natalie's next adventure...

Why Amanda de Cadenet is the New Oprah

         

May 25, 2011 was a sad day. The Oprah Winfrey Showwent off the air after twenty-five years. At 32 years old, it was on for the better part of my life. As a young girl, I remember my grandmother and mother watching Oprah. As a teenager, it was my turn to tune in and I continued to do so until that late day in May last year. Over the quarter century, there were moments that I missed but not many. At 4 p.m. I was either home from school in time for a snack or finished with college classes and taking a study break. On the days I wasn’t there, I popped in a VHS. By the time I entered the real world and a full-time job kept me from my appointment viewing, thankfully DVR was invented.

While I eagerly awaited Oprah’s book club selections, got choked up during the “Angel Network” segments and envied those in the audience during her “Favorite Things” episodes, it was her every day interviews with both celebs and civilians, particularly the women, that I found the most appealing. On the regular, I’d rewind, pause and transcribe meaningful quotes or words of wisdom.

When the show ended, I, naturally, turned to OWN. But beyond Behind the Scenes, I was unfulfilled. I tried to get into Life Class but rehashed and recut episodes even with present day Oprah anecdotes didn’t really do it for me. Soon, I stopped watching altogether, resigned to the fact that my days of enriching television were over. I love a good Ellen or Jimmy (Fallon and Kimmel) interview for laughs, a Matt Lauer interrogation for severity and a Hoda and Kathie Lee segment for, well, wackiness, but I longed for the connection I got from an Oprah chat and figured I always would.

That is until I stumbled onto a little show on Lifetime called The Conversation with Amanda de Cadenet. I remember its host, Amanda de Cadenet, from her days on the red carpet with Courtney Love. But aside from the tiara-wearing Tinseltown fixture, I had no idea who she was — and I worked for Us Weekly. Apparently she hosted shows in the UK, married Duran Duran’s John Taylor, had a daughter, moved to L.A., became an actress, divorced, turned photographer, married The Strokes’ Nick Valensi and had twins. Now to that list, she’s added interviewer, a role she was clearly meant to play.

With her natural ease, not to mention setting (most interviews take place in either her or her subject’s living room if not a similarly cozy nook prompting many, including the host, to curl up and confess sans shoes), de Cadenet makes the viewer feel like they’re in on an intimate chat with some of the most famous, impressive women of our time. Throw in the “average” women testimonials and The Conversation is a well-rounded, honest hour. The absence of a set, studio and live audience add to the stripped-down, raw vibe. And while it’s fun, funky and modern with it’s laid-back style and free-spirited mantra, it’s equally deep and heartfelt.

From more serious subjects such as loss (Gwyneth Paltrow and Kelly Preston) eating disorders (Jane Fonda and Portia de Rossi) and bullying (Gabourey Sidibe) to far lighter fare like favorite sexual positions, de Cadenet and producer Demi Moore, no stranger to struggle herself, strike the right balance between inspiration and entertainment. By presenting a kaleidoscope of accomplished, aspirational women, each with colorful and complicated pasts, shedding light on their obstacles and discussing universal issues we can all learn from and laugh at, The Conversation proves that no matter our backgrounds or bank accounts, we’re all on the road to self-discovery and, hopefully, self-improvement.

What’s more, it feels like de Cadenet’s on the journey with us. She’s present, wide-eyed and soaking it all in. One could argue she’s having her own aha moments, something Oprah would be proud of.

So, in the spirit of Ms. Winfrey, everyone with me: “A-man-da de Ca-de-NAAAYYYY!”

(Source: The Huffington Post)

The Best Laid (Wedding) Plans

                                             

Calligraphy, shoes, pillows, linens, note cards, makeup, processional timing, seating chart, songs…

Those were just some of the elements of my wedding that went awry. The ones I remember, at least. The one I recall that went right? We had fun. And, after all, that’s really what matters.

My recently engaged friend called to catch up the other day. When I asked how her wedding planning was going, she groaned. I could relate. Wedding planning is a rite of passage. Everyone deserves to go through it once to know they never want to do it again. While trying to give her some advice, she asked me what went wrong on my day to hopefully avoid those pitfalls herself. “How much time do you have?” I replied.

I’m a serious planner. It runs in my blood. My grandmother needed to know as you were leaving when you were coming again and my mother’s calendar looks like the aftermath of a blood drive with all the red ink so I get it honestly. My wedding was no different.

