Getting The Goods on my New York trip

Here I am, wrapping up 8 hours at work, mentally preparing myself to get on a plane in less than 8 hours from now. I am so excited at the prospect of sleeping on a plane for the first time since Julian was born that I might even forgo a pre-flight coffee. Might.

From here on out this week, posts regarding What Not to Wear and New York in general will be posted on The Goods, Marques Harper's fashion blog on statesman.com/thegoods. You can keep coming to this page and clicking the above photo or the links in this text to get there if you so desire.

I'm going to try to post a couple of times a day, so check back often!

Wish me luck!

Oh, and don't be shy about leaving me comments on that blog. The more comments you leave, the more the people who are letting me take this and run will think I actually know what I'm doing. :)

Happy Birthday, Julian!

What a great year it has been. Julian is truly a light in this world and Ian and I are the luckiest people to get to call him our child. In lieu of lots of words on this birthday night, I'll post this video and some photos I've been downloading. Enjoy!

(And lookee here! I somehow had it in me to put together Julian's January gallery. which is also available on flickr. Have fun photo browsing!)

Thanks, Steph, for the video!

Statesman blog and birthday preview

So it begins.

I leave for New York on Sunday to finish filming the rest of the What Not to Wear episode. The Statesman is going to let me do all kinds of cool stuff while I'm there, including updating The Goods, the newspaper's fashion blog. To get things rolling, fashion writer Marques Harper and I sat down for a visit (and video) last week.


In the next few days, I'll start transitioning any What Not to Wear posts to a statesman.com blog, but I'll post a link up here.

In the mean time, we've got a first birthday to celebrate! Just think, one year ago today, I went from walking around H-E-B with my mom, who'd just arrive from Missouri after I called her and told her to fly down once they'd popped one of my bags of water, to moaning and groaning in a freezing ass cold (well, it was lukewarm, but it had the same effect) tub, wishing my lighthearted demeanor of early labor could somehow magically return.

In perfect world, we'd be celebrating today, January 24, as Julian's birthday. A day(ish) of intense, yet progressing labor at the well-lit and deceptively welcoming birthing center. (That's right, Jean Stokes, I'm talking to you. Next time you stick castor oil in my pocket on the way out the door to try to kick start labor, I'll open the bottle and pour it on your head. And I'll roll my eyes when you point to the gigantic jacuzzi and tell me there will be an ambulance on call, "just in case." Oh wait, there won't be a next time with you.) Alas, Julian wasn't quite ready to enter the world. He turned his little body face out and got himself stuck.

It was a good thing he waited, though. The hospital the following day was a blessing. If we'd have gone through with the "perfect" labor I'd imagined, we wouldn't have had the help of all those nice nurses at St. David's. And I wouldn't have this happy face scar on my belly to remind me of how much joy he brings to this world.

Blog for Choice Day

I don't usually participate in these blog-wide activities, be them memes or national blog anythings, but I feel particularly strong about preserving a woman's right to choose to have an abortion or not. I join millions of others who are speaking out in support of Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion 35 years ago.

I'll be short about it. Thousands of abortions a year are going to happen regardless of if they are legal or not, which puts the health of thousands of women, from all backgrounds, of all races and economic classes, in much danger. Coat hangers and a back-alley abortion make for a horrific image; what a social tragedy would it be if they started becoming a widespread reality (again). We can't even provide free or low cost birth control and condoms, and we're making it more expensive for women to buy birth control. We can't even support the unwanted children that already exist in the world.

I support the right to choose. And don't forget that it is a choice. I happened to be in a place in my life (emotionally, physically, mentally, financially) where I was ready to choose to have Julian. You can't make that choice for someone else.

Milk fever

(Photo by pankaspe)

Even though it's still a few days until Julian's real birthday, we took him to the pediatrician for his 12-month well-check. All good news, we're happy to report. He's still a little guy. Just at 19 pounds and a shorty. He's in the lowest 5 percent of weight and height, but our doctor wasn't too concerned. Mainly because he's pretty much on the go all day long. It's a rarity if he sits still to eat an entire meal, much less to play. So the combination of burning all those calories and not having the patience to eat more than a handful or two of food makes for a tiny baby.

