Ho! Ho! Ho? Are the Holidays Already Here?!

The Holidays of 2009 will go down in the history books as the Year of the Lost Week between Thanksgiving and Christmas. (According to my mother.) My mother has been talking nonstop about this phenomenon ever since the Thanksgiving bloat wore off. She keeps bemoaning her fate of spearheading the holiday festivities in three weeks rather than four. I have been meaning to dissect calendars of holiday seasons past in an attempt to figure out what the heck she is talking about, but honestly, I haven't done so because a. I've been too busy and b. I tend to get easily absorbed in books that I really like and I just finished The Time Traveler's Wife and I am therefore in sci-fi mode at the moment and fancy this idea of The Lost Week. It sounds "out there" and really cool, so naturally, I just want to roll with it. Thanks, Mom!

My mother isn't the only one in a holiday panic. It has been a constant conversation piece in the break room at work. People are generally in holiday freak out mode this time of year, but in 2009, they are in freak out overdrive. I listen to their woes and offer my mom's Lost Week Theory. Everyone slowly nods in unanimous agreement. Everyone looks a tad confused but doesn't say anything. Perhaps after this year of historic economic crap, we are all in need of a little sci-fi escape.

Yet nothing could be more sci-fi-ilistic (yes, I made that word up) than my Holidays 2009 Airport Experience on Saturday, December 19th.

As a single woman/rebel who dared to move away from her family, her hometown, and her home state, it is apparently my familial duty to return to said hometown each year for Christmas. Since I probably enjoy travel more than anyone else in my family, I accept this duty with good humor.

As a serial single woman/rebel, I travel alone 99%of the time. Don't panic just yet. I actually relish traveling alone because it gives me me the excuse to go on a 4-5 hour non-fiction reading binge in broad daylight. (Usually, my schedule allows for only bedtime fiction reading where I promptly pass out thirty minutes in.) Today, I am on a combination reading/writing binge which I am particularly excited about. (I am writing this post from my cramped aisle seat in coach.) I am not sure what I would do if I were forced to interact with someone right now. You wouldn't be reading this, and I would postpone reading How to Rule the World from Your Couch for month #3. (So many books, so little time.)

Anywho, my loner traveling tendencies have nothing to do with the sci-fi-ilisticness of the Holidays 2009 Airport Experience. Back to that....

Everyone who, like me, travels the Saturday before Christmas knows that this is one of the busiest travel days of the year. The mere thought of crowds on this day makes most people break into hives, but I thrive on the holiday bustle. I am the Saturday Before Christmas Airport Adrenaline Junkie. Give me hordes of holiday travelers, and I am as happy as an elf. My friends think I am nuts, but what else is new?

Here's the wacky sci-fi part: When I arrived at the airport today, there was no wait at the skycap. I checked in instantaneously.

When I arrived at the security gate, there was no line. I walked right up to Mr. Tired-Looking Security Officer and muttered something witty like, "Wow. No lines." To which Mr. Tired-Looking Security Officer replied, "You lucked out. You missed the line of 3,000 this morning!"

WHAT?!?! I always, always, ALWAYS fly out on Saturday morning, and this year I had the great idea of sleeping in and catching an early afternoon flight. I sabotaged my own Holidays 2009 Airport Experience! ARGH!!!

Mr. Tired-Looking Security Officer must have read the disappointment in my face because he looked at me as if I had sprouted three heads. He quickly returned my boarding pass and driver's license and sent me on my merry-less way. I dazedly approached gate 6A where there I stumbled upon extra mild holiday bustle. Certainly not enough to affect my pulse. And now that I think of it, I had the great misfortune of being in Terminal 2 which has a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf which apparently does not blare an eclectic mix of holiday tunes like Starbucks does in Terminal 4. You will find me griping about Starbucks January - November (I prefer indie coffeehouses) but not in December. Nope. Starbucks escapes my wrath because of their enthusiastic holiday cheer. I am a sucker for holiday cheer.

And the airport was cheerless today. Bah Humbug!

