As 2013 marks the 40^th year I grace this planet, I still cannot shake the all-or-nothing mentality that permeates all corners of my personality. I finally figured instead of trying to change it, I might as well embrace it. Some time ago I adopted the Eat, Pray, Love mantra “God lives in you, as you.” Those words bring me peace when I fail to reach the pinnacle of perfection I so believe I should reach.

A few posts ago I was documenting my experiment of growing out my natural hair color. Well, I have to say, that experiment is over. Sorry Jackie! I tried. The conclusion is my natural hair color is still: Mouse. And life is too short for Mouse. The part of me that thought I should be evolved enough for mousy hair got pantsed by the part of me that felt wronged when my towhead locks faded all those years ago.

In my freshly highlighted defense, a few extravaganzas popped up on the calendar to put a swift end to said experiment. It is amusing how tolerable bad hair is if your big outing is the grocery store but anything slightly more exciting has one running to the salon for some brightening. Two such events occurred in February, reminding me that looking good and working on looking good are not only ok, but required on a regular basis.

One experience worth every penny was a professional photo shoot by master artist, Sharon “Sharky” Birke. You too can let your glamorous side shine with Sharky. Find her, and more of my shoot here: http://powerfulgoddess.com/2013/02/27/second-chances/  I am now convinced that all women should have beautiful images of themselves. It reminds us that, as Sharky puts it, we are all goddesses. Damn, I love 40 and I am not even there yet. If nothing else, I love myself way more in this decade than I ever did in previous decades.

Everything about working with Sharky from start to finish was a lesson on how to “do it right.” From her divine to the nine’s table set with jewel-toned pottery and glassware to her perfectly packaged finished product, Sharky is a living lesson in how to love your life.

The day of my shoot I was graced with meeting not only one master artist, but two. Wendy Boiardi used my face as a canvas to create a “me’ that was worth a thousand words. I can take comfort in the fact that my husband loves the natural type so when I wake up in the morning, he loves me, frizz and all. BUT a girl should be glamorous once in a while. And I am now officially hooked. It has given me my new-found love of false eyelashes. Have you tried those?? I will never wear mascara again. Wendy’s work speaks for itself. She is so un-abashedly popular, she doesn’t need a website. Her email is wboiardi@hotmail.com. She is in New Jersey but I would drive there again to have such an exquisite transformation.

I admit it was not love at first sight with my photos. My self-criticizer was at the ready to pick apart all that was wrong about my waistline, my teeth, my…God I Look Like My MOTHER!!! I couldn’t be objective at first. But then I came around. I now appreciate these treasures for more than they at first appeared to be….

I did not want this picture above in the yes pile for that very reason. I see my mother. But then I realized, that’s ok. My mother was wonderful. For so long I had fought all that was the same as my mother for too many reasons to go into here. Looking at this photo, my eyes filled with tears remembering something my grandfather said ten years ago: “Stacey, you have your mother’s heart.”

In our nano-attention span, iPhone picture-taking world, treasures like these are diminishing. I thank God (and Goddess) for Sharky and honor all that she is doing to add beauty to this world.
I now cherish this picture as a reminder of who my mother was, who I am as a part of her, and who I am as all of me. Thank you Sharky for helping me tell my story.

awaken all of humanity, then awaken all of yourself. If you want to eliminate the suffering in the world, then eliminate all that is dark and negative in yourself. Truly, the greatest gift you have to give is that of your own self-transformation.”  

I have clung to almost every vice to be had on this psycho planet of ours: food, alcohol, shopping, vampire novels. By the grace of God, I always had a healthy fear of drugs or I never would have made it out of my twenties. The attachment to these mind numbing distractions has long been known as a cover for the dark and negative places in myself. But somewhere along the way, these temporary escapes lost their effectiveness and all that remained was an ugly habit. For months (maybe even years) I have been hearing a whisper that I need to step up. I need to stop slacking on the things I wish to change about myself. Usually I quiet down that whisper with a chocolate chip cookie or a glass of wine. The time to do nothing is over.