(Oh, and don't forget the never-ending battle between Shiva and me to keep her from eating all his food. I'll give him, say, a cheese quesadilla, and before he's walked out of the kitchen, Shiva's sniffing it out, seeing what he's got. She won't snatch it right out of his hand unless offered, but he thinks it's a fun game to reach his hand out and watch her take whatever he's got (chicken, bread, even raisins) out of his little fist. This, admittedly, is probably why he's not gaining as much weight as he should.)

Now that he's a year old, we can start giving him milk besides mine. He's been eating cheese and yogurt for awhile, but he hadn't had straight cow's milk until today. He scrunched his nose at first and turned away, but the second time, after he saw mommy enjoy a big ol' glass of the white stuff with her homemade chicken and rice soup (yum!), he lapped it up. I have a feeling this calorie-rich goodness will be Ian's lifesaver when I'm in New York to help him get back to sleep at 6 a.m.

I bought organic milk for the first time the other day, and I could be a convert. I should be a convert, I know, but it's nearly twice as expensive as the regular. But damn, it's so tasty. Really, the taste difference is amazing. It's much sweeter and richer. Is it worth the cost? I'm sure it is, but part of me pulls out the old, "well, if it was good enough for me" line. But I don't think back then (oh, way back then in the '90s, you know:P) they were putting quite the hormones they do now in milk.

I remember the days when I was a kid when I'd drink like half a gallon of the stuff a day. Milk fever, my dad called it. He suffered from it, too. That insatiable thirst for something that, biologically, doesn't make much sense. We're the only mammals who drink another animal's milk, or any milk for that matter, past infanthood. It's weird when you really think about it. So maybe I won't think about it and I'll just suck it up and buy the best milk I can. And, in moments like these, after I pull some oatmeal raisin cookies out of the oven, let the milk fever return.

Spare any change?

RonD has some points to consider about this What Not to Wear thing. How change is inevitable, essential, and at its root, a little bit scary.

Humans seem hard-wired to reinvent themselves every six, seven, eight years. But how often can one accomplish such a TOTAL update -- hair, makeup and that BAD ASS WARDROBE you get to pick -- in such sweeping fashion? And without doling out any of your own dimes! Goddamn, but that's fine.

Enjoy the experience. You should feel excited, and a little out of breath. Dashes of sweet anticipation. You will change in ways you don't know, but they'll be good and cool changes ... The Japanese like to say that you can do nothing about your feelings; change your behavior and your feelings will follow. I'm excited to see what the new exterior will do for the inside you.

On the surface, What Not to Wear is about fashion, of course. But if you've watched the show more than a couple of times, you know it also extends deeper than that. Even in the lamest of cases, a change in appearance, for the better, is going to affect the made-over person on many nuanced layers, which are different for every person. The show thrusts them into reinvention, a total update, as RonD puts it, something we all could use every few years. And, YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO PAY FOR IT. I mean, seriously, I am awash in gratitude for Ian and the universe powers that be lined this up for me. It's like I won the lottery and hit the Mega Millions jackpot of inflicted personal change and growth.

And with winning the lottery comes all kinds of unexpected changes, which I'll do my best to be prepared for. Stacy and Clinton aren't known for being polite in this process. They are as much life coaches as stylists. They dig into the psychology behind weight and overall physical appearance. There is often crying.

As in life, just as you start thinking you know exactly how it will be, something else will come along and mix it up. Television show or notwithstanding, I will try to take Mr. Davis' advice about enjoying the anticipation of the unknown and remembering the very "Ask and it is Given" mindset that you cannot change how you feel, only how you choose to behave and react.

Julian's early birthday presents

LaVonne, Ian's mom, came down for a classic grandma-spoils-baby-for-first-birthday trip right before all the TV madness began. Julian and I met her at IKEA (she and husband Dan live in Waco), and we had the best time shopping for a new bed, among other things, for Julian. We found a converter bed that he can use as a crib now but that we can change into a toddler bed when he's ready. And of course, we had to find the cutest comforter/sheet set they had as well as a few toys. Don't forget the sultan mattress for the little prince to sleep on. Oh, and a milk whipper for mommy's coffee and a few of her favorite Swedish meatballs. :) I know everybody says this, but, man, IKEA is so awesome! I could buy out the place, if I had the space.

(Speaking of IKEA, one of the style writers at the paper turned me on to this guy who's been living in IKEA for a week while his NYC apartment is fumigated. Mark Malkoff is his name, and he's the guy who visited all 171 Starbucks in Manhattan in one day last year. He's been posting videos he's been making while staying at a New Jersey store.)

