and parent — I’m becoming. And while I’m overjoyed at the prospect of the road ahead, I’m equally terrified.

I’m the kind of person who throws herself into situations that scare her, who believes that if she’s not slightly nervous or uncomfortable, she’s not learning, growing… or living.

So, I’ve done it again. Before I could overthink it, talk myself out of it, before I was perhaps fully ready, I jumped.

And I’m so lucky I landed where I did. I’m grateful that it didn’t take my husband and me months or years to conceive; I’m grateful that we were able to get pregnant at all.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous — or honest.

Today, there’s so much pressure on women to fill multiple roles at once: The perfect homemaker who also maintains a high-level career; the good wife; the has-her-shit-together mother; the glowing, happy, positive preggo… And, for the most part, I think I’ve got it down. (Although my husband might argue, and rightfully so, that my “perfect homemaker” could use a little work.) I’m a career woman, wife and a happy and positive (glowing hasn’t quite reached me yet — here’s hoping it finds me soon!) pregnant person, but when I have a moment to really think about it (which, admittedly, isn’t often these days, given the aforementioned roles), I panic a bit.

I’m worried I leapt too soon. That I don’t have all the tools to be the best mother possible. Scared I don’t and won’t know what I’m doing. Fearful of the unknown. More terrified of the known (studies, statistics, friends’ horror stories). I’m worried about giving up my life as I know it. Then, I instantly feel guilty for thinking that way, for not being the perfect, unselfish “Mother Earth” type. For not immediately thinking about all the women — and men — out there who are struggling to have a child of their own or, worse, grieving for one they lost.

While I’m a firm believer in living one’s own life and working on fulfilling yourself before bringing others into this world, I often wonder: If I had kids earlier, would it have been easier to adjust? Making my way through my third decade, I’ve had so much time to be independent that the notion of another human being truly depending on me — beyond needing a shoulder, friendly ear or smile — is rather daunting.

At 33, I’m certainly the “appropriate” age to become a mother. Except I feel more like 22. Like a child still myself. Unprepared to raise another. I wonder if that will ever change?

Until then, I’m going to try to embrace feeling young in mind and at heart and embracing my new role — uncertainties included. Like everything else, there’s must be that often talked about, seldom achieved balance out there somewhere. Wish me luck trying to find it!

(Source: The Huffington Post)

nat & zach

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love—sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely. 

Goodbye, Hello, Goodbye…

I said I was done with New York.

Over the weather, the small spaces, the hard living.

Said I didn’t want to have children there.

So, after 10 years of nomadic Manhattan living, my husband and I picked up and moved to Los Angeles. And, after a tough transition, I fell in love with the sunshine, reveled in the quality of life, discovered a challenging, fulfilling and fun new career, made some fantastic friends and finally started to put down some roots.

Confident my family would be raised here, we recently put an offer on a charming three bedroom home complete with guest house and the outdoor area of my dreams. As any homeowners — or home contenders — can attest, the process was a roller coaster of emotions. Traipsing through a plethora of places, debating whether each was for us or not — and having to do so under a time constraint — surveying and staring down other potential buyers, and, ultimately, deciding to plunk down our life savings on a leap and a dream, then waiting all the while envisioning our lives there: decorating our little girl’s nursery, walking to the quaint bakery ‘round the corner and hosting weekly cookouts at our new urban utopia. Did I mention the outdoor space?

A week went by. As we frantically hit refresh on our email and checked the volume on our phones, we finally got word. The sellers were taking it off the market. Perhaps my hand-written note conveying how much we loved their home, how we envisioned starting our family there just as they had years before, celebrating birthdays and holidays, making traditions, creating a life, their house soon ours made them realize how special it was and that they weren’t ready to part with it. Whatever the case, one thing was clear: It wasn’t meant to be. The dream of our first family home would have to wait.

Licking our wounds, we decided we’d give it a few weeks until we got back out there. Rebound romance is one thing, homeownership is quite another.

Several days later, I got a call from my husband who was on a business trip in New York. His boss resigned. They wanted him to fill the role. I immediately knew what this meant. So did he. We were moving back to New York.

We always said for the right opportunity, we’d be open to moving anywhere. This was exactly that, the kind of life-changing situation you don’t turn down. Unless of course you, say, live across the country, just moved there two short years ago from the same place they were asking you to move back to, the place you’d always love and miss but swore you were done with, the place your husband had already moved back to once, making this his third time there. Unless you waited for, took a chance on and started a new career you are thriving at that’s only six months in and not as easy to come by back east. Unless you are seven and a half months pregnant with your first child, found doctors you feel comfortable with, a lifestyle you love and are this close to the dream of your little girl’s toes in the sand.

But I knew it was something I had to do: For him, for her, for our family. And, so, within a week’s time, we were saying yes. Yes to New York. Again.

It’s a hard place to say no to. There’s an undeniable energy percolating the air, a vibrant heartbeat pulsing the streets. There’s something that shines within you when you’re there, hell, when you even think about being there, a light that had been, unwittingly, dimmed for two years. The mere notion of returning ignited it again.