I spent most of this past weekend in a comatose state on the couch. It was masked as a cozy weekend watching movies by the fire to my five-year-old but in reality I was in shock and couldn’t physically move. The few times I was off the couch, I was on my knees. I can’t honestly remember the last time I prayed on my knees, although this time I wasn’t praying. I was sobbing. I have sobbed for the children who lost their lives on Friday and I have sobbed with gratitude that it was not my son. It could have been. He is a kindergartener in a school exactly like Sandy Hook.

For those of us who didn’t lose our babies, we were spared. It was a close call. And for me, a wake-up call. For a while now, I have been meaning to get around to changing a few things about my habits, behavior, life. Many of the emails and posts coming through the past few days have been entitled “What can I do?” There are many things we can all do: we can send prayers, we can send donations, we can give our time. But there is also something just as important we can do: WE CAN CHANGE.

The petty problems and grievances of Thursday, December 13^th turned to dust a day later. All of the crap we thought was so damn important, we learned wasn’t. I am not letting those babies die in vain. All of the things I have told myself are too hard to do make me ashamed of myself. The old cliché “If not now, when?” is screaming at me right now. From having more patience and showing more affection to halting the incessant iPhone checking (what is that about anyway?) and finally controlling what I put in my mouth. They all sound like New Year’s Resolutions but we are all here to better ourselves and so rarely do we actually do it. The little things are superficial but have their importance. The harder things are vital to the future of our species. Did any of us really think our world was headed in the right direction? We are called now to BE the change. Especially mothers. It is vital we show our children how to love, how to be kind, how to be present in the moment, how to be accepting, and how to forgive. So often we feel like we have no influence over these little humans who are pulled in so many directions already. But they are listening and watching. It is our duty to raise them right with simplicity, patience and compassion.

There is no other choice now.

           ”I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, compassion.                                                            These three are your greatest treasures.  ― Lao Tzu

I was born a tow-head. I was a glorious, white haired goddess that ruled the world, or at least my immediate surroundings, from the time I sprouted hair. My locks were the focal point of my existence for approximately seven years and then…the change. Within a matter of months, they turned…brown. Not the vampire-worthy black tresses of my friend Esther, or the chestnut-kissed hue of my neighbor Michelle, but something more like the color of something that scurries across the basement floor when it thinks no one is looking. Some may call it dirty blonde. Some may call it…Mouse.

I didn’t have the wherewithal before eleven-years-old to do much to change Mouse. But somewhere in my subconscious, I knew. I knew something vitally important had been lost. My champagne-hued tresses were something of the past. And I knew, even at eleven, that that was a very bad thing. Now, I was stuck with Mouse. No one dyes their hair in middle school. Or so I thought…

When I saw Sun-In on the shelves of my nearest Walgreens, it was the answer to my murky-hued hair prayers. That gorgeous, bright orange package revealed snippets of a white bottle that whispered sweet nothings of a better, happier existence, one with blonder hair. I was enamored. Weekly allowance money was enough to buy me blonde in a bottle. And, the best part was… it wasn’t dye (technically-speaking). So when people like my grandmother started to notice my lighter hair, I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t dying it. All I was doing was spraying it with this magical elixir and heating it with my hair dryer. No, I wasn’t dying my hair…

Mouse soon turned to glorious, peroxide-yellow. God, it was indeed, glorious. And so it remained…for twenty-eight years…

Damn, for twenty-eight years I have been dying (ahem, highlighting) my hair…

I recently woke to the realization that my hair is fried, baked, beaten, tired, lifeless, shineless, fatigued, and lifeless (worth repeating). And that is sad. So, at thirty-nine years of age, I have decided to go on a quest. A quest for my natural hair color! They say you go a bit crazy at forty. I am starting my crazy…a year early. And I like it. Every day, I see more of those mousy roots and it is just fine with me. Even in my horror, as my stepdaughter introduced me to snapchat and took my picture with the I-phone camera which has no ability to blend shadows so my stark roots shouted to the intended recipient, I smiled.