Grandma also bestowed upon our wee royalty the coolest car seat. It's seriously like a throne in a car. Mommy wants one of those, too!

We had such a good time that day. For those of you who remember a few of the mother-in-law figures I've butted heads with in the past (let's be honest here, there was only one), I'm as pleasantly surprised as you to know a mother-in-law and I could get along so well.

Aren't they sweet?

The opposite of buyer's remorse

"Do they really throw your clothes away?" – probably the most frequent question I've heard about this whole TV ordeal – has an easy and logical answer. No, the What Not to Wear folks don't throw your clothes away. They recycle them by giving the still usable stuff to the Goodwill or Salvation Army. I say still usable because I'm sure some of the clothes, including some of my own, have seen their last owner. (Do I have to bring up the warn-out crotches again?)

They usually riffle through your wardrobe in their studios in New York, but they are trying some new things this season. I didn't really know what they were going to do at the house on Thursday, so I hadn't officially said goodbye to some of my favorite items I knew they would be pitching. But after Stacy and Clinton purged my closet and tore apart pretty much everything they pulled out, I was surprisingly unattached to it. Maybe it was the adrenaline, though, because I woke up yesterday (Friday) and realized that I had to get dressed and that my go-to pieces were gone. Gone, gone, gone.

Nothing I can do about it now, less scouring every thrift store in town hoping to hit the one where they deposited my stuff. A wardrobe full of items, many of which were probably purchased at said thrift store, that were so familiar to me that someone else will now pick through, take home and make them their own only so that one day a reality television show can come along and tell them they've failed. Wow. I sound bitter already don't I? I'm not. Really. I promise. For years, I have gotten a kick out of second-hand stuff. And by the reaction of people around me, the thrift items were a hit. The multi-colored striped sweater? The green corduroy pants? That green and pink silk wrap-around skirt? I will miss them. But not enough to re-buy them. I'm ready to put those pieces – and their equally blase and worn out friends – behind me. Not to say that I won't ever buy a piece of thrift store clothing again. I'm guessing I just need to rethink how I use those items.

They left me with enough clothes for the next couple of weeks and a few crappy items hidden in the back of the closet and at the bottom of the drawers. One pair of jeans. One pair of shorts. A couple of pairs of pants, some shirts (oh, sorry, "These aren't shirts," Stacy shrieks. "These are T-shirts!"), a few sweaters and long sleeves. So don't pick on me if I look even worse between now and when I go. :)

Yes, I really do look that bad

They came. They saw. They trashed. Not just by literally throwing my clothes into a recycle bin but by showing me how I really look to the outside world. The stretched-out fabric. The worn-out crotches in jeans. They didn't make fun of the "baby juice," (the dried baby spit often full of crewed up graham crackers that Julian wipes on my shoulder when I pick up him up) but rather pointed out that I'm dressing like someone who should be a grandmother to a baby rather than an attractive young 24-year-old mother of one.

In a way, I knew everything they would say (see previous post). But in another, they totally took me by surprise. The stuff I thought was cute, they ripped apart (they literally ripped up a pair of shorts and a pair of jeans). The bright colors and patterns I was so proud of integrating into my wardrobe were the brunt of Stacy and Clinton's playful cynicism. And it was playful, but oh-so-serious. Serious in the sort of, oh-my-god-how-am-I-going-to-walk-out-of-the-house-until-new-york sort of way.

It really struck me, toward the end of the day, right before they went through my closet, throwing every thing into a recycle bin, that here I was, standing in my little old living room, dishing on Project Runway with Stacy London and Clinton Kelly. (He loves the show; she hates it.) I feel like I'm living in out-of-body experience. But lo and behold, my life goes on. I have to go back to work tomorrow. And Julian and Ian are just now walking through the door as I type this. Life does exist outside so-called reality television. And they are convincing me that if I have this confidence, this outlook on life, this incredible family, it is a betrayal of myself – of this identity I have worked so hard to mold – to continue dressing the way I do. Not that I don't have the occasional outfit to match my spirit, my life outside how I dress, but I most definitely need this. More than I could have realized.

I'm probably not even making sense at this point. Many, many house around a crew of about 15. Intense discussions with Stacy and Clinton about the psychology behind how we chose to present ourselves. Stacy and I had a chance, amid all the craziness of moving lights around and setting up shots, to sit on the couch and really talk about this. She admitted: It seems superficial to the cynic, the naysayer, the I'm-too-cool-to-care-what-anyone thinks of me crowd. But it's not. You do owe it to yourself to look the best you can. Not with the most expensive or most fashionable clothes. But clothes that reflect who you really are.