So, overall I’m excited. Excited to return to the longest home I’ve known, to experience that magic again with a fresh mindset and new set of eyes, to call my daughter a New Yorker — and a native one at that.

All the while, I’ll greatly miss my adopted home of sunny, Southern California and mourn for the interrupted dream of a life well lived here.

But, much like marriage, I vow to focus on the positives, work on my relationship (with NYC) and make the most of it. So the weather isn’t perfect year round, where is it (Don’t say L.A.!)? Sure space may be limited and at a premium but the backyard is the world’s greatest playground. And, yeah, the living may be hard at times but it sure is fun.

You never know what life’s going to throw at you — or how you’ll react. So I’m learning to stop the planning, stop the proclamations. Instead, I’m going along for the ride, baby and all.

(Source: The Huffington Post)

nat & zach

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love—sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely. 

For the Homeland fans out there…

Zach to Nat: “You’re my Abu Nazir.” 

The Padlock That Broke the Camel’s Back

I met “Jane” day one, freshmen year of college. All blonde and bows, she bounded down the hall like a Labrador puppy. At first, I didn’t know what to do with her endless energy, but she caught my attention and made me laugh. Once we figured out how to negotiate our differences, our friendship quickly grew and, soon, we were inseparable. We shared everything: clothes, late night eats, tears, hopes and dreams, spent time at each other’s homes, wrote letters when we weren’t together and supported each other through everything. I was certain it was a friendship for the ages.

Then Jane met “Eric.” A sweet, humble and all-around good guy, Eric was the quintessential boy next door. And, quite literally, he was. He lived down the hall and, almost immediately, Jane and Eric coupled up. They fell hard, fast. I was thrilled for my sweet friend. I wanted to hear every detail, was their date night photographer and became their consummate third wheel.

But when we returned sophomore year, the brisk fall air swept in another, different girl. Somewhere, somehow Jane became, well, Jane; the bubbly, free-spirited girl I met a year earlier, replaced by a formal, controlled and uptight woman. Her studies and Eric became her only focus and I, along with her other friends, faded into the background.

It’s hurtful to watch your best friend slip away with no control over the situation. After plenty of tears, some sleepless nights and constant over-analyzing about the loss of our once-tight bond, I focused on others and myself, figuring that part of our friendship was over for good.

Then Eric went abroad — and Jane resurfaced. Ecstatic to have my girl back, I didn’t hesitate, question, judge or address the previous year of abandonment. My sunny, silly sidekick was back, we were having a ball and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. The rest of our junior year was bliss. I was convinced whatever it was that happened — a phase, a funk — was behind us. For good.

But senior year when Eric returned, so did the other Jane. The one who shut everyone else out. The one who forgot to be real. Her hardened, formal edges were back and there was no softening them, no matter how hard I tried.

Once again, my girl was gone. Despite the fact that we lived together, I never saw her. My other roommate and I were cut off. She slept at Eric’s every night and when she returned to get clothes, she was icy and distant — and that was when she actually spoke to us.

And, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I awoke one night to a loud beeping. Once I realized it was coming from Jane’s room, I went to investigate. She was, of course, not there but when I went to open her door, I couldn’t. Confused and groggy, I tried to force it open to no avail. I cleared the sleep from my eyes, looked closer and discovered an industrial-sized padlock, the kind that truckers use, on my roommate and best friend’s door.

We went to school in a sleepy town. We lived in a very safe, charming little brownstone with several secured doors between us and the street and an 80-year-old woman at our feet. Our entire student body was under 2,000. Our neighbors were Amish! It was hardly padlock territory. But it was clear that the new accessory was not to keep criminals out, it was to keep us, her two best friends, from coming in.

With the discovery of her hardware purchase that early morning twelve years ago went my faith in our friendship. It was the last straw. We would never recover from this. It sounds so silly but that lock spoke more than she ever could.

I was devastated. I tried to speak to her about it, to ask her what I had ever done that would elicit such an irrational act, what had gone so wrong, hell, what she had in that room… it didn’t work. She was defensive, aloof, uninterested. And that was it.

Over the years, I performed the obligatory friend rituals: traveled to and attended her engagement party, shower, bachelorette and wedding with a smile on my face and genuine happiness for my long-lost friend who found her happiness.

Since then, we’ve drifted. To her credit, she’s made more of an effort than I have; my will died the day her trust did.

There have been other Jane’s along the way and it never gets easier or less painful. But not every friendship is meant to run the course of time. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way over the years. Jane and her padlock were a large part of that.

I have nothing but well wishes for her and her family. I truly hope she’s found what she’s looking for and that, somewhere in there, a bit of the old Jane has shone through. I miss her. And I know, deep down, she does too.

Was there a life-changing, can’t go back moment for any of you and your friends? Have you struggled with the loss of a friendship? I want to hear about it and any advice or thoughts you have about repairing friendships.

(Source: The Huffington Post)

nat & zach

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love—sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely. 

An oldie but a goodie.

April 2009. A month away from our wedding.

