Krying (Yes, With A K)

So if you're in your living room with the television on as background noise while attempting sort out your 2007 line item expenses because you were too damn lazy to buy Quick Books last year and now you're screwed trying to remember what client cost you $8.89 at Whole Foods and you all of a sudden find yourself bawling--and I do mean tissue-involved snifflesniffleweeping--over an episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians but no one is there to hear it, have your hormones gone over the deep end and your brain officially gone to complete effing mush? And should you really be telling the Blog World about it?

The baby, the bitch and the wardrobe

Rather pathetic that I work in fashion for a living, but well, I'm pretty much out of clothes.

My entire wearable wardrobe now consists of:

Milly shirt, brown/green white
Tunic, lime green
Armani cardigan, black (though will be too heavy to wear in about a week)
H&M cardigan, tan
Maternity shirt left over from the last round, burgundy
Maternity denim skirt (also leftover)
Black Revas that annoy me to no end
Kickass brown kneehigh boots
One Trina Turk dress for going out, purple & brown silk
Two pairs of black leggings (and say what you will about leggings being passe--leather ones were a mainstay on every Paris runway for fall. My post-baby goal is to rework my XXS leather pants into leggings. Oh, and to get into them. That would also help).

When did maternity clothes get so ugly? The last round I couldn't buy DVF maternity fast enough. This time it's all atrocious. Six weeks left, and the above list is not going to get me through especially since the Milly has about a week left and the H&M is becoming more pill than sweater. Suggestions? And early induction isn't an option--they just moved me up two weeks, even though I explained that I have a personal designer appearance, a trunk show and an all-day salon benefit that week. They just didn't really seem to care.*

And before you judge me for putting my job first, let me regale you with this legendary tale, of a friend-of-a-friend, also a publicist. Her very famous jewelry client's $270,000 bracelet was being worn by the world's most famous female celebrity to the Oscars a few years ago. She (publicist) was in the delivery room at the time that said starlet alluded her posted security and took off from the VF Party, bracelet still on wrist.

"GET THIS EFFING BABY BACK INSIDE OF ME AND GET ME A GODDAMN PHONE" she barked to her doctor. Baby wasn't listening, but she got a phone and got the bracelet back before her final push. Now that's some serious p.r. dedication.

Your heard it here first...

Fun shopping at Barneys and a killer goodie bag. RSVP now as it's going to fill up FAST...

No, Really: What Would Emily Post Do?

So while I'm sorting out the absolute melodrama that is my life at the moment (too many damn women involved in this current crisis. Just Too. Damn. Many), I'll regale you with this tale that happened while I was away from these here blogging parts:

So a few months ago, I threw an event for Emily Post's great-great granddaughter. Like my truly evil former best friend from high school that should be nowhere near a mirror lest her lack of reflection freak out the standers by, I should really be nowhere near anything related to Emily Post. I'm from Jersey. I don't really like people (except for you, of course). I think during some round of, ahem, medicating, during my college Grateful Dead years, I think I took a few too many hits of truth serum, because I have somewhat permanent foot-in-mouth disease.

And oh, my karma: not all that stellar.

...none of which occurred to me when coming up with, pitching, publicizing and implementing this event.

So the morning of the event, I was picking up the aforementioned honorary hostess at the airport. Life was a bit crazy, I was in a complete mad rush for the days leading up to the event. So at 10:54 for a flight landing at 11:05, I jumped in my car and raced down to National.

I pulled into the garage, pulled the key out of the ignition, then remembered the words of my BFF E, who uttered, eyebrows a bit raised, "You are going to clean out your car before this weekend, yes?."

I looked down at my console: crushed Cheerios from a 3-year old's temper tantrum the week (okay, the month) prior. Floor: a myriad of gingerbread caramel wrappers, press releases, and, well, dirt. Windshield: a lovely shade of grey. Construction paper art projects (and their leftover glitter) in every crevice. To say nothing of the probably case of empty water bottles littering the seats.

Crap. Literally think "What the EFF would EP do???".

So first: haul all bottles to the trunk. Next: find a napkin and some water and try to get the dirt off of, well, everything. Not too much luck.

Head to baggage claim. Meet the hostess. Who is kind and lovely and charming and warm. Phew. Though she still hasn't seen mi coche.

Head to the car. Give her somewhat fair warning.

Head out of the garage, chatting it up all the while. Get to the gate. Reach for my wallet. Which isn't in my purse. Or in the console. Or in the backseat. Or...rifling through trash now...in the trunk.