It sounds cheesy, I know. Maybe I'll be able to explain it better after I've had a chance to sit on it for awhile. I'm just hoping for a good night's sleep and something remotely attractive left over to wear to work tomorrow.

Julian's room became the monitor room.

Living-room- turned-studio for secret-footage reveal.

My own clapboard!

A house filled with crew, who desperately needed Starbucks.

The aftermath of the closet purge. They took everything (well, almost)
but the clothes I'll wear for these weeks until I go to New York.
(ed. note: sorry, guys! can't rotate the image. guess that's why i'm taking an html class this semester.)

Easily the best outfit of the night.

Do I really look that bad?

Never in my life did I think reality TV would be on my list o' life experiences. But, thanks to my adoring fiance (and hordes of caring friends and family who's also helped along the way), I'm going to be on What Not to Wear!

It still doesn't even seem real. Last night. How it all went down. Stacy London and Clinton Kelly practically jumping me at a Velvet Brick show at the Red Eye Fly downtown. What seemed like a dozen cameras. A lighting crew. A (fake) $5,000 Bank of America debit card with my name printed on it. And dozens of familiar faces – you sneaky bunch – filling the crowd.

Apparently this has all been in the works since last February when, as I sat on the couch recovering from the C-section and both of us adjusting to a brand new Julianito, Ian and Corey thought it would be a kind gesture (and shot in the dark) to nominate me for this fashion makeover reality TV show on TLC. Now, I've watched my fair share of What Not to Wear and always take mental notes as I watch the hosts purge an unsuspected duckling's closet and, by the end, reveal a sharper dressed, better presented and more confident swan.

I think we all know the weak spots or challenges in how we present ourselves. Weight, skin tone, acne. Unruly curly hair, an unhealthy addiction to Target, perhaps. I'm a sucker for sentimentality, too. Those shorts of my dad's that I stole when I graduated from high school kept me horribly out of fashion (on both sides of the Atlantic) for years. But they were his. And they went with me on all those adventures. Who cares if they have holes in the crotch and the drawstring is about to snap? How could I betray something so comforting to both my body and my soul? I can't be the only person who feels this way about tangible items. Do all pack rats feel this way? Is it a Cancer thing?

So I better get ready to say goodbye to those shorts. And the 3-sizes-too-big pants I've doodled all over that I bought with Australian Russ my freshman year of college. And my so-called motorcycle jacket that I bought in Spain and that (barely) kept me warm during those winter travels to England and Italy. And my dad's (stained) Padres baseball shirt that he worn when I was a baby. Oh and my embarrassingly ugly yet incredibly comfortable collection of slip-on shoes.

I'm headed to New York at the end of the month. That's pretty much all I know for now. I'll keep you posted.

Thank you all for helping bring this awesome opportunity my way. I owe you big time.

Thanks, Paige, for the photos!

Under the sea

Photo courtesy of Michael Dweck.

If I'm ever feeling down about work (which is more and more frequently these days, I'm afraid), I should just think about packing up, kissing Julian and Ian goodbye (ha, right, I should stop there...maybe I'll take them with me), and heading to Weeki Wachee Springs to fulfill my true life purpose of being a mermaid.

It wasn't just Disney's The Little Mermaid that captured my attention as a kid, but the crisp, fresh springs of my childhood in Florida (wow, two Florida posts in one week!). I grew up less than an hour away from Disney World, but we spent outings as a family in all these natural springs and their corresponding rivers, swimming in the clearest water known to man and paddling alongside alligators.

The New York Times reminded me of this yesterday. From "Mermaids past and present keep it real":

“We’re girls who take to water better than the land,” said Ms. Holliday, 23, referring to her clan of, as she calls them, mer-sisters, a group of about 10 past or present park mermaids who have knit themselves a distinct social scene. The daughter of a crab claw fisherman, Ms. Holliday grew up cuddling baby alligators and wearing live salamanders as earrings. “Some people are born with the urge to be in the water, where life is calmer,” she said. “I’m most comfortable there.”

