Schizophrenia!?! Abso-%&*#$?!-lutely!

Ok so....I am an open book and over the years have shared my many twisted and self-serving points of view along with embarrassing anecdotes...and admit it, you all still love me anyway (well....most of you still do....). Either way, you are all my friends and I happen to love each of you despite your flaws and foibles...and admire your great talents and abilities. That's why we are friends. So, here's the deal: I did it again....I changed my mind. And here I am....life is brand new again.

Let's flashback to last week where this saga begins, shall we?

On my glamorous business trip to Cleveland on which I was representing a fruit smoothie brand at a series of sampling events where I poured Dixie cups half full of pomegranate-blueberry and acai-raspberry juicy stuff and manhandled my Blackberry, keeping up on all the office politics and unattainable client demands. I sat with my brilliant and adept Account Exec, Annie T. (yes, another Annie...) and we tag-teamed, offering our spiel to every soul that stepped in our direction...."There are 2 servings of fruit in each 8 oz. glass"...."We are available exclusively at Wal*Mart but are expanding to select conveinience stores and supermarkets in '09"...."Isn't the pomegranate delicious?"....Ugh...whatever...

Anyway....the highlight of the week was when four separate men from the adjacent gym stopped by the sampling and 1 & 2) Told us they would try the juice just because we were beautiful; 3) Asked us to email him nudie pics of ourselves (together of course...Annie T. is 5' 11" with jet black hair and porcelain white skin....my opposite...and apparently that combo sparks odd fantasies among some...in Ohio at least....); and 4) Admitted to being a lightweight but could he drink the juice mixed with vodka on a double date with us and his buddy at a place in Parma, OH called The Tradesman Tavern....Number four guy (double-dater) looked like an Ohio Mark Wahlberg (whom Annie T. and I both find delicious...) only on steroids (literally). Though we flirted and batted our eyes and made old Marky Mark believe that we would so meet him and his friend at the Tradesman, frankly, we were both separately envisioning a scenario not unlike Jodie Foster in The Accused. Needless to say, we stood him and his buddy up...but not after accepting his phone number and directions to his hot spot. So what was it with these Ohio men....did I live in the wrong city or were Annie T. and I actually that enticing? Regardless....it made me think about what I had signed up to do at this chic/groovy/cool agency in New York City....why was I in Parma handing out juice, getting accosted by gym rats while my Blackberry vibrated apoplectically? I hadn't seen my kids in a week.

So the thought tugged at me the rest of the trip....

By Friday I left home again on a long-planned Girls Weekend to my uncle's home in Mt. Holly, Vermont with Sasha*, JennieLou*, Jacquie* and Arabella* (* please note, some names have been changed to protect the innocent....honestly folks, would I ever be friends with someone named JennieLou????)....We packed our cars full of every snack and dessert you can name including the makings of Sugared Brie, a vat of Pulled Pork, every variety of hummus marketed by Sabra and a banana bread that I had whipped up that morning. We had bottles upon bottles of wine and Sasha even packed up three beers and a few hard lemonades her husband found rolling around in the basement fridge. Sasha and I were in the Jag an hour and a half behind JennieLou who drove the other two in the family truckster (in metallic pea, of course...). So the whole way up I yapped to Sasha (my dear, dear friend...sage and counselor....) and expressed my confusion over my situation. What was it about this past year? Why had so many choices been put in front of me...and had I made the right decisions? Some maybe...some maybe not....

Sasha and I made great time, even with our stopover in Troy, NY at Epicurean (a must-stop melange of French cafe/bakery/gourmet/gift shop....an impressive selection of mustards awaits you, so get your butts to Troy, my friends....) and by 4 p.m. we were in front of a fire cooked up by none other than the multi-talented Jacquie, big glass of wine in our paws and my Sugared Brie being daintily scarfed by the lot of us. And I looked out at the beautiful foliage and landscape and muted sunlight poking through the uncovered windows, my friends surrounding me when I said:

"I don't want to work at the agency anymore."

After the collective silence and subsequent profuse supportive chatter, my friends listened...and we talked through the night about that difficult balance we women are all expected to strike: mother/wife/professional/great cook/life of the party/comedian/sage/sexpot....How in hell is this possible? I try desperately to be every one of those things (well except of course being a sexpot.....that's completely effortless for me...just kidding...(well...as far as you know)....). Either way, my friends echoed my thoughts...and so, I started hatching a plan.