I allowed myself to pout for 5 minutes, but then I remembered that Santa says that I better not 'cause he's comin' to town. As Santa is my witness, I will not allow this unfortunate event to scrooge up the official launch of my holiday festivities with the fam. After all, tomorrow is another day! I will soon cross my parents' threshold, and my 40-year-old self will regress into my 12-year-old self. And the sci-fi continues....

Ho, Ho, Ho, and Merry, Merry to All!

P.S. If you are reading this as you are snowed in at Dulles or elsewhere, I extend my sincerest apologies. On behalf of my fellow Phoenicians, I invite you to move to The Valley of the Sun where you can benefit from an airport free of weather delays while you help us climb out of our 2009 housing abyss.

Courtesy Patrol Wants YOU!

Waaa! Waaa! Waaa! Recently, I have overheard gripe after gripe after gripe about the lack of manners out there.

The other day a male Facebook friend complained about women who don’t say “thank you” when a door is held open for them. Women counter-complained that chivalry is dead, and that most men don’t hold doors open anymore. Outside of The Battle of the Sexes, there seems to be one grievance that we can all agree on: rude drivers. Everyone loves to whine incessantly about rude drivers.

I witnessed one of the most appalling episodes of rude driver-ness last weekend when a Hummer driver nearly plowed down a group of Breast Cancer 3-Day Walkers. (More on “Hummer Drivers – What your vehicle choice says about you, your penis size, and your environmental IQ” in an upcoming post.)

In my past life, I was an early childhood educator of sixteen years. I actually preferred my warm and fuzzy classroom world to the grown-up world because of people like Mr. Hummer Driver. I am here to tell you that my former students (the majority of them between the ages of 3 - 8) displayed better manners than most grown-ups.

So how is it that my students behaved better than most adults? In my Montessori classroom world, there was a segment of the curriculum called Practical Life. In a Montessorian’s mind, Practical Life is valued just as much as reading and math. Practical Life teaches essential and useful life skills so children can achieve independence. Part of the Practical Life curriculum is Grace and Courtesy. Imagine thirty children between the ages of 3 – 5 holding doors open for one another, looking one another in the eye as they say “please” and “thank you”, and generally treating one another with kindness and respect. In their world, courtesy is practical. In our world, courtesy has become optional.

I rarely resorted to “time-outs” in my classroom, as redirecting my students and empowering them with better choices was a much more effective option. Yet I would place most adults in a time-out in a heartbeat. I would tell them to stay there for one minute for each year of their age. (This is considered a time-out “standard”.) I would then ask them to think about their choices, and how they might make a better choice next time. As for Mr. Hummer Driver, I would remind him that road rage is dangerous not only to others, but to himself. Freaking out in traffic raises one’s blood pressure and is a formula for heart disease, not to mention skyrocketing insurance premiums. A better choice might be to chill out, think a joyful thought, sing a happy tune, and move on with your day. Really, now. Was that so hard?

When I realized that I accidentally joined the gripe-fest, I decided on a self-imposed time-out where I ruminated on this discourtesy epidemic. I concluded that this is by no means rocket science. In Real Life (as well as Practical Life), an impractical problem often calls for a practical solution.

I am currently soliciting volunteers for Courtesy Patrol.

I wish that I could claim this as my own brilliant idea, but I shamelessly stole it from World’s Most Precious Nephew, or more specifically, World’s Most Precious Nephew’s public elementary school. Montessori kids are not the only ones receiving lessons in Grace and Courtesy.

As a 5th grader this year, World’s Most Precious Nephew was finally able to volunteer for this prestigious and much-coveted group. He had dreamed of this day since he was a wee 1st grader. Each morning, Courtesy Patrol opened his car door and greeted him with a cheery “Good morning!” and sent him off to his classroom with a cordial “Have a nice day!”

Apparently, he wasn’t the only ex-1st grader with a dream. So many of this year’s 5th graders are chomping at the bit to join Courtesy Patrol that the school rotates through volunteers every three weeks. Yes, there are that many children volunteering to be courteous.