I planned the crap out of that thing working daily for the better part of a year on every little detail, agonizing over the font, stamps and signage and orchestrating each moment from the welcome cocktails to the after party. I wrote every word of our ceremony, excluding my husband’s handwritten vows, and gifted each child with a personalized sand bucket filled with toys and activities appropriate for their age and gender and, of course, the occasion (our destination weekend-long beach wedding). I poured over sixty combined years of photos between my husband and me, making sure there was not one but several shots of each guest on the memory clothesline at the reception to let them know they were not only a part of our day but our lives as well and, after searching for months, hand-picked jewelry that suited each bridesmaid’s personality and unique dress. You name it, I stressed over it. Please let the record show, I’m not patting myself on the back; I’m illustrating how crazy I was. Something my sister and Maid of Honor reminds me of to this day.

I should have saved myself some time and sanity. Because at the end of the day, “the best laid plans of mice and men go astray.” Poet Robert Burns should have included brides. Whether I noticed the faux pas the night of or upon examining photos after the fact (Hello massive, plastic trash can in the background of all our aisle shots!), there was plenty that went astray and not at all according to plan.

But, the rust colored, geometric printed shams that were supposed to be solid white, the too small to write a complete thought guestbook cards, even the groom almost losing me during our heavily-choreographed, much-practiced and quickly forgotten dance (The dip was more drop.), didn’t matter. I was married to the perfect man for me (Okay, he could use a few more dance lessons!), we were surrounded by love and laughing our faces off. I’d take that over perfectly placed table assignments any day.

Fifty Shades of Frustration: My Grievances With E.L. James’ Provocative New Novel

                               

I’m a little late to the game. I was going to opt out altogether but at dinner with my friend the other night, I revealed that my husband was going on a weeklong business trip, which culminated with many of my friends also out of town and, as a result, all the free time I had. “I know what you should do,” she said, “read Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Intrigued by the hoopla and valuing her opinion, I took her up on her suggestion and borrowed her copy. Three days later, I finished the first tome and now understand the fascination. James’ racy new novel pushes the proverbial envelope. Erotica is nothing new of course; it’s just now more mainstream and acceptable than ever before. What was once taboo, is now being read openly on planes, trains and public beaches not to mention discussed at great length over lunch and in car pool lanes. What Sex and the City did for women’s sexuality, Fifty Shades takes to another level. Christian Grey might even make Samantha Jones blush. And, if women are more active and adventurous with their mates, a little happier, freer and slightly less stressed these days due to Grey, I think that’s great.

Does it mean I’m ready for an onslaught of BDSM-related books, television shows and movies à la the vampire saturation post Twilight series? No and I urge the decision-makers out there to find the next big thing instead of Fifty Shades 2.0.

But I don’t think the S&M nature has as much to do with the book’s popularity as the actual Christian Grey character does. Sure, all the media attention about the “scandalous” new read helped sales but, ultimately, it was women’s word of mouth that kept those purchases going. Water cooler talk was less about the shock value and the toys and more about Christian himself. Women across America were escaping with the book, getting carried away and wishing their man was a little more like Grey. It’s the Pretty Woman effect. (No surprise here, as James even borrows a scene from the film, having Christian order one of everything from the room service menu just as Edward Lewis did before him.)

Most women I know want to be swept off their feet, wined and dined and taken care of while climbing the corporate ladder and wearing or sharing the pants. More so, they want to feel beautiful, desired, appreciated and showered with affection and compliments. It’s less about what Grey has in his hand or how he uses it and more about what comes out of his mouth.

As much as we are in charge these days (business, home, kids), it’s refreshing to have the man take control sometimes both in and beyond the bedroom. But, as Alpha females, we tend to break our men down, stripping them of their masculinity and then faulting them for not being man enough, the very thing we undid. (Perhaps, instead, we should encourage them to read the book or, gasp, actually communicate our needs and desires.) Christian Grey maintains that manhood. Yet he still needs Anastasia and don’t we all want to feel needed? It’s that duality, I believe, that has women captivated. Add to that his fit physique, good looks, impressive accomplishments and a touch of mystery and he’s the perfect fictional package. Through Christian Grey, women are experiencing the love affair they never had or have since lost by way of the real world and feminist ideals.