The next day (after Jacquie fixed the water heater) we literally drowned in some retail therapy in Manchester...and by some, I mean copious, copious amounts....I am pretty sure that Sasha singlehandedly jumpstarted the economy (short-lived as it was....sorry all my beloved Wall Streeters....). Arabella was the voice of reason as always, making sure no one bought anything that wasn't an absolute deal or unique enough to be worth the price. We jammed that family truckster with so many bags that an old man asked us if our tires were in good shape because they might blow under all that weight.

So after that we spent the rest of the weekend in front of that fire again talking and gossiping....this time Sasha's famous chocolate fondue making an appearance...and we stayed up until 3 a.m....jacked up on a chocolate high, not wanting our weekend to end. But it did....

Monday morning I met with my bosses and the decision was made: back to consulting work I go. And for the first time in months I feel like I made the right decision....I get to see my kids before bed now....I get to meet my friends for drinks and lunch and dinner again....I have the freedom to go to that Halloween musical I just knew I was going to end up missing...

So some of you will think I am crazy...a schizo even...why would she turn on a dime and change paths in a matter of months? And what fool would give up fulltime work in this economic climate? Guys...you all know me...I may be all over the place...my hands in everything...but deep down, just like all of you, I want to be valued and to value the time I am spending on projects I believe in. And while Marky Mark was cute and all...and I was flattered by his attentions...do I really want to be pouring juice five states away from my kids fending off advances of some steroid monkey? Yeah...not so much....

xoxo, Suz

P.S. Oh hey....by the way....a special reward to the first reader who can identify the film from which this post's title is lifted....My money is on Gwen...

Photo 1: My First Born...completely thrilled to be enjoying a fab dinner with her crazy mother...
Photo 2: Acai-raspberry smoothie...apparently an aphrodisiac to the Ohioan male.

Photo 3: Ohio Marky Mark or the real deal? If that was the Ohio version you know I would still be serving up samples Cleveland-side....
Photo 4: JennieLou driving the Griswold family truckster...next year she is snagging the Porsche...

Photo 5: Sugared Brie -- dare I say better than hot sex on a plate??? Nah! well...maybe...

Photo 6: Super Mom has nothing on my a**....

Photo 7: Shopaholics Anonymous meeting....

Photo 8: Guess who's serving "Sasha's" famous chocolate fondue...

Photo 9: Yeah....I really didn't want to miss that Halloween musical....

Happy Ending?? Not So Much...

Ok...it was a weird week because my manicurist/pedicurist/aestetician/facialist/waxologist and de facto best friend, The Divine Miz Michelle, was out of town. Oh, she warned me in advance...probably six months ago. And who am I to stop her from joining her parents and brother on a lovely cruise through Nova Scotia...sounds blissful really...September, gorgeous weather, friendly Canadians--everyone wins, right? Well...thing is, you guys know me....you know if nothing else I will show up at your cocktail parties carrying a delicious appetizer, a tray of desserts and my nails will be done, eyebrows neat, legs waxed and lipgloss in place...my shoe closet may be in disarray and dinner dishes are sitting in the sink, but my grooming...well, that is about the only thing in my life I can guarantee will always be in order. All thanks to Michelle.

A little background--I have been visiting Michelle on a virtual weekly basis since I was seventeen years old (subtract a few months-long stretches in Easton, MA during the late 80's and early 90's when the Jersey in me had no choice but to settle for badly waxed brows and jagged nails like all the other coeds...it was a dark time....). So honestly, I see Michelle more than I do my family and friends...I know about her life, and her days as a dressmaker and a dancer at Studio 54 and how she lived in the Village back in the late 70's with a famous drag queen...and yes, Michelle knows my parents and friends and kids...and all of my secrets too. So we have become very close...she is like a big sister crossed with the love child of Elton John and Cher in one fab package.

So, at any rate...when Michelle is out of town, I stay loyal to our arrangement and usually give the grooming a break for a few extra days (Hey, a little aside for the guys: so you understand...women only wax themselves every few weeks, so don't get these horrible, frightening images in your minds, I know no women for whom waxing is a weekly need...for me, it's the mani/pedis that are my regularly scheduled obsession....). But this weekend, I couldn't postpone my standard routine, as in a few days I am off on another glamorous business trip (Cleveland Rocks!!) and that would put me at two weeks....and no one wants to be around me when I haven't had a grooming fix.