It is usually right about now I run screaming to my colorist to blonde me up. But something weird is happening….I am curious as to what color my hair truly is. It would be a shame to leave this planet not knowing that simple truth about myself. Many close to me know I’ve tried my hand at red hair more than once. God, I envy those redheads. I am doubtfully optimistic that my natural color will be that of Julia Roberts or Angie Everhart. But, if nothing else, it will be shiny. For too long it has been lackluster. Just the other day, I commented to myself in the mirror (I am used to talking to myself, being an only child and all) that my hair (dark as it may be) is shiny. That is worth the perseverance of sticking it out on this quest to grow out the blonde and see what is hiding underneath. Hell, I can always call that colorist if I have had enough Mouse.  But, I haven’t had enough quite yet. I am intrigued by the shine and the hope. It is hope for healthier hair and maybe, a glimpse of the self I haven’t discovered yet. Who knew roots could be so deep? Well…they are called roots. I make myself laugh.

I will keep you posted, y’all.

I had a huge epiphany three minutes ago. Catalog season is in full swing (82 days until Christmas!) and it hit me like a ton of bricks, literally just now…

You (or I should say Me, or I) can tell a lot about yourself (myself) by the clothing catalogs you (I) order from. Oh, hell, it’s just me from here on in, okay? I can’t really tell a lot about others from their preferred catalogs but definitely a lot about myself. And also how I’ve changed (code for aged) over the years in my catalog preferences. AND, not to mention the catalogs that show up in my mailbox because I have slipped into some black hole demographic that spits out data to catalog companies that I am “of a certain age” that statistically should like Soft Surroundings. It was on the 25^th consecutive page of tunics and tummy control pull-on pants that I heaved it to the recycle pile. I liked the first tunic and even the fifth, but now I refuse to order anything from them on principal. I seemed to have slipped into this ready-to-wear category so comfortably, I didn’t even notice! It’s all part of their evil plan I am sure.

I am still clinging to my Boston Proper catalog because I too, want to wear it like no one else (their tag line, if you didn’t know.) Try as I may a few times every year, I purchase form-fitting lycra-blend sweaters that wont withstand more than one wash and sure, I can get away with wearing a neon fedora to compliment my plunging neckline tankini and coordinating strappy platform heel. It was so appropriate at the pool this summer watching my five-year-old do cannonballs off the diving board.

Thank you Athleta catalog for being my saving grace with wearable bathing suits and cute casual wear but even then, how many times can I be seen in black yoga pants? And even in their amazingly slimming mystery fabric, I can’t quite pull off standing on a paddleboard just right so the sun bounces off my six-pack (like the model) and deflects on-lookers from my unyielding underarm waddle.

Gone are the days when Victoria’s Secret frequented my mailbox. Not that I truly care, I could never get their bras to fit right, but it would be nice to be thought of by the Sex Goddess Style Makers of The Limited Companies once in a while.

And today I relished every page of the indulgent Gorsuch catalog that makes its lustrous appearance but once a year. From these pages I see the StaceyLu I wish to be! I picture myself in their timeless ski clothes that make me miraculously able to ski and more pressingly, I have the discretionary income to spend $4200 on a lavish shearling coat or at the very least, $500 on a really nice turtleneck sweater.

So, I am officially taking a stand against the mocking solicitations beckoning from the purveyors of sweater dusters, miracle cremes, and slouchy wool socks emblazoned with Adirondack animals. You know who you are!! Which reminds me, stay clear of any catalog that will sell you a matte jersey rouched dress from the same page as a down comforter. One day in the coming months, you will be walking around thinking you are hot stuff in your new dress only to get a glimpse of yourself in a holiday photo and realize in horror that you not-so-subtly resemble the comforter.

“No!” I shouted back too quickly. Everyone knew I was lying. I started to laugh and blushed beyond belief.

“So then WHY is there a bookmark in it? Why? Why?” He was firing accusations at me so fast, all I could do was stutter and laugh.

My seventeen-year-old stepson was not amused, swiftly taking action against the book in question. This photo captures the result of his desire to, I quote, “help young girls and confused stepmothers everywhere.” The book is hanging itself with the dog’s collar and leash.