And, while I get the popularity, I also understand the controversy. In an age where women are running for president and running the home, to some it seems a bit of a backwards step to have females clamoring for a book about being submissive. I get the argument, I do, but isn’t the right to choose what we fought for? Not that everyone should conform to one way but decide for ourselves what works best, makes us happiest. Why do the two have to be mutually exclusive? These days, a woman can opt to run the boardroom and still be submissive in the bedroom should she choose. What each does in her home, with her mate, is her business. But, ultimately, Fifty Shades is fantasy. If you don’t like it, don’t read it.

My problem with the book has nothing to do with any of the above. First let me say that, overall, I thought it was an entertaining read. Curious to see what naïve Ana would do, hoping Christian would change his ways and interested enough in their story, James kept me turning the pages. So, at the end of the day, for me, it was a success. But she doesn’t need me to tell her that. The 10 million copies sold, $5 million movie deal and addition to the pop culture lexicon (the SNL parody was my favorite) should suffice.

But there were parts of the book that drove me mad. It wasn’t the idea that a young woman today would submit (although, personally I would never tolerate anyone, including my man, telling me when and what to eat, how often to exercise or what to wear) or even some of the more graphic, hard-to-stomach scenes. Those parts I can get past. It’s the choices James makes that I take issue with.

For starters, Anastasia Steele is supposed to be a 21-year-old from Montesano, Wash., by way of Nevada and Texas. No American college student I know would use the word “smart” to describe her choice in attire. Instead, it seems like something more apt for, I don’t know, a fifty-something British novelist.

Smart is not the only hiccup. What modern-day twenty-something woman uses “sex” to describe her vagina or “mean machine” for her computer? And, medulla oblongata? Again, these seem like dated, stuffy, formal terminologies much more suitable for an out of touch, mid-lifer than a progressive young mind.

Beyond that, the repetitive nature of phrases like “narrows his eyes,” “breath hitches” and “eyes hooded,” to name a few, tripped me up. Surely, James has a thesaurus. For a writer who can pen over a dozen sadomasochistic sex scenes with varying language, reusing the same descriptions ad nauseam seems lazy or looked over.

Also, what male who isn’t a hair stylist or a father knows how to braid? I mean… And, don’t get me started on the inner goddess or subconscious!

All of these things may seem trivial and perhaps they are, but they’re my own “hard limits.” (Or are they soft? I’m so confused!) For me, there are too many of these moments that disrupt the flow of the narrative. I’d be in a scene, transfixed by Christian, scared for Ana and then propelled out by jarring prose and questionable word choice. Suddenly, the natural voice was not so natural.

Still, despite my gripes, I’m interested, anxious even, to see the trajectory that the second and third installments in the trilogy take and, ultimately, what happens with Ms. Steele and Mr. Grey. James might be infuriatingly sloppy but, a Twilight fan herself, she knows a winning formula when she writes it. So, I’m off to the bookstore. Add me to the list of (critical) fans!

(Source: The Huffington Post)

Are You a Rachael or a Martha?

                                     

“I’m a better baker than cook.” That was my go-to party line while dating when asked about my kitchen prowess. I imagined myself a Martha: all cakes and confections. Talk about delusions of grandeur!

Upon leaving my job and out of work for the first time in years, I was faced with the age-old question: What next? Should I throw myself back into a full-time gig, freelance, travel or take the opportunity to start a family of my own? As my older sister so delicately reminds me, my “eggs are rotting.” So perhaps I should focus on the latter.

But, before that, there is one thing left to do: get in the kitchen! I always imagined my motherhood moments making pancakes, baking cookies and teaching my kids how to cook. There’s just one problem — I don’t really know how. Sure, I grew up baking every so often and therefore coined myself Betty Crocker to potential suitors (it’s all about the upsell!) but I’m more nervous chef than Iron Chef. If I’m going to become a domestic goddess, forget the knives, I have to sharpen up my skills.

So I made my way to the store and started to explore. That was a lesson in itself. After a decade in NYC, chasing my dream career, which resulted in delivery for dinner and diners for breakfast, I’m out of my element. I found myself wandering wide-eyed down the aisles, surveying the surplus of supplies. God bless the patient souls at Whole Foods. Several hours and an extreme headache later, I left ready for my own little kitchen challenge.