So, against my better judgement I called one of the other local Salons...This one is disguised as a high-end establishment with lovely bottled water and pretty cushy nail stations, but it was clearly a Sweatshop filled with round-the-clock underage salon girls who spoke no English. I knew in seconds that I was being profiled by the two lovely Asian women who ran the joint...I totally felt like Elaine Benes as they whispered to one another and giggled while I picked out my sparkly pink polish (which was ironically and aptly named Secret Affair...). So, I am introduced to my hostess for the day and lead over to my spot where "Cindy" smiles demurely and begins her standard Sweatshop manicure. So I watch the clock on the wall, gaze out the window and hope that it wouldn't take long...praying away the guilt I was feeling for cheating on Michelle and her loyal spa services with Cindy the Sweatshop Manicure Hooker (damn, that Catholic guilt hits us everywhere, no? Push it down, I say!).

All of a sudden, Cindy asks me something...I smile and say yes, not really knowing to what I am agreeing. Her next question is: "How long you like it?", to which I say "oh, well, not too long." Keep in mind, I am not quite sure what I said I like or how long I should like it...and she says something else and then nods. So I assume I'm in the clear....until my manicure is done and she grabs all my stuff--my handbag, my shades, my phone--and leads me to one of those massage chairs in which you have to contort your body, shove your face into a doughnut hole shaped leather cushion. And I am just staring at her and she basically pushes me into the seat, my knees all bunched up and my low-rise Lucky jeans sliding down a little too low...I kind of feel violated, but I just blush and go with it...I assume this is part of their manicure package and I close my eyes, bite my tongue and go to my happy place (bellinis on the lawn at The Wauwinet, FYI....).

So I try to convince myself--I am stressed right now, got a lot going on--a massage will do me good. Well....wishful thinking, I suppose. Cindy proceeds to pinch and poke and prod and pull on my arms and shoulders and neck...and it kind of hurts, but not in a good relaxing way. More in an annoying and distracting way. And this goes on...For. Twenty. Minutes. Straight. The worst comes when she literally starts slapping my back...loudly...the other patrons stop their light conversing because the pounding on my back is too distracting. Again, I am blushing and my face is jammed into that doughnut, my jeans still slipping off my hips and my knees practically numb. This is so not relaxing...why would anyone find this relaxing??? And then, suddenly, Cindy taps me on the head and it is all over...Frankly...I feel dirty....

So, I immediately jump up, grab my stuff, putting on my giant sunglasses a la Nicole Richie (goddess) so I could avoid the looks of everyone in the place and go to pay my bill. They hand me the ticket and in addition to my bargain basement $12 Sweatshop manicure, I owe $30 for my "Chair Massage." Whwhwhwhwhaaaaat???? Are you sh*tting me???? And then I remember Cindy and her unintelligible questions and the whole "how long you like it?" thing and I realize I agreed to this farce, though unintentionally...but I just throw cash at them and slink out.

For a moment I kind of felt sympathy for all of those guys out there (none of you, I am sure...) who are just getting an innocent little massage above some dingy storefront on Queens Boulevard and are offered a "Happy Ending". And I understand now why said guy might politely agree...until five minutes in (why stop it, I mean....once you agree....) when the cops are pointing a gun in his face and he's being booked at the One-Ten, the wife on the way in from Babylon to get him in her new minivan...ugh...how demoralizing. I suppose that's the punishment I might deserve for being a Spa Services Junkie, right?

Michelle couldn't possibly return from Canada fast enough--in fact, if she asked me to drive up there and get her, I just might. I am so getting a full service package next week and tipping her extra big. No more Salon Whoring for me....

well, at least until Michelle takes that trip to China she's been talking about...

Photo 1: There we are, Michelle and I way back in the day...is that Palmolive I am soaking in?

Photo 2: Michelle's mom and dad back in the 70's

Photo 3: My foot, newly pedicured and in a fabulous shoe...so I was also wearing pajamas, at least my feet were looking hot.

Photo 4: Essie's "Secret Affair": iridescent pink nail lacquer....Let's all admit it--who can resist a little sparkly finish to complete a look?

Photo 5: The view from the lawn at The Wauwinet...bliss...

Photo 6: That woman looks way more comfortable than I was....

Photo 7: My post-massage escape...as played by Nicole Richie...