In July I started writing my first fiction novel and it was going great. I was amazed at how my story was developing, I had great dialogue, I was excited about my future writing career. Not ever being much of a fiction reader, I thought I should read a few popular books, knowing I could use some inspiration on character development and especially descriptive writing, definitely my weakest skill.

I was always proud of the fact that I never read the Twilight series. I was going against the grain. Even when the mass hysteria hit, I was oblivious. I always had my nose in non-fiction, thinking if I weren’t learning something from a book, it was a waste of my time. Then at least a year ago, my dear sister-in-law gave me all four Twilights believing that I didn’t know what I was missing. I took them, still not that interested. They sat, and sat, and survived a house move and were banished to the back of my new closet for months. So, when my new desire to glean all I could from others hit, I chose the first fiction book accessible to me, no farther than the back of my closet. I remembered hearing the phrase “sucks you in” many times when this book was popular. Now I understand.

Because I didn’t read each book when it came out, I had all 2500 pages available to read at once. I started the first book two days before we were leaving for a week’s vacation. I finished it five minutes into the five-hour car ride to the Cape. I would have ripped into the second book immediately after, but didn’t want to alienate my loving husband at the wheel for the entire trip. The second book sat in the bag at my feet, practically burning a hole through it. I didn’t think to bring the third book on our trip. Was I really going to read the entire second book on my vacation? Oh, yes, and the entire third and half of the fourth. It was gross. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like not having the actual book with me stop me from reading so books three and four were conveniently purchased on Kindle for my iPad. Yay for modern times!

So, exactly twelve days after starting page one of book one, all 2500 pages were devoured. I immediately started reading the first book again! I was so gluttonous. Where was my life headed? When was the last time I showered? I had traded many a restful night’s sleep for the intoxicating glow of my iPad. I’ve always had an obsessive personality when I latch on to something I like. This was no exception. My writing went out the window. I haven’t written a word since starting these books. For one, I was completely and utterly intimidated. I finally see all I didn’t know I didn’t know. Inadequate doesn’t even begin to cover it. But, I can’t keep reading this series over and over, no matter how much I will miss Edward. It must end sometime. I have other stories to read. And I am now ready to return to the story I want to tell.

I have caved on the Hunger Games. I am only a season or two behind the times on that one. I have downloaded Gone Girl as well (thank you J!). So now I stand obstinate regarding 50 Shades of Grey.  I guess you can expect a blog post from me about it sometime Christmas 2013.

Happy Reading everyone!

You go into the liquor store these days and can’t help but be bombarded by all of the wine labels that reference motherhood: Mommy’s Time Out; Mommy Juice; Mad Mama (I may have made that one up), blah, blah, blah. Some would say American moms are kicking back a few, enough to make wine marketers take notice. So, I created my list of why…

1. The inconsequential problems of my life dissolve like the sugar I pour into my Sangria (email me for a great recipe!!)

2. Pain doesn’t hurt. The physical kind at least. The emotional kind sticks around and if you drink too much wine, tears of all kinds start pouring out and you are crying because you love life so much or crying because you are wondering how the hell you ended up where you are.

3. It takes the edge off of all those unfulfilled dreams that keep pestering you like post-nasal drip. You keep clearing your throat and they keep coming back.

4. Guilt vanishes over most behavior like eating another cookie or thumbing your nose at the dinner dishes. You will need something harder or prescribed by a doctor to absolve your guilt over behavior more extreme than above examples.

5. Going out in the blazing sun, cocktail in hand, without sunscreen, doesn’t cause pre-mature aging or pre-cancerous moles or pre-anything but a sexy tan.

6. The loss of fine motor skills makes up for the loss of control over the behavior of the children that happen to be in the room at the time.

7. The flab on my triceps doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, what flab?

8. I appreciate my body as it is right now and not give in to my bouts of Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

9. I take two minutes to appreciate the fact that my son has two parents who love each other as apposed to mine that did not.