My husband requested (before you go all feminist movement on me, he does most of the cooking and it’s good) stuffed chicken for dinner and apple cinnamon muffins for the morning. I thought the muffins were golden (Actually they were more like a burnt brown but more on that later). It was the entrée I was worried about. Cooking chicken makes me nervous. I’m always worried I’ll under do it and give someone salmonella. So, I often end up overcooking it and no one likes a dry bird.

I should mention I’m also slightly scatterbrained. Almost always, I forget one, if not two, of the ingredients or mistake it altogether for something else and mid-experiment either have to send someone (read: scared and hungry husband) to the store or improvise, a dangerous thought when it comes to me in the kitchen.

Despite my fears, the chicken was delicious. Okay, it was decent. But no one got sick and there wasn’t a dry mouth in the house. Thrilled with my progress, I moved on to the muffins.

It should be noted that our oven sucks. I’m not making excuses, I’m just saying… I stared at that door, opening it every minute or so to reevaluate. I waffled (waffles! Perhaps that’s what I should try next?) between keeping them in well past their removal time and yanking those puppies out before they burst into flames. Finally, a good eight minutes or so, I lost count, past their due, I removed them.

They didn’t look like the muffins I order at the local bakery. They didn’t even look like bake sale baked goods, apparently, elementary schoolers, a third my age, have more than math skills on me. At half the height of a normal muffin, with caved in tops, cavernous holes and charred bottoms, they weren’t the most sightly things you’ve ever seen. But perhaps they still tasted yummy.

They did not. Inside they were doughy and a bit bitter (too much salt?). My husband tried to humor me as he popped the apple-scented hockey puck into his mouth. “They’re not terrible,” he said trying to sound optimistic. I tossed them in the trash and, deflated, went to watch some reality TV. Clearly, I should have turned on The Cooking Channel or The Food Network but I’d had enough for one day. There was only one thing that was going to make me feel better about myself and that was the dysfunction that is the Real Housewives of New Jersey. They may be good in the kitchen but that’s about all they’ve got sorted in their lives.

During the commercials I had a thought: Perhaps I was wrong all along. Perhaps I’m more of a Rachael than a Martha. Perhaps I should stick to perfecting my savory signatures and leave the pastries to the pros.

Tell me, are you better cook or baker and why?

Below, another photo of my abysmal muffins. Epic fail.

(Source: The Huffington Post)

The Offer

                                    

“You can invite as many people as you want as long as they stop at McDonald’s on the way.”

That was my dad’s response to me when I begged him 12 years ago to include my friends at my older sister’s wedding. (The man had a point. Weddings are expensive. He couldn’t feed everyone.) He didn’t stop there. Years later, his negotiations would continue.

When it came time to plan my big day after I got engaged three years ago, he had a proposal of his own. Just as he had with my sister, he offered my fiancé and me money. Not for a wedding, for a house. As I’m sure many fathers have before him, he tried to persuade us to take the amount he would put towards a reception, in cold, hard cash. We could have it immediately, use it for savings, a down payment on a property and eventually to start a family. He reasoned that spending that kind of dough on one day was silly and, instead, we should use it for something much more permanent — like our life together. While tempting, we declined.

You couldn’t put a price on our dreams. And, while, those visions included all that he presented: the house, the kids and the financial security, the wedding was also on that list and weddings trump all, at least in little girl’s and engaged young women’s minds. There was no way I was giving up my dress, my bouquet or our party for a piece of paper no matter how many zeros were on it. The thought was too depressing, too clinical, too… practical. Aren’t fairy tales supposed to be the antithesis to practicality? No Disney book I ever read talked about mortgages and 401ks. So we forged ahead. In place of money market accounts were centerpieces, in lieu of Roth IRA’s were chandeliers.

Two years later and still renting, my father’s offer looks really good in hindsight. My husband and I often joke about how foolish we were. Considering all the stress we put ourselves through during the planning process and how quickly the event went combined with the cost of living in Southern California… Some would say we were crazy for turning the money away. Most days we would agree with them.

But, as much as we could really use those funds right now to start a family of our own in a home we own, truthfully, all kidding aside, we wouldn’t do it differently. The memories we made from the weekend-long celebration of our love for one another surrounded by everyone we care about are pretty priceless.

However, should we be so blessed to have a daughter of our own one day and fortunate enough to be able to afford a wedding, we will probably present the same choice to her. But I’m fairly certain that, like her mother and all those dreamers that came between us, she, too, will say she’d rather have the party, that practicality can wait.