Photo 8: This place looks totally respectable...couldn't possibly be prostitutes inside...

Baby 2001...Love Note...

Ok, so...I cannot let this day go by without acknowledging its meaning. Of course, the memories of what took place on That Tuesday seven years ago will always be with us, but, you know, I am not going to dwell on that here. I simply want to say that this time of year I recognize my blessings...now so much more than I did before. And I think you should know, my friends, that I count you among those blessings....

One of the greatest moments of my life took place mere days after....On September 19, 2001, I gave birth to our second child and first son. He was was big and meaty (still haven't quite figured out how he fit inside my 5-foot body...), flawless and angelic (barely made a sound for 6 months...). Everyone around us rejoiced in his birth -- finally a happy moment, after days of bad news. We named him Timothy Clarkin Anderson -- his middle name in honor of my long gone maternal grandfather, John Clarkin McKenna, who happened to be, in life, a New York City fire fighter.

Tim is bright and adept and handsome and perfect...yeah, yeah, I know I am being profuse, but I am his completely besotted mother. He's quiet, but sometimes he whips out with these random sarcastic comments and intelligent putdowns, and we can do nothing but shake our heads in amazement. And you know, Tim is the only one of our three who favors my looks and coloring...and also like me, he truly believes he is always right.

So...I guess having been gifted something (someone) so unimaginably divine in light of all the maddness that fateful week brought home the truth that was hard to face back then. This child, born only 8 days later, was early living proof that life goes on...and joyful moments return. And here we are...how lucky are we?

Love you all...this day and always....

Suz

Ok, so...I'm Back....

Hi Guys...I have missed you all so much. I know, I admit it...I have been kind of quiet this summer. It was a self-imposed respite, really....a little social detox. And you know what I have realized? Hiding out isn't for me...I am an unabashed extrovert/social butterfly/overgrown (overaged??) teenybopper. So I need to check in on occasion with my posse and blather on about goings-on and happenings and moments in time...so here I am...

So many of you have asked me to start writing again...you have lamented the dwindling of our weekly blasts from the late great Great Fridays...yeah, me too...things change, the old cliche. It was Gwen who was craving a fix of some useless rambling, witty banter, pointless musings and a general distraction when she politely (ha!) suggested I get off my a** and start blogging again. Well, to be honest, Rob said so too, but being that he is my husband, I rarely do what he asks or even suggests. He is supposed to support me and pump my ego no matter what, so, poor dear, I tend to blow off his recommendations until a friend seconds them...another example of my poor wife-ing skills (I am a kickass cook, however, which scores me some points...my house is warming up with the smell of my perfect roast chicken as we speak...). Either way -- you know the drill...I have always been a writer...as soon as I could pick up a pen I was writing stories -- the greatest of my early works was about a blind girl named Eliza who rowed across the Potomac river to go to school because her mother had too many other kids to have time to drive her...not quite sure blind folks can row boats, but whatever. How the eff that idea came to my 7 year-old brain is still a mystery (could my mom and my four siblings have been the inspiration??? Nah...must have been my fascination with Little House on the Prairie and the prissy blind older sister, Mary Ingalls...).

Anyway, I just need to write because it brings me joy...that is really the very best reason I see to engage in this exercise...because putting my thoughts into writing makes me happy. Ok, so...I'm back and Thus It Continues...

Most of you know that I am working fulltime again at a funky/cool/fabulous PR agency in Manhattan filled with paranoid barracudas, gay boyfriends and sweet, insecure twenty-somethings who assume it is completely normal to work until 2:30 a.m. listening to some major cosmetics brand manager yell at them 'round the clock. At any rate, I am an anomaly in the office--the only female in the entire place who has given birth and actually has three little responsibilities taking precedence over saving up for a Marc Jacobs bag and Facebooking all day long. It is kind of fun being back in the mix with the young-uns...even though re-entry could have been smoother. But of course I miss the days when I was on a lighter schedule...when I was able to pick up my kids after school and blow off any freelance work for a few surfs across Dlisted.com. And as much as I like being back in the Big City, surrounded by movement day in and day out and enjoying some cosmopolitan social interaction here and there...I would love it if I could spend lunchtime with my adorably jealous and possessive 5 year-old (who now seems to prefer his dad and my sister, his Aunt Cathleen, to me...just like a man: out of sight, out of mind....).