I asked World’s Most Precious Nephew what sort of training is involved before Courtesy Patrol volunteers are unleashed into their new roles. “Oh, it’s a quick minute training,” was his reply.

Seriously? It only takes a minute to learn how to be courteous? Go figure!

I asked World’s Most Precious Nephew’s 2nd Grade Sister what she thinks about all of this morning friendliness. (She, like her aunt, is not exactly a morning person.) “It makes me feel good. It’s very nice that they do that.”

So grumpy morning rush hour commuters might actually feel “good” by driving friendly? Interesting.

Courtesy Patrol Volunteers, we need you! In the words of the great Mahatma Gandhi, be the change you want to see in the world! (And on the road.) Let’s start practicing Courtesy Karma. The world is our classroom, and we will diligently implement the Grace and Courtesy curriculum. We will greet one another with a smile and a warm “Hello”. We will look one another in the eye with a “Please” and a “Thank you” and a "Have a Nice Day". We will all just get along on the road.

Here’s a quick minute Courtesy Patrol Training for the road: Let’s build a Traffic Choices Toolbox! Next time Mr. Hummer Driver tailgates you, don't get angry or get even. Simply redirect your thoughts by rummaging through your toolbox and selecting one or more of the following:

• Chill out. Breathe deeply through your nose for a count of 4, hold for a count of 4, exhale through your mouth for a count of 8. Repeat as needed.

• Think a joyful thought. Sunsets, a walk on the beach, puppy breath, your kids, whatever makes you smile.

• Sing a happy tune. An appropriate theme song for our cause might be “Imagine”. (By the way, you know if John Lennon were tooling around town today, he would not be driving a Hummer, but a Prius.)

• Insert your own empowering choice here.

Here’s the cool Courtesy Karma part: When we bestow a little grace and courtesy on others, we will be amazed at how our grown-up world becomes a little warmer and fuzzier after all.

Thank you for reading my blog, and Have the Nicest of Days! :-)

Take a Look at My Nucleus

I like to live as clutter-free as possible. I am not completely neurotic about it, but I do buy into the whole “your home is a reflection of your inner state and vice versa” theory. I feel more centered and grounded when my home is tidy. Period.

A glaring exception to this pseudo-neurosis is my refrigerator. I am a refrigerator art aficionado. My refrigerator is a magnet for everything from world’s most precious niece & nephew art work to photos to old Far Side cartoons to fortune cookie fortunes to…. well….magnets. And to post my various collections to the refrigerator, I need lots ‘o magnets.

In order for a magnet to make it to my fridge canvas, it needs to serve a dual purpose. It must not only possess exceptional sticking power, but it must also enlighten, entertain, and/or inspire.

To the casual onlooker, these magnets may seem trivial at first. After all, these are just refrigerator magnets. It’s not like they have the power to infiltrate the subconscious and alter one’s life, for goodness sake!

I respectfully disagree.

I present to you Exhibit A:



This is one of my favorite magnets of all time. It was a lucky find when I was visiting Granville Island, Vancouver three summers ago. At the time, I was living in a white-walled-world and driving a silk-green car. The car was lovely, but a completely unreliable money vacuum, so I traded it in for a new reliably red car just a little over two years ago. This past spring, I decided to literally color my white-walled world. My choice of “colour” for the kitchen? Red.

I was not consciously thinking of a refrigerator magnet during these two large expenditures. That would be odd. Yet I can’t help but ponder the coinkydink.

Was this just a coinkydink? Or was this life imitating art?

Colour me intrigued.

The objets d’art that adorn my fridge must equally enlighten, entertain, and/or inspire.

I present to you Exhibit B:
40th Birthday Card from World’s Most Precious Niece



This was quite possibly the best 40th birthday present in the history of 40th birthdays. Who would not be over the moon about receiving these sentiments on a “sensitive” day such as this? Granted, World’s Most Precious Niece is only eight years old, but she is one smart cookie, I assure you. (Her teachers happen to agree with me.)