10. I can count all the way to ten after being ignored by my son who I have asked/told/yelled at/lost my sh#$t over/ to stop pulling the dog’s ears.

In my opinion, these are all valid reasons to drink wine. I once read a quote that if you think something is bad and you do it, it is very detrimental to your health. Some of you may remember my extremely short experiment in the fall giving up wine. I was under the false impression that wine was bad for me. I have changed my tune on that one. When your life is not your own because you are raising children, you need a release. I have said too much. Yes, Wine Is Good…Very Good.

Cheers!

Incomprehensible facts aside, I feel it. I feel the imminent change. And for me, that change has a name: Kindergarten.

Something ignited my consciousness a few weeks back. I am sure it was Kindergarten Orientation. How real it all seems now. When my son was two, I saw preschool as a much needed break for me for a few hours a week. At three, there were more days of preschool and at four, an even greater opportunity for him to soak up the amazing curriculum at Landmark Preschool. As this school year rolled on, I was so happy to hear him read, speak Spanish and occasionally speak Mandarin. But now with August 27^th looming on the not so distant calendar as his first day of Kindergarten, I have a creeping sense of dread. I figure this is about the time a mom starts thinking of having another baby. Fill that hole! Well that’s not happening in this story so I must have a plan b.  My plan b is still forming, but for now, I just want to spend as much time as I can with my baby. For so long I have been trying to fill our days with activities to keep his high-octane energy level satisfied and now, I feel the need to slow things down and retreat.

Yesterday I saw a glimpse of the perfection I so desperately seek, in of all things, legos.  It was one of those moments that would have passed by unnoticed had I not been paying attention: my son and I, side-by-side, spending time together with no distractions.  I had the wherewithal to recognize the moment, smile and give him a kiss. I was so glad I did because thirty seconds later we were both ankle deep in frustration because “Jay’s Jet” wasn’t opening when we pressed the button. I did say this was a glimpse of perfection. Then it was gone.

I am so glad I have realized these moments are all we have so I better enjoy them now. I will wake up on August 27^th and put my son on the bus for his first day of school. He already fights me when I reach for his hand in a parking lot, how will it be in the fall? How soon will I hear “drop me at the corner mom”? December 21^st, you’ve got nothin’ on a mom on the first day of Kindergarten. End of the world? No, but certainly great upheaval. What would a Mayan Mama do?

The dictionary converts ma’am to madam and states madam is a woman of refinement.  Some synonyms listed were just the same word in other languages: frau, senora, madame. The only interesting synonym was madonna. Pop diva aside, the dictionary goes on to define madonna as “my lady”.  At first I thought this was ok but recalled a recent dinner experience in Florida where the overzealous server kept referring to me as “ma’ lady”. “Is ma’ lady finished?” “Can I remove the dish for ma’ lady?” Ugghh! I wanted to boot him out onto the sand shortly after the appletizer (how my son says appetizer) was served.

In the scheme of things, this is no big deal and I should be spending my time solving the real problems of the world. If you hadn’t heard the news, I am now qualified to solve world issues, just being named a superhero by my son.

“Mama, you’re superhero name is Pretty Woman because you make everything pretty. And I am beautiful because I love you.”

No truer words were ever spoken. These sweet little words have the power to wash everything else away, the big hurting words and the little annoying ones. So bring on the ma’ams, I will just deflect them with my indestructible gold bracelets.

Many of you are aware that my book Eat, Drink and Remarry is hot off the presses. In the short time I have been marketing my book, I have had the good fortune to connect with many wonderful people in the wedding business. One person in particular is Paula Bisacre. Paula is the mastermind behind Remarriage Works, LLC. Remarriage Works is a multi-media resource for people getting married for the second (or third) time. Her website www.remarriageworks.com is an amazing source of information from encore wedding dresses to blended family counseling.

I started writing my book because of the lack of help during the planning of my second wedding. I tried to plan it like my first and struggled the whole way through. I looked online to find only first time marriage sites that never addressed my current situation. A resource like Remarriage Works and its sister site, www.remarriageshowcase.com would have saved me much time and heartache.