So, because I am a tad frazzled these days, I try my best to stay connected to the suburban pulse through my friends....This past Friday I joined a group of friends for a monthly girls' dinner, at which we enjoyed cooking, eating, giggling...oh, ok, and drinking...The girls were all anxious to hear about my glamorous, sexy life as a professional in the Big City...and all I wanted was to hear about the birthday parties and teacher's conferences and playground gossip. So it struck me how we tend to conjure up romantic images in our minds of what people are actually doing with their lives when we see it only in glimpses. We all do it -- case in point, the mere existence of People, Us Weekly, Page Six, E! News...So I know the girls tell themselves my days are filled with "fun" and "creative" brainstorms (about menopausal-relief products...), jetting to business meetings (so far Cincinnati has been the highlight) and daily Cocktail Hours at chic clubs (every blue moon in a scuzzy dive bar, maybe...)...And I am convinced they are all dropping their kids at school every morning and then meeting for breakfast, strolling, lunching, tennis-ing, going to movies, shopping. And whatever they are doing all day long, I want to be doing it too.

So what do we do when we finally get a few hours alone to enjoy eachother's company? No, we don't debate the Sarah Palin hullabaloo or even download all the Back to School week happenings...why would we? Instead the dinner conversation centered solely around the one subject that universally unites women, the topic we all cackle about incessantly: men. That's right, guys...give us a glass of wine and all we do is talk like we are in some girly-centric locker room filled with inquiries and declarations such as "Are you into bad boys?" and "Of course I'd sleep with Tony Soprano!"...So after we all burst into tears laughing at our lovably daft husbands and then discuss in detail our shared attraction to the bloated yet still studly Food Network chef, Tyler Florence, my friend "A" shares her theory that marriage, by law, should allow for some extracurricular fooling around to honor our instinctual multiamorous inclinations while still preserving the family unit. Of course it doesn't take much to convince the rest of us that this plan would save the world...well, except for "R" who wondered why any of us would want more than one man pawing at you all the time. Well, maybe she has a point...but what place does the voice of reason have amongst a bunch of cabin-feverish suburban moms???

Then "T" begins telling a story about how she recently stole a ponytail holder (just one) from CVS, which then brought her to preface the narrative with a blurb about her weekly early Saturday morning meeting with her friend Gayle at Starbucks...and the wealthy, older bachelor named Sam who joins them. Each week Sam picks up their tab and tells them how gorgeous they are, asking "T" to remove her flip flop so he can better admire her pedicure.... We are all-ears when she is talking...this all sounds like a bit of innocent fun and right up our alley (not the ponytail holder part...although I would have stolen one too in her situation...). So she continues on and tells us that another guy, Bill, has been joining them lately and it has become this little Saturday morning rendezvous...at least this is how I am hearing it. I think, Hell, I am missing more than I thought now that I am working again....

And then the story takes a turn when "T" admits that she started wearing gym socks with her flip flops to hide her pretty feet...and the secret suburban fun we are all hyped up on deflates once we realize "T" and Gayle are actually kind of skeeved by Sam, his garish pinky ring (this is New Jersey, remember...) and tendency to lurk. And then she reveals that this guy Bill is actually the local alleged flasher who not only jogs around town in nothing (and I mean nothing...) but spandex bike shorts and running sneakers, but also waves to anyone and everyone he passes along the way with this giant clowninsh grin...so odd....

Ugh...totally creepy...On second thought, maybe hanging out at the local Starbucks at daybreak isn't quite as enticing as I had imagined...

Photo 1: Suburban Mamas/Wyckoff Swingers, Sam, me and Amber, this past Memorial Day on my deck...have I even seen Amber since?!

Photo 2: My chicken is better...

Photo 3: Whiny and blind: Mary Ingalls...the inspiration for my earlier works...

Photo 4: Marc Jacobs bags...all this could be yours for a mere $1,100...wish I could say I was above coveting one...
Photo 5: My little boos...5 year old in center looking off to the side, searching for the next best thing...

Photo 6: Highway Jesus...the only thing to see in all of Cincinnati!

Photo 7: Two favorite things: Tyler Florence and a table full of food...

Photo 8: They are calling out to me with their enticing candy colors -- who couldn't resist shoplifting a single Scunci ponytail holder???

Photo 9: Not Bill...this guy looks waaaay hotter in his spandex shorts...