Now, I should also mention that I have been told by grown adults from every decade that I do look younger than my years. I would like to take this opportunity to publically thank Nana for allowing me to sip from her Portuguese Fountain of Youth Genes. Nana has always looked much younger than her bio age. Her skin has held up remarkably well, and the woman didn’t sprout a significant amount of gray hair until she was 80. My mother never believed her and frequently raided Nana’s bathroom for hair dye. (A product of The Great Depression, Nana would have never parted with the change for a professional dye job.) Mom never found any evidence of artificial colour.

Unlike Nana, the week I turned 40, I plucked 3-5 gray hairs from my head. (I cannot recall the exact number due to post-traumatic hair stress.) I was in such a panic, that I immediately called my hairdresser and scheduled a colour appointment. When I arrived for my appointment last Saturday, KJ began combing through my hair as I shared my tale of aging woe. KJ laughed, told me that she didn’t feel sorry for me, and showed me the one gray hair that she did find. She explained that anyone over the age of 20 has 3-5 gray hairs. She advised me against dying my hair and talked me into a few subtle highlights. KJ confirmed that I am on track to follow in Nana’s hair follicle footsteps.

So…World’s Most Precious Niece is correct in that I have as many gray hairs as your average 24 year old.

Is this just a coincidence? Art imitating life? Life imitating art? Childhood Delusion? Mid-Life Crisis?

I present to you Exhibit C:



I have been a Beatles fan ever since I can remember. In fact, I would venture to say that my love for The Beatles dates back to the womb. Rumour has it that I was named after the song “Michelle”. (Along with the other million or so “Michelle”s born circa 1969 whose mothers were in love with Paul McCartney.)

My parents owned every Beatles album. I believe that I could sing along to most of Lennon and McCartney’s prolific genius by the tender age of 8.

At that age, I also happened to fall madly in love with George Harrison. When other girls had pics of Shawn Cassidy gracing their bedroom walls, I had George’s pic hanging beside my bed. Each night I would gaze up at George as the lights went out for the night. I wasn’t completely tucked in until my parents lined up the shadow of my bedroom door with George’s nose. I could then peacefully drift off into golden slumbers.

George’s teeth looked absolutely amazing in that photo. Unlike the vast majority of his countrymen, George had a fabulous set of chompers.

Exhibit C½:
(Tangent Exhibit that is not technically on my fridge, but historically important enough to display here)



Forget my earlier meanderings on subconscious infiltrations -- my first childhood crush has come back to consciously haunt my adult life. Even though I consider myself to be an open-minded singleton, I cannot date someone who has bad teeth. I am a stickler for a set of straight pearly whites. Bad teeth are a deal-breaker. Especially since I live in a fair city where cosmetic dentists rule the land. I also seem to have a thing for men with longish, shoulder-length hair (which none of my girlfriends seem to understand), although short hair is not a deal-breaker. But I digress…Back to the magnet.



This Beatles magnet has lived front and center on my fridge for nearly three years, and then BOOM! THE BEATLES REMASTERS ARE RELEASED!!!!!

Is this just a coincidence? Or life imitating art? Or art imitating life? Or some sort of New Agey Hocus Pocus? Are our fridges one gigantic vision board? Whatever we post on our fridge will magically magnetize into our lives?

I do believe that what we focus on expands. The way I see it, the fridge is the nucleus of the home, is it not? If you are going to try the whole New Agey Hocus Pocus Woo Woo Voodoo stuff, I suppose a good place to focus would be on your nucleus.

It was never my intention for my fridge to be Woo Woo Voodoo. I’ve been a fridge décor freak long before anyone whispered The Secret. As I mentioned previously, I simply like to be amused and inspired when I hang out in my kitchen. Yet I can’t help but wonder if there is something to this whole nucleus thing….

Or perhaps I spend too much time thinking about weird and offbeat stuff. Here is my fortune cookie fortune from three days ago:

In a Kingdom Not So Very Far Away....

Do you feel as if you have a “Kick Me” sign on your heart? Unfortunately, Prince Harming Syndrome seems to be a syndrome that plagues women of every age in every kingdom near and far.

Happiness Guru Karen Salmansohn wants you to break bad love patterns for good so that you are ready to meet your Prince Charming. She shows you how in her new book, Prince Harming Syndrome.