(Source: The Huffington Post)

Who Are We Without Our Titles?

                                                   

Exit. I should be used to that word by now. After all, life is a dizzying array of exits. We say goodbye to childhood pals when they move, mom and dad when we set off for college and beloved grandparents and devoted pets when they pass. We reluctantly leave comfort zones, old boyfriends and girlfriends, cities we love, friends we’ve outgrown and years gone by. And we say good riddance to unhealthy habits, tired trends, bad jobs and worse bosses.

But regardless of the experience or the preparation, it never gets easier. Whether it’s your first or your hundredth goodbye, a stale relationship or a lackluster work life, whether you’re thrilled or sad to depart, it’s often tougher than it seems. It’s difficult because, most likely, it started (and perhaps ended) well. At one point or another, it was promising; there was hope, for a better life, for something beautiful. Usually, there were good times, lessons learned and dreams fulfilled. And, then, somewhere, somehow it changed. It’s complicated because, if you’re like me, you associate yourself with that role. Too often, we define ourselves by our jobs in this world: “I work at X,” “I’m so and so’s mother, ____’s wife.” But when those relationships have expired, matured or evaporated, what’s left?

I had been talking about it for years, planning it for months yet, still, when it happened, it was jarring. It was time to leave Us Weekly. At seven years, it was longer than any romantic relationship I’ve had, almost double my stint at college and two-thirds of my New York experience. I sacrificed weddings, holidays, birthdays and personal relationships, and compromised being witness to loved ones’ lives, and living my own, for my profession. But, I received much in return. With the extra hours, long nights and exhausting weekends came a wealth of experience, knowledge and confidence, not to mention some invaluable friendships.

And while I made a conscious effort to stay out of the scene, remain grounded and maintain my non-industry-based relationships, to some extent, I got caught up in it all. I became used to the clout and the VIP treatment. No longer did I wait in lines, eat at average restaurants or pay for designer duds. I was offered coveted tickets, went to sought-after events and made to feel like I was part of the “in” crowd. Until, I wasn’t.

No sooner had my key card expired than the attention waned. People who I considered friends and mentors, individuals I assumed would be there for me, vanished. When “Natalie from Us Weekly” became just Natalie, to many, including myself during particularly low moments, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. If I could no longer get them in the magazine, provide scoop, be their ally, source of information or gateway to the goods, if they no longer had to suck up to me to get into parties or out of assignments, I was, apparently, not worth the effort. My value had a number and it was up.

When I went from 500 to two emails a day, my phone no longer rang, the expense account dried up and people forgot my address and my name, the days were quiet, really quiet. I alternated from waking with a smile, elated to be free from the stress, pressure and drama, liberated from the absence of favor requests, excited about no appointments or deadlines, only my whims (Morning yoga or afternoon Pilates? Volunteer or veg?), and not wanting to wake, dreading the endlessly isolating day ahead, laying in bed feeling sorry for myself.

To be clear, I made the conscious decision, after working 24/7 for the better part of a decade and saving money, to take some considerable time off. I could have pounded the pavement and most likely secured some sort of job but I opted not to. I realize I’m extremely fortunate to be able to make that choice and count my blessings. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t struggle with a bit of an identity crisis, as I imagine anyone who lost or left their job, went through a breakup or loss of a loved one, or experienced an empty nest would grapple with too.

When you become one with your profession or your label, when you’ve allowed it to define you and your place in this world, it’s a mighty far fall when it’s no longer there to provide you purpose, excuses or a false sense of self. The question is, for a career-driven, relationship seeking, check-the-box society like ours, who are we at the end of the day without our qualifiers?

I’m happy to reveal that after months of stillness, self-discovery, tough questions and, yes, plenty of sleep and pity parties, I’ve come to find what remains is what I knew all along. Without the job, sans the title, I’m still the same girl: full of hope, driven to succeed and a believer in goodness, it was just clouded temporarily by the noise of the industry, allure of the freebies and opinions of others. Sometimes, it seems, you need the exits. For it’s there that you rediscover all you were meant to be.

(Source: The Huffington Post)

Why I took a Facebook Hiatus

                         

I left my job around awards season. Just a year before I was attending the Globes and the Oscars in designer gowns and posing for photos (which I, of course, posted) holding the coveted golden statues. This time, I was at home perusing Facebook, feeling sorry for myself. The virtual shame spiral continued.