"So, um, so thank you for coming. Can I borrow four dollars?" Yes, I had to borrow four dollars from Emily Post's relative to bail us out. So. Not. Cool.

By the end of the day, I asked her if Emily Post would take off her 5" heeled boots when the event was just about over if SHE was 6 months pregnant. She said Emily would approve.

The end.

It Is What It Is

...as my mom, ever the practical one, always says. So on to less hefty topics.

Like the fact that I have GOT to get a pair of non-TRB flats. Unlike the last pregnancy, where I wore 5" heels to the hospital (mainly to make the point of it, also 'cause my doctor is a TOTAL HOTTIE apologies to husband sorrysorrysorry but, well, he REALLY is), this time heels were off pretty permanently by about month 6. And since I'm anti-flat as a general principle, my only options were literally 15-year old Chanel ballerinas that were so worn down that putting cardboard in the bottoms a la Depression Era would have improved them tremendously.

Props to my husband for sensing this was coming, and getting me a killer pair of over-the-knee brown boots--completely flat--at Barneys (extra props for even knowing my size). But they're brown, and they're boots, so they don't go with everything. And spring is springing--hallelujah!

So through my tangled web of store credits and trades and discounts, I now have two pairs of TRBs, one in black and one in orange.

Here's the thing: wearing humongous medallions on your feet pretty much only has disadvantages.

First of all, it makes the toe part of your shoes not every flexible. So not all that comfortable after, say, hour one.

Second of all, it's just a bit, um, obnoxious--is that the word? I just feel like every time I take a step my feet are screaming TORY BURCH! TORY BURCH! TORY BURCH! TORY BURCH! right on down the street.

Want to need to have to get a new pair of Chanels (speaking of, have you seen the fall collections? Holy CRAP. While boucle looks like absolute crap on me, and I know that grey sweater dress on the front of last week's WWD will as well, I still pine for it so). Or at least some Delmans. Anyone have an in with Karl's people?

Where I Been

My family, if nothing else, certainly knows how to do holidays.

Something just always happens when my family gets together (all women, now four of us, save for the one I married and the one I birthed). So if more than two of us are in a room, especially over a holiday, especially over THE holidays, drama always ensues. Usually our fault (self-created drama from the tension of having so many strong personalities in one place), sometimes not anyone's fault at all.

It was Christmas Eve, and all was going smashingly well. My sister had gone way overboard and sent this for my son (yes, that's right, FOUR FEET WIDE. Mind you, my living room is about eight feet wide. Before furniture). So the drama of having a box as big as my porch, the daily fighting as to WHY ARE YOU DEPRIVING MY NEPHEW as we fought to send it back happened pre-holiday, was done and resolved (we won, of course). The fact that the big fight (there's always one, every holiday, that's the rule) had happened and was settled before the first flight touched down was a relief. And a first.

This was also the first year that my son really, really got Santa, or, more importantly, got what Santa could do for him, so it was pretty much the most exciting and fun day ever for all of us.

So, it was Christmas Eve. We had a horrible Christmas CD playing--like really untalented Bing Crosby wannabes on a CD someone somewhere had given us, wine was pouring (an inch for me, a foot for everyone else), my son was on Santa watch on norad.org, tracking Santa's movements around the world.

Caught up in the total familial moment, my sister and I, planners both, were off an a tangent of where we were going to vacation this spring, and she wanted to go to Italy this summer, and maybe we could all do the beach again and she swore she wouldn't pick a fight and try to get a car service to pick her up again (and charter a plane) from our house in the middle of nowhere in the Outer Banks (true story)....

And then we looked over at my mom, usually the leader of all such preposterous plans, who had fallen silent.

"I have something to tell you" she said.

"I knew something was wrong," my sister thought.

"Mom's cheeks are so gaunt," I thought.

"I'm sick" said my mom.

And we immediately assumed our roles: my mom, the matriarch, trying to keep it together. She had wanted to wait until after the holidays, but just couldn't keep it in any longer, but was still trying her hardest to be strong. My sister, ever the drama queen, stood up, crying and yelling about how we were going to fix this and ohmygod and she hadn't endured 800 crappy bar mitzvahs with her former husband to not get him, humongous cancer donor, involved and damnitdamnitdamnit all to hell. And me, calmly trying to get to the bottom of the story, voice steady, internalizing it all, waiting to break down until I could get out of the room that was getting smaller by the second.