Karen speaks from experience (interspersed with a dash of, believe it or not, Aristotle). For years, Karen dated Prince Harmings – men who are either trouble or troubleD. A Prince Harming is charismatic, hot, sexy, smart, funny, and successful. Yet when you peek into his “superinsidehimself” true core, you realize that Prince Harming has nothing more to offer other than superficial lures. It’s time to wake up, smell the royal coffee, and high-tail it to another kingdom, girlfriends! In her characteristic witty-meets-quirky style, Karen guides us down the path that leads to Prince Charming.

Before I go on, let me clarify that I am usually highly suspect of “meet the man of your dreams” types of books. They always seem to suggest an element of manipulation and game playing. NOT COOL!

However, Karen is not your ordinary self-help author. In fact, she’s the reigning Queen of “Self-Help for People Who Wouldn’t Be Caught Dead Reading Self-Help”. Karen’s advice stems from “Being the Change You Want to Date”. Princess Charmings do not manipulate or play games. Instead, they focus on self-growth and exercise their virtues. VERY COOL!

And yes, ladies, there are Prince Charmings out there who also focus on self-growth and exercise their own princely virtues. In other words, a Prince Charming has a “superinsidehimself” true core. UBER-COOL!

Here is the best part: When a Prince Charming and Princess Charming pair up, they enter into a “Relationship of Shared Virtue”. They stimulate one another, challenge one another, inspire one another, and root for one another to grow into their highest potential. In essence, they nurture their partner’s soul. And THIS, ladies (and gentleman who perhaps stumbled upon this), is the TRUE definition of “Soul Mate”. Great minds really do think alike, Karen. You and I similarly interpret this much over-used and fanciful term. YOU GO, GIRL!

Oh – and by the way – Prince Charmings can also be hot, sexy, smart, funny, and successful. As Karen puts it, a Prince Charming/Princess Charming pair shares not only a “Laboratory for Growth”, but also a “Den of Pleasure”. OO LA LA!

Where the heck are these Prince Charmings, you ask? Closer than you think. In Prince Harming Syndrome, Karen reveals her 5 Essentials for Finding True Love.

It worked for her. She is recently engaged to her very own Prince Charming.

Check out Karen Salmansohn’s new book Prince Harming Syndrome at her websites: http://www.princeharming.com/ and http://www.notsalmon.com/.

Late Bloomer's Top 5 Tips for Bliss

Recently, one of my favorite best-selling authors, Karen Salmansohn, sent out an invitation to start a Bloggerang. Karen's regular blogs on various sites (including Oprah.com) reach many millions of readers. She asked for aspiring Bloggerangers to pitch her a terrific concept. If Karen felt that it made empowering content for one of her blogs, she would then blog about you. In return, the Bloggeranger would then hail Karen's latest book, Prince Harming Syndrome, on their blog, thus creating a Bloggerang Effect.

Well . . . . SHE PICKED ME!!!! I have been a fan of Karen's for a long time, so this made my year. Karen has asked that I send her 3-5 tips on how people can boost happiness in their lives. I will list them here today. Coming this weekend to a blog near you....my review of Prince Harming Syndrome.

Late Bloomer’s 5 Tips for Bliss

In order for these tips to take root, you must practice them daily. Happiness is not bestowed upon us. It is a daily choice. As the song goes, “Don’t worry, be happy!” :-)

• Live authentically. Be true to yourself and follow your passions. (Kindly ignore all critiques from the Peanut Gallery.)
  
  
• Love really does make the world go ‘round. Cherish your family, friends and loved ones. Most importantly, love thyself.
  
  
• Laugh. It does a body good.
  
  
• There are an estimated 6912 spoken languages in the world, but only one is universal: Music. Shakespeare was on to something -- Music truly is the food of love (and life, I might add, Will!) Play on, everyone!
  
  
• Nurture your body, mind and soul through yoga, exercise, a spiritual practice, meditation, music, art and/or whatever else floats your boat and feels authentic to you.
  