Easter also made me feel inadequate. Every post featured a kid in their Sunday best complete with bonnet and basket. I have no children and my nephews and nieces live far away. So my husband and I spent the holiday doing laundry, going to Costco and sitting next to one another in silence while we each Facebooked. I’m sure it was just as special.

Spring Break was filled with bikini-swathed, beach-ready bodies in exotic locales, each picture more envy inducing than the next. Tropical cocktails adorned with fruity accouterment, sizzling sunsets, chic caftans…

I couldn’t take it anymore. With Mother’s Day looming and the threat of 300 or so of my “friends” boasting about breakfast in bed and their pride and joy, I logged off, for good. 

Or a week or so at least. Hey, I’m as guilty as the next. I scroll, update and post on the regular. There’s a reason it has 800 million users and counting. Facebook is addictive. You feel inclined to read, stalk and share. Only in this forum would stalking be the more acceptable practice out of the three. In this case, it’s the sharing that’s the problem.

No one posts about the mundane. Unless, of course, you’re one of those people, in which case, let’s talk. There’s a fine line between sharing and over-sharing. Find it, people. Take some time to contemplate the do’s and don’ts of social networking. Posting about the difficulties of your day in a hilarious fashion? Do. Detailing the minutia of your moment-less morning: wakeup time, workout results, to-do list… Don’t. Some things are better left unshared.

While we’re on the subject, please save the love notes for private viewing. Email him or her, jot it down it on a note or in a card or, here’s a novel idea, say it to them in person! We don’t need to be a third party in your relationship. If you love them, you’re proud of them or you appreciate them, great, tell them, not us!

Oh and one more thing, either say it or don’t, enough of these cryptic and leading messages. Don’t make us fish for info, ask, “What happened?” or work for it. We work enough as is. Sure, it may be the biggest attention-seeking site out there but try not to take it to a middle school, beauty pageant, reality TV level of desperation.

In the beginning (I joined in 2007— so relieved it didn’t exist during my volatile schoolgirl years!), I made the mistake of an occasional smug post or two. Since then, I’ve tried to refrain from bragging. It’s not cute. Now I try to ration my status updates as much as possible and temper them with a little self-deprecation and some not so boast-worthy moments. After all, that’s what I find endearing and humorous in others’. My “likes” are distributed to friends that make me laugh at and with them, feel for them or become inspired. Don’t get me wrong, I want to see your kids grow up, champion your successes, be there for you during difficult times and offer and receive advice. I just don’t want to hear about your daily treadmill results, hourly schedule, contents of your baby’s diaper (I swear those posts exist!), or that person who did you wrong, “you know who you are”. Well, we don’t. So either tell us or refrain from posting. Save the drama for your mama and please do so on the phone. For the love of God, don’t post it on her page!

(Source: The Huffington Post)

Who Knew? The Chootraversy.

843 comments and half a million hits and counting… Wow. I must say, I did not see that coming. When I woke up the day after my friend’s wedding and jotted down some thoughts about the reaction that a pair of high heels I wore received, I certainly didn’t expect all this. Sure, I knew the shoes were slightly controversial at the wedding but when it comes to writing, I’m always surprised if anyone besides my mom reads my stuff. When speaking with a Huffington Post editor about my first blog and another piece altogether, I mentioned the incident not intending to use it or even blog about weddings. Soon, it was posted (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/natalie-thomas/jimmy-choo_b_1468325.html). A few days later, AOL picked it up and put it on their home page. In between major news stories like the death of Beastie Boys’ Adam Yauch and the latest on the John Edwards trial was a shot of my husband and me with the headline “It was Straight Up Harrassment”. Talk about a debut!

Then, the shit storm (sorry, Mom!) rolled in. I’ve done my share of blogging on big sites (usmagazine.com, theweddingchannel.com) and thought I was prepared for the negativity. Writing in the digital age is an interesting concept. While you receive immediate gratification, you also allow instantaneous feedback. On one hand, there’s the ability to communicate more readily with your fans, on the other, are the haters. Two years ago, while reading my first comments on the aforementioned sites, I cried. Anonymity, it appears, breeds hatred. I was called ugly, told I needed a facelift and that I should spend more time fixing my face than on my writing. It apparently incites delusion as well. I was also informed I needed to lose 400 lbs. Yes, 400. If they had said 20 or 30, I might have been offended but over triple the amount of my actual weight was absurdly funny. Since then, I’ve grown a thicker skin and was prepared for some haters. I just didn’t realize how many and precisely how vitriolic they would be. (Before I get more comments: I’m not playing the victim. I’m simply illustrating my experience and speaking to a greater problem.) And, I know I’m not alone. For every hateful comment I received, I know there are just as many, if not more, out there for every other writer not to mention every actor, singer, television personality, teacher, mother and kid.