And also true to form, my mom didn't break until after her two dramatic daughters (one internal, one external) had left the room, telling my husband, the true pillar, the whole story (while preliminary, it was worse than she had led on); my sister, after her round of melodrama, taking the decisive action by immediately getting said ex-husband on the phone, who in turn had the heads of the two largest care centers in the world in conference by 9am on December 26, mapping out the strategy; me, up in my room, frozen, panicked about the future, panicked about my mom, not knowing what to do.

And now we're here. She's almost done with phase 1 of the big 3: chemo, masectomy, radiation. She just wants to be home, wants to see her grandson and the daily progress of her soon-to-be new grandbaby.

I just want her here.

So that's where I been.

Monthly Coffee (aka Glamorous, Part Deux)

At least once a month (it used to be once a week), I end up taking a young woman out for coffee who contacts me about getting a job. Typically, she shows up, wide-eyed, carefully typed resume in hand; her opener is usually, "Wow-you get to go to parties for a living and work in fashion--you have the most glamorous job EVER!!!"

The reality: more like Wednesday.

Woke up early with the stomach flu. Even for non-publicists, thems are good times. As much as it would be great, you can't exactly call off an event the morning of (or even the month of) with, "So sorry--it's the flu, can we postpone? Next Thursday work for you?"

I just read that Olivier Theyskens tried to move Lauren Santo Domingo's (nee Davis) wedding so that his embroiderers would have more time to finish her dress. If it's not working for him, it's certainly not working for me.

So, in between puking episodes, raced downtown. Miscalculated and parking wasn't great, so parked three blocks away, then walked two blocks in the wrong direction. Hauling a case of vodka. Whilst seven months pregnant. FYI, vodka: not exactly light, especially in six pack of liter bottles form. (P.S. to the maybe 50 men who scrutinized then walked past: thanks for your help. Maybe not the most feminist of statements, but geez).

Head to Embassy, where exactly zero people on staff at that moment can understand my pleas of "PLEASE. TAKE. THIS. VODKA. PARTY. TONIGHT. AM. ABOUT. TO. DIE." Finally, someone in the Consulate kind of understands. Would kiss him, except then in about 48 hours he would feel like I do, and that really wouldn't be thanking him at all.

Take 35 minutes to walk back to my car, one..........step.............at...............a..............time.

Email somewhat rambling apologies about how notgonnabetheresosorryamverysick.

Curl up for 36 long hours.

The end. And the very opposite of being the queen of a Columbian couture wedding.

We'll Start This Off With a Good(ish) Story...

So it was a few months ago (yes, I know, it's been a while). I was about 5 months pregnant at that point.

I started off about 15 lbs. less than I weighed when I got pregnant with my first (thanks mostly to stress). And luckily with this one, I didn't have the 8-week bout of nausea i had the last time, the only cure for which was constant eating, so overall, I am (or at least was) smaller this go-round.

But then one day, I started noticing that in addition to still fitting into a lot of my normal clothes, my rings were actually falling off of my fingers.

"Dear lord, what is WRONG with me?" part of me thought, while at least 30% of my brain was thinking of all of those skinny minnies who just have a cutesy little basketball for a pregnancy. "Oh, I'm so huge--I've gained 12 pounds!" they giggle at month eight. "Could that maybe be me? Or is this serious?" I thought.

I walked up to the mirror and really scrutinized. "Do I have an eating disorder?" I thought, a million Oprahfied stats about how you just don't notice it when it's you running through my head. "Have I really not gained enough weight?" (again, while still congratulating myself a wee little bit for maybe being one of THOSE women). My doctors had said things like "you're doing great!" and I felt like I was eating pretty normally, but still...

I had this debate running through my head for about a week, not saying a word to anyone, just thinkingthinkingthinking. I left my rings in a little dish by the sink, occasionally trying them on. They fell clear off every time.

Finally about six days later, my husband was in the kitchen, near the little ring dish. "What's going on with that?" he asked.

"Okay. Here's the thing," I said rather (over)dramatically. "Do I have an eating disorder?"

"WHAT?!" my husband asked incredulously. "Um, no? And um," he chuckled, "why would you even ask?"

"Here's why." (again, another dramatic pause, sliding on my rings, turning my hands, then watching them drop off. "My rings. They won't stay on my fingers. I think I'm not only gaining weight, I may be losing it."

"Um, hey ASSHOLE..." he said in his loving, sweet way.

"Yes?"

"Your wedding ring? Yeah, that goes on your OTHER hand. Crazypants."

Sure enough, I'm not a glamazon yummy mummy. I'm a sausage-fingered crazypants who still doesn't know her right hand from her left.

Such a glamorous life I lead.