Bonus tip:

• Read. I once heard in a yoga class that “you are only as young as your spine is flexible.” I would like to add that “you are only as young as your mind is flexible.” Pick up a good book and exercise your mind.

I am not a Home Improvement Guru. I only played one on TV.

I am clueless when it comes to home décor. My “style” consists of a smorgasbord of stuff. This stuff had graced my white-walled condo for the past eight years. (Think post-divorce-on-a-budget refuge.)

As my 40th birthday crept closer, I developed an insatiable desire to nest and redecorate. Or, truthfully, to decorate. Period.

People who know me are always shocked when I confess that I have no eye for design. They know me as a creative person, and they naturally assume that this creativity translates to home décor. Not! My creativity shines through theatre, singing, fiddling around on the guitar, and (hopefully) my writing. I am not a visual artist. There is a difference.

Friends also bring up my 15 Minutes of Fame on the show Trading Spaces. If I were on a home decorating show, then I must know how to decorate. Not! On the show, I was directed to implement the professional designer’s ideas for short periods of time. The reality of this reality TV show was that the directors constantly called me away to film me flirt with Carter the Carpenter while the crew did the actual work. (Flirting equals good ratings, and I was happy to oblige.)

Fast forward to this most recent decorating journey. I tried to channel my inner Genevieve to discover how she would decorate the rest of my house. (My upstairs office loft is a sunny “French Country” a la Trading Spaces designer Genevieve.) Obviously, that didn’t work, but it did occur to me that what I love most about my office loft is its “yellowness”. Color transforms. Eureka! I would start my decorating project by literally coloring my world!

I hired a painter. He arrived for his consult with a magical fan of colors. He asked which colors I felt drawn to. Hurrah! The magical fan of colors was my oyster!

“Green is my favorite color, and red is a close second. I also love purple, and I love all shades of yellow. Let’s do it! Let’s color my walls and color my world!”

The painter chuckled a very grown-up chuckle. You see, in the grown-up world (and especially in the Southwest) it is important to stick to neutrals. Neutrals are safe. He asked for me to trust him on this one. After all, he was the Paint Expert. He has an eye for design and color, unlike someone else we know. We turned to the neutral section of my favorite colors which included brownish-green and grayish-purple. He took the fan away as I tried to find yellow. No more yellow! Did I really want my entire house to be yellow?

Hmph.

I asked him to leave the magical fan of colors with me. I poured over various shades of neutral for weeks. I invited friends to join in on the fun. Whenever I would turn to the colorful section, they would gently reign me in and lead me back to neutral.

“You can’t possibly paint your entire house yellow!”

“You can pick a color that pops for the powder room. That way, it’s not so overwhelming.”

“If you had kids, then they could experiment with color in their bedrooms, but neutral is best for the rest of the house. Neutral goes with all furniture.”

Hmph.

I tormented my mother with daily phone calls laced with detailed descriptions of neutral nuances. She threatened to disown me.

Hmph.

I visited the paint shop and ordered 30 samples. The paint shop people laughed at me. They told me that the painter should have known better than to leave the color fan with a customer like me.

Hmph.

With my paint date in sight, I had to make a decision and get back to the painter so that he could purchase the paint. I chose a brownish-green neutral. The painter was pleased. I then told him that I picked purple for the bathrooms and red for the kitchen. The purple bathroom idea was ridiculous, but a red kitchen was an outright assault to the senses.

“You do realize that the kitchen will need to be painted gray first and will then require FOUR coats of paint. It will double your cost! And we’re not talking about an accent wall here. It will be too much red. It will be nauseating! And this is where you EAT! Are you SURE?”

Geez. I had no idea that painting your kitchen red was so scandalous. Call me Hester Prynne. I had chosen a Scarlet Kitchen.

Besides, single women don’t eat in their kitchens. They eat on their sofas in front of their TVs.

I feebly answered, “Ummm….yes?”

“O.k. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Hmph.