I believe in freedom of speech. I believe everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. I believe that in order to receive the good, you must also accept the bad. I don’t expect everyone to like or agree with me and welcome different points of view. So, therefore, I am thankful for each and every one of the comments and the following is not an attempt to get the haters to see my side, change their minds or defend myself. But, out of respect for the others involved and my fellow friends putting themselves out there whether it’s through a blog or a different medium altogether, I would like to clarify and address a few things.                         

                             

First, no one and no thing that day—not me, not my shoes—outshined the bride. She was stunning. The groom wasn’t too shabby either. All eyes were on them as they should have been. Several comments here and there by a select few did not detract from them, their moment or their happiness on their day.

Second, I am proudly Pennsylvanian. I’m proud of where I’m from, I’m proud of my family and I’m proud of my friends. Period.

Third, my husband has worked very hard for many years. If he wants to buy me a nice pair of shoes as a one-time splurge for Christmas, so be it. Hell, if he wanted to buy me nice shoes every day, that’s his prerogative. I hardly think a piece of jewelry would have elicited this much negative reaction, which is what many women ask for/get for the holidays. How he chooses to spend his money is his business. Just like how others choose to spend, or not spend, theirs, is theirs.

Fourth, the blog was written with a sense of humor; the intent was for it to be read the same way. I’m sorry for those who missed that. My friends and family, the ones mentioned in the piece, found it amusing and, at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters to me.

Fifth and finally, as light-hearted as the blog was meant to be, it’s now become somewhat serious and far bigger than my Choos and me. I’m saddened by the negative comments. Not because I can’t take it. I know a silly piece on shoes doesn’t determine my value. I know my choice of words was intended in a playful and fun way. I know I donate a considerable amount of time, money and belongings to charity and my husband buying me a nice gift doesn’t detract from that. I know I don’t judge my loved ones or think I’m better than anyone. I know my family and friends are good people, love me and simply didn’t agree with my taste in shoes and that’s okay. But I’m disappointed about the amount of time and emotion complete strangers spend hating on others. It’s gravely misplaced. I’m certain that energy would be better served elsewhere, somewhere productive, somewhere positive. I’m not getting on a soapbox, I’m simply saying: Let’s be kinder to one another. Let’s step out from behind the computers and anonymous names and support each other. Life’s hard enough without the haters.

The Great Choo Divide

                  

I went to a wedding last month. So did my Choos.

I always thought you could tell the difference between city and country by the clothes. I was wrong. True, one look at mom jeans and capri pants screams provincial, and my husband and I, in town (Paoli, Penn.) for the nuptials, got strange looks for our attire, me in my skinny jeans, him in his V-neck at the local Target. But nothing, it seems, is as defining as the footwear.

“You can judge a man by his shoes,” the saying goes. Possibly, but women are far worse. With the judging, that is.

I was a bridesmaid in my childhood friend’s wedding and, along with my charcoal grey, one-shouldered dress, I chose to wear my brand new glittery Jimmy Choos. They were a Christmas gift from my husband. (Naturally, I selected, he purchased. While I’ve educated him on the difference betwen a Louboutin and a loafer, he still doesn’t know his way around a department store.) Sitting in my closet unloved for several months, this was the perfect occasion to break the platforms out of their windowless, yet perfectly shelved cell. Had I known the controversy they would cause, I may have thought twice.

At six inches, they’re higher than any heel I’ve worn before. But I was confident I could carry them off and excited to showcase the sparkly beauties. I just didn’t realize I would be displaying my alleged insanity as well. It all started at my childhood home. Apropos, as it’s a place that often drives me to the brink.

Ever the procrastinator, I hadn’t broken them in until the day of the wedding so, that morning, I gave them a trial run. Paired with my polka-dot pajamas, I pranced around the halls of my parents’ home, practicing my wedding walk. Things were going smoothly — no stumbles, no twisted ankles — until my family joined me. One by one, they bounded into the kitchen for their coffee and crumb cake. It was like any other morning, until they saw the shoes.