She’s always felt a special connection to the water. “I remember being 8 or something and going to the bottom of the pool,” Ms. Holliday said. “I remember being able to control my body, laying down on the bottom of the pool, looking up at kicking legs on top of the swimming pool and holding my breath. A lot of us had the same feeling.”

I still have that same feeling. Swimming to the bottom and looking up and pretending you're on the bottom of the ocean. That you don't have to come up for air. That life above water is as lightweight and carefree. I think my imagination as a child (and therefore as an adult) wasn't as great as other kids'. I rarely remember putting myself in a pretend situation and really getting into it. But to this day, I can hop into any old pool, springs, river, you name it, and be transformed into a mermaid or dolphin or even a synchronized swimmer.

These mermaids in Weeki Wachee must feel that so strongly that they'll put up with making under $10 an hour and slumping audience numbers just to spend so much time where they feel they belong.

Alas, for now, under the current circumstances, I might just take this fellow twentysomething's advice when I think about packing up and moving along for greener (professional) pastures.

“The number one rule is ‘Don’t panic,’” Ms. Holliday said. “When you think you can’t hold your breath anymore, you can for another 15 to 20 seconds. Fear takes your breath away.”

Photo courtesy of a nameless yeast on flickr.

Florida farewell

Even as I left Florida by Ricci

Add to My Profile | More Videos

My friend Ricci is leaving Florida. She's lived here since she and Troy moved there after graduation. So two years-ish. She's a journalist, a seeker, a good spirit. I didn't know her that well in college, just through Troy, and Troy was her roommate in Sarasota when he died in June 2006. It was hard enough for me to lose my best friend while I was thousands of miles away; I could not imagine going through how she has. Sorting his books and clothes. Walking down the same sidewalks, the same beaches. There is much more to be said about this, but not here.

I'm posting Ricci's farewell video to Florida; she's moving to Senagal, moving on from her first jobs out of college. I can't wait to hear about her adventures. Makes me realize even more that she's going to make this dream of freelancing really come true. But she had to say goodbye. I really liked this style of video, the music, the pace, the colors. Watching Troy's last months come alive before my eyes. When all of those pictures were taken, I was in Austin, starting a new chapter of my own. I hadn't had the chance to visit him, so the people, the places, the stories were always diluted by the static through which he told me about them over the phone.

Ricci's very brave in leaving what looks like an incredible time behind. I'm sure there are many more for this awesome girl to come.

Alright, 2007, time to move along now

December 20, 2007, the final night of our most recent trip
to Missouri. In the backyard, Ian, Dad, Mom and me.

A New Year's post is requisite for La Vie Dansante (which means the dancing life in French, if any of you were wondering. It's from the title of a Jimmy Buffett song. I don't speak French and I'm no more a Jimmy Buffett fan than the majority of us. And I'm not even particularly fond of the person who first played me this song. Regardless, the phrase has stuck with me for a good number of years.). Reflection is a key to growth. Goal-setting is another. Both of which I do with various degrees of gusto throughout the year. So, I'm no bah-humbug about today, which has turned into sort of national day of personal reorganizing.

Here's the abbreviated version of what I've been working on.

1) Reflection: If some years are for questions and some years are for answers, 2007 was -- thank the lord -- full of answers. I needed that after the whipping I got from 2006.

2) Resolution: A crusade against passive-aggressive behavior, quickly defined as:

Function: adjective

: being, marked by, or displaying behavior characterized by expression of negative feelings, resentment, and aggression in an unassertive way (as through procrastination, stubbornness, and unwillingness to communicate) <a passive-aggressive personality>
- passive-aggressively adverb

I am guilty; Ian is most definitely guilty. People at work are guilty. Mom and Dad are guilty. Little Julian hasn't quite mastered it, but there's no doubting that he will. Everyone resorts to passive-aggressive behavior under certain stresses. Dianne, our incredible teacher friend, brought up a good point last night. What effect that this have on our kids?, she asked.

So, for many kid and non-kid reasons, this year, I'm going to work harder to say what I mean and mean what I say around people, and be most open about my intentions. Being honest while being direct is hard on the giver and hard on the receiver. I need to learn how to do both a little better.

3) Resolution: I quote from last night's notes: "WRITE, for God's sake."

It might be time to bring out those morning pages.

So, I begin: "There, squeezed into a living room only twice its size, sat a terribly out-of-tune piano and a fuzzy orange cat. Both kept the apartment company while she was away..."

That's all for now. What are ya'll thinking about today?