Nat (to server): “I’ll have the vegetable soup.”

Zach (to server): “I’ll have lasagna.”

Nat to Zach: “I hate you.”

Favorite Things

It took me years to start my own blog. I was pro, then anti. I had no interest, then I fought the sudden urge. Ultimately, I felt like I had nothing to say. And who would care anyway? Then I wore a pair of shoes. And the rest is history. I woke up bright and early the next morning flooded with thoughts about the experience and felt compelled to write. And I haven’t stopped. HuffPost came calling and now I blog for them, collecting those posts (and others) here. But there are more ideas, inspiration, things that don’t fit so neatly into my musings catalog. I’m OCD when it comes to my thoughts. They must be organized, there must be lists, they must make sense. So I thought perhaps I should start another blog for those ideas. But it’s too much work. Too confusing. Too indulgent. So, to hell with my neurosis. I am now, in addition to the written pieces, posting whatever it is I’m interested in, feeling, thinking, trying, observing…

I love getting tips and tricks from my friends, hearing product endorsements from real people I trust instead of advertisements or editors with an angle and talking deals, steals and splurges but, often, my friends and I spend most of the meal bitching about bosses and commiserating over problems with our significant others and family, that the good stuff goes by the wayside. Well, not here. Saddle up for a new, very originally named (sarcasm) series called “Favorite Things”. Yes, it’s à la Oprah except less Montecito, more Mercer St. I’ll kick it off but stay tuned for new installments from my hip, fashionable, influential friends. 

I try to start every morning with a Glowing Green Smoothie (recipe in The Beauty Detox Solution by Kimberly Snyder, C.N.). It makes me feel healthier, less sluggish and, yes, a little more glowing!

I have a love/hate relationship with Physique 57. It’s torture but it works—and fast. I notice quicker results there than anywhere. If you’re not in NY or LA and don’t have a cardio barre type class near you or don’t feel like paying (They’re not giving them away but it’s far cheaper than a personal trainer!), get the DVD’s! 

When I’m not in Under Armour workout gear, I live in skinny jeans (currently loving my AG Jegging) and an American Apparel or J.Crew Vintage Cotton T. V-neck style. This cut is the most universally flattering. I accompany either with Havianna flip flops.

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m always cold! So more often than not I have a hoodie with me. Right now I’m living in my Splendid one. It’s assymetrical, super soft and, of course, striped. I have a stripe addiction.

After frying my skin in my youth, I am now obsessive about sunblock (I pray it’s not too late!). I love Neutrogena’s Ultra Sheer Dry-Touch Sunblock. It doesn’t feel greasy, smell or make me break out. But if I’m caught out and about with no protection and a face full of make up already, Bare Minerals Natural Sunscreen is the best. Just whip out the brush, powder up and you’re protected!

Speaking of protection, I don’t go anywhere without a pair of shades. I’m really into color these days to brighten up the face and take it up a notch from my usual muted specs. These electric blues look exactly like Ray Ban’s but I got them at Target for 13 bucks!

I have a Listerine Pocket Pack or two in every purse not to mention car, my husband’s coat pocket… It’s never a bad time to freshen up. This way, your mouth feels and, most importantly, smells clean without chomping on gum. (Pet peeve!) Along with the packs, are several Blistex Medicated Lip Balms. I’m obsessed with having soft, moisturized lips and like that you can feel it working. 

When it comes to make up, I don’t like to wear a ton but couldn’t live with out my MAC eyeliner in Teddy, which I’ve worn for years and my Maybelline XXL Pro Extensions mascara (I’ve tried all the expensive brands like Dior, Chanel, etc. and I like the drugstore kind the best.). On days I want full coverage, I love Stila’s Foundation Plus Primer. Two steps in one (all for that!), your makeup goes on smooth and everything stays put longer. Plus, it feels light and photographs well. Two more (not shown) are Nars Orgasm Blush, which looks great on every skin tone, giving a sun-kissed, natural glow, and Revlon’s Photo Ready Finishing Powder,it’s translucent, sets everything in place and controls shine. 

As fair as hair goes, I’m pretty low maintenance (Read: Lazy and cannot do it to save my life.). Plus, it’s an annoying combo of oily at the roots, dried out on the ends and, like most blondes with old age, I’m now naturally mousy (brown) and get it highlighted, so I try to spare myself some washing. That’s where my life savor Klorane Dry Shampoo comes in. I’ve tried almost every other kind out there and this is by far my favorite. Although it’s not cheap and some cans leak and run out before you’ve used it all—bain of my existence. I’m praying they perfect the can and drop the price but, until that happens, I’ll continue to bitch because it’s the best and saves me so much time, effort and money in the long run. 

Finally, let’s talk scent. Years ago my friend bought me Jill Stewart’s Night Blooming Lily perfume and I’ve been using it ever since. Almost every time I wear it, someone notices and compliments the fragrance. It smells like, you guessed it, lilies! But it’s not too floraly. It’s light, fresh, slightly sweet and clean and I love it. 

I’d love to hear what your favorite every day things are!