What happened next I can only describe as an intervention. Not only was I criticized for my choice, I was then persuaded to think otherwise. I swear, my mother even uttered a, “I don’t know where I went wrong with you,” as if she found track marks on my arm instead of high heels on my feet. My sister then interrogated me as to how much I paid for the silly soles. “Were they $500?” No comment. “Oh my God, that means yes! She paid $500 for those!” I didn’t have the heart to tell her they were $750 — $800 with tax. I was already being slammed for my style; I couldn’t take the financially irresponsible bashing, too.

Eager to get away from the shame den, I headed to the bride’s house for some pre-wedding pampering. Upon arrival, my fellow bridesmaids asked to see the stilettos. At the rehearsal the day before, as we were lined up and arranged by height, I simply mentioned the heels I was planning on wearing the next day were higher than those I was currently sporting as not to throw off the perfectly proportioned tiers come ceremony time. “How much higher can you get?” came the comments from the crowd. And I was wearing what I thought were my modest, sensible pumps.

Surely, despite said statements, these girls would get me. After all, they are my age and most of them live in the city. They did not. The gasps and outbursts the shoes prompted were unbelievable. The exclamations were followed by a good 10 minutes of dialogue about how crazy I was for going so high. Then the heels were passed around and tried on. I watched as each girl wedged her foot into my Choo, being held up and supported by the others. Like Bambi and his new legs, they teetered, they tottered; they told me I would fall down.

At the rehearsal hall, the critiques continued. As I finally put them on for the pre-ceremony photos, they all stared and snorted, once again, mocking me. “They’re just shoes!” I finally stammered. “Those are not shoes. Those are ridiculous,” jeered my friend.

In fairness, I do my share of teasing. In fact, that’s what I equate with love. If I’m giving you a hard time, it means I like you. It’s the way I was raised. My dad and sister relentlessly tortured me as a kid and I, in turn, have replicated that behavior with my friends and loved ones. I certainly dish it out and thought I could take it but this was getting out of hand. It was no longer fun and games; it was straight up harassment.

Despite the increasing discontent, I proudly walked down the aisle; happy I didn’t tumble, happier for the couple. But, as I passed my family in the second row and smiled for my sister and her camera, even my dad got in on the action. Over the sounds of the orchestral accompaniment and their version of Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, I heard him declare, not so subtly, “She’s so Hollywood.”

Cocktail hour came and I was ready for a drink! But, no sooner had I put down my bouquet and picked up my Chardonnay, then the talk returned to my Choos. Pals I hadn’t seen since I was seven came up to me and, instead of chatting about my career or our recent move, spoke of my shoes, prompting my family to start up again.

Just then I spotted my stylish friend, who lives in New York, and begged her over. Surely she would understand me, maybe even defend me to my protestors. Upon seeing the heels, she replied with an enthusiastic, “Those are so h…” I jumped at the chance for a compliment, responding with a quick, “Thank you! I knew you’d get it!” Puzzled, she looked at me and continued her statement. I thought she’d said, “hot”. She’d said “high”. Wishful willing.

My family erupted into laughter, elbowing each other and exchanging knowing, “We told you so” faces. I’d finally had it. “Enough,” I shouted. “Can we please talk about Katie and Craig?” They were the ones just wedded, the ones worthy of the attention.

When I was leaving the venue after a night of celebration, thankful for conversation that was finally more about the bride and groom and less about the footwear, the wedding coordinator, a woman one might have pegged as a bumpkin with Kate Gosselin hair and a central Pennsylvania accent, offered a surprisingly encouraging statement, the first of the day. “You rocked those heels, girl! Way to go!” she said as she high-fived me.

The lesson? While you may be able to spot the hick from the kicks, they may surprise you. Even my trend-devouring city friend, who I thought would have my back, sold me and my shoes down the Schuylkill, but this woman, a mere stranger from the sticks, loved my look and was championing me and my Choos.

As for the actual shoes, they are taking a much needed and deserved break (along with my feet — ouch!). That is until my next wedding in three weeks… in NYC. Perhaps I should bring the country coordinator with me. I may need the support.

(Source: The Huffington Post)

The Wedding Workout Results…

(Source: US Weekly)