Planning a second wedding is a completely different experience than planning a first. But most wedding professionals do not acknowledge this extremely important point. The ceremony is often times outside of a place of worship so picking a venue is a big undertaking and coinciding with that, you must find a creative alternative for your wedding officiant. The invitations are worded differently. The brides dress is often times scaled down. A bride wants to look amazing but not covered in a mountain of tulle. There may be little ones from a previous marriage to consider in the ceremony, reception and beyond into your new marriage. The list goes on and on. Not to mention one of the biggest hindrances to enjoying your second wedding planning is all of the guilt that you have carried since the end of your first marriage. I know from experience that if you don’t exorcise that demon, it sits and waits to show itself at every opportunity in the process.

Eat, Drink and Remarry is a resource for creative ideas but is also a comfort to those getting married again. We all love to hear stories similar to our own. That is why Chicken Soup for the Soul is so successful. Just hearing someone else survived the same train wreck goes along way.

After buying my book and reading it from cover to cover (it’s a great and short read!) I urge you to check out Remarriage Works. Paula has taken this very neglected demographic under her wing and is helping to smooth out the inevitable bumps in this journey to a happy and healthy second marriage and blended family. I believe in her vision so much that I became a Titanium Sponsor of all of the Remarriage Showcases for 2012. I look forward to a great year ahead with Remarriage Works!

I saw a dear friend yesterday (one that I do not see nearly enough) and a quick, four word sentence from her has completely changed my life. That is quite a bold statement but I dare say it is true. We were discussing the future, what we may have in store now that the kids are in school more.

“I really want to make this writing thing work.” I said.

“It already is working,” was her reply.

Those four words stopped me in my tracks. It already is working. Yeah, it is.  It is working. I think I have a genetic defect that only allows me to see what I have yet to accomplish and block out all that I have already created. Those four words made me realize I have had the wrong perspective when it comes to myself, my goals, my job well done. Somewhere in the back of my belief system, I held a strong one that my creations somehow miss the mark. How unbelievably erroneous. The thing is, we all hold these beliefs within ourselves. Who doesn’t feel unworthy, incapable, unsuitable, unqualified, the list goes on. The sad thing is, these feelings couldn’t be farther from the truth. I come in contact with dozens of amazing women all day long. I see them at dropoff at my son’s preschool. I see them at the grocery store. I see them at my Women’s League meetings. I see the amazing light that shines in each one of them, yet I find it so hard to acknowledge the light in myself. After my awakening from my friend’s words, I vow to change that. We think it is a bad thing to love ourselves or appreciate our own contribution to our families and the world. If we didn’t think it was bad, we wouldn’t hate our waistlines, or hairlines, or panty lines.  We would celebrate it all.

Sewa Singh Khalsa, a Kundalini Yoga Master Teacher was once quoted as saying “If a man sees you and doesn’t immediately want to serve you and devote his life to you then he’s not worth your time!” Let’s think about that for one minute. Do any of us walk around for any hour of the day, let alone EVERY hour of the day feeling this way about ourselves? I have to say, it sounds pretty good. It is now added to my list of goals.

This started as a blog post about my book but it is way more than that. In fact, it just may be the topic of my next book, StaceyLu’s Guide to Loving Ourselves. People with think they can find it in the sex manual section. That idea probably needs some work but there is definitely more to come on this topic. I give you food for thought. How hard are you on you? And maybe, think just for a minute, that those thoughts you tell yourself are wrong. Maybe they come from your mother, who was wrong. Or they come from your ex-boyfriend, who was wrong. Or they come from your fifth grade social studies teacher who was so wrong he was later fired for inappropriate conduct. The point is, once we hear these opinions about ourselves from people who are so screwed up themselves, they wedge in our belief system causing all sorts of crap and at the very worst, self-doubt. That is the biggest killer of dreams right there.

So I salute you, wonderful woman and Ed, (the only man I know who reads my posts!) reading this right now and I say go out and be the radiant light that you are and join me in kicking self-doubt in the ass and say “Yeah, It’s working!”