Painting Day arrived. Since my painter also happens to be a family friend, I left him to do his thing while I was away at work. As quitting time snuck up on me, I began to dread going home. Negative self-talk hijacked my brain: “I am going to hate my kitchen. People in the Southwest paint their kitchens beige or taupe or swiss coffee. Am I having some sort of mid-life crisis? What the hell was I thinking?!”

I pulled into my garage. I slowly entered through the door that leads directly into my kitchen. My new Scarlet Kitchen which looked….absolutely fabulous! It was completely transformed through color. It was the Trading Spaces moment when the homeowner returns home and is moved to tears. I could not have been happier with my choice.

The next room I saw was the purple powder room with the chalkboard painted door. Unique and fun – what more could a girl ask for? I was pleased. My world was growing more colorful one room at a time.

I then moved to the rest of the house to check out brownish-green neutral. Yawn. I had just spent a small fortune and many obsessive hours to turn white walls into off-off-white-with-a-hint-of-brownish-green walls. What a buzz kill.

I needed to lick my wounds and regroup. There was no way that I was going to succumb to living in a neutral world. Turning 40 does not need to equate with neutral. Turning 40 does not need to equate with safe. Turning 40 does not need to equate with BORING!

I needed another consultation. I enlisted the expertise of Va Va Voom.

Va Va Voom is my larger than life friend. She’s got pizzazz. She’s got panache. She loves color. Va Va Voom has the soul of an artist. Va Va Room rocks.

She toured my home. She praised the Scarlet Kitchen. She dramatically noted that the purple bathrooms were “very Provence”. She became uncharacteristically quiet when she gazed upon brownish-green neutral.

“Hand over the color fan,” she instructed.

Va Va Voom then made a beeline for my living room and took down my framed Chagall print. “THIS is your palette!” She placed the Chagall print on the floor and whipped open the magical fan of colors. She began matching colors in the fan to colors in the print. These colors were not in the neutral section.

I mentioned peanut gallery suggestions of delegating color to powder rooms and kids rooms. I practically offended her.

“You can use color in all areas of the house. You just need to go for sophisticated color.”

Oooh. Ahhh.

Va Va Voom taught me the difference between sophisticated green and little girl green. She differentiated between sophisticated yellow and little girl yellow. I was in the presence of a Color Master.

Before she departed, Va Va Voom and I ultimately decided on two new colors from a different paint company: Marmalade for the living room and Freckles for the parlor. I hauled my cookies to a town two hours away to pay double the price for paint specially formulated by an artist. I spent another small fortune rehiring the painter.

It was worth every penny and every obsessive hour.

My colorful world now consists of a Scarlet Kitchen, Provence bathrooms, a Marmalade living room, and a Freckles foyer and parlor. The colors make each day a little brighter and a lot spunkier.

I ultimately chose a greenish-yellow neutral for the bedroom and a bluish-green neutral for the master bath. Neutral isn’t always a snooze. Neutral is often peaceful and restorative. Painting your home is like painting the canvas of your life. It’s all about balance.

Cougar Mania makes me want to yak

I am fed up with Cougar Mania. Enough already!

When this Cougar craze first swept our impressionable nation, I laughed along with everyone else. Haha! But as my mother used to say when my sister and I were overly obnoxious and just wouldn't let up, "It's starting to smell."

Cougar Mania is a fad, and like all 15 Minutes of Famers, it's time is almost up. Before we know it, we'll be watching "I Love 2009" on VH1 and thinking, "Oh, yeah! Remember that ridiculousness?!"

Here is my gripe: It seems as though "Cougar" has so thoroughly infiltrated our pop culture, that every woman over the age of 40 is now labeled as one. Just because I am 40 does not mean that I want to hunt a younger man, dig my claws into him, and drag him back to my lair. (Unless it's an evening of role play, and he is Batman and I am Catwoman. Meow!)

The Cougar stereotype is one-dimensional: an older woman looking for sex with a younger man. As in the wild, cougars are loners who only come together to mate. Now, I know that this is a tempting fantasy when members of the opposite sex are driving us up the proverbial wall. Wouldn't it be easier if men could just satisfy certain needs, and then we could just move on and hang with our girlfriends? Right. Like that would ever work for any length of time. Let's be honest with ourselves -- we are not biologically wired for all things Cougar.

Nope. This Cougar thing does nothing for me. Of course, if it's your thing, then as the song says, "Do whatchyawannado". More power to you, girlfriend.

40-something+ Women of America, I propose we adopt a new mascot. Let's start a grassroots movement! A new trend! We don't need a Hollywood poster child! (Although we certainly will not turn one away if she volunteers.)

And who will serve as our beloved mascot? Ladies, may I suggest a creature from the animal kingdom who resonates with our true nature? A mascot who doesn't insult us, but actually empowers us? I hereby recommend Canis Lupus. A.k.a., The Wolf.

I think every woman needs to go to the bookstore pronto and purchase and read Women Who Run with the Wolves by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes. (I am in good company. Maya Angelou thinks you should as well.)

In Women Who Run with the Wolves, Dr. Estes examines the Wild Woman archetype inspired by the Wolf. This archetype honors authenticity, freedom, and passionate creativity.

Think about wolves in the wild -- not the false stereotypes from fairy tales, but real wolves. Wolves are by nature relational creatures with a playful spirit. They are curious, intuitive, and devoted to their pack. They readily adapt to changing circumstances and possess great strength and endurance.

Dr. Estes beautifully links these wolf traits back to the Wild Woman archetype. The multi-dimensional Wild Woman embraces these qualities within herself and therefore lives authentically. This is about women reaching their full potential, not about hunting and snagging a man.

Mentally cast your vote now. Which mascot do you choose?

Cougars, VH1 called. They are holding their next casting call.

Do we really want 40 to be the new 20?

Today I turn 40. I bid a fond farewell to my Thirtysomething life at 7:07 p.m. EDT.

Courtney Cox purrs that 40 is the new 20. She looks hot, so we should all believe her.

As much as I admire Ms. Cox as a Role Model of Hotness, I personally think that "the new 20" is a bit of a stretch. I would never willingly repeat my 20s (the decade of "Is this the Real World? Holy crap!") I might be tempted to reenact my 30s (the decade of "We are sooooo Sex & the City. We have figured it all out! Well....almost all of it.") But relive my 20s? Really?? No, thank you.

Ms. Cox's latest Hotness Campaign is an anomaly. Our youth-obsessed culture wants me to freak out over turning 40. Frankly, I freaked out for most of 39. How unfortunate. About a month ago, I finally got a grip and snapped out of it. I remembered that a. I actually think for myself and b. I do not respond well to people telling me what to do. I am much too rebellious for that nonsense.

Dare I say that I am actually excited to turn 40? (I daresay. I do daresay!) It's true! I have been counting down the days to my birthday. I have unofficially dubbed the 40s as The Decade of Empowerment. (My friends in their 50s consequently named their decade The Decade of Who Gives a Shit?! So I assure you that it's all good from here on out, my friends!)

As I pondered this whole Decade of Empowerment business, I couldn't help but feel a notion of Late Bloomer entwined in there somehow. When I mentioned this to a Fabulous 50s friend, she asked, "How so?" To which I replied, "Because at times I STILL feel like an awkward middle schooler. Shouldn't I feel all grown up yet?" To which Fab 50 laughed, "Don't we all still feel like that to some extent?"

Why yes, Fab 50. Why, yes we do. We simply grow more empowered by the decade, that's all. We never want to let go of our Inner Child/Middle Schooler, whatever you want to call her. She keeps us fresh. She keeps us young. She keeps us hot.

And THIS is one of the many reasons why I am positively giddy about The Decade of Empowerment. Our Inner Awkward Middle Schooler is ready to blossom. In our 20s, she was trapped in existential angst. In our 30s, she was busy building a career, a life, and taking Internet quizzes to determine if she were Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha. (I am Charlotte with a sprinkling of Carrie.) In our 40s, we have already tilled the soil, pulled the weeds, planted the seeds, and tended the garden. We are ready to Bloom.

P.S. I applaud Her Royal Hotness, but Cougar Mania makes me want to puke. To be continued....