Wedding Obsession

The other day, I received an invitation to my adorable and amazing friend's wedding to her unbelievably perfect fiance.  I'm over the moon for them and can't wait to see their lives grow together, but it has really shined a light on my (not-so) secret obsession, weddings.

I'm seriously wedding obsessed.
So obsessed that I recently sent the following email to a friend (and hopefully future bridesmaid).

I have a totally hypothetical and irrelevant question for you...if I were to get married in the next 6-8 months, how long would you be able to be here to be a bridezilla buffer for me? I ask not because I have any intentions of getting married in the next 6-8 months, or even a romantic lead in my current life narrative, but because I was thinking today about how I came down to Arizona for a week and it was lovely and I really had time to say good bye to single you, but some of your other friends had significant others and commitments and they were not able to be there for a week. Since you now fall into the "having significant others" category, does that mean you can't be here to play for a week? Once again, this conversation is totally hypothetical and irrelevant.
I heart you!          

N

I'm so obsessed that I stalk Etsy to find the best products for my potential future wedding.  My current favorite are to-die-for paper sculpture wedding cake toppers from Concarta.  I dream about a custom made, all white one with a dress that will match my future wedding dress. Sort of like this one...

So obsessed that I used to have an idea binder complete with tabbed dividers for center pieces, favors, dresses, etc.  Now though, my obsession has moved into the digital age and mostly involves "starred" posts in my Google reader.

Like these starred wedding invites from Hostess with the Mostest.

 

These great wedding favor ideas from Giver's Log are also starred.

And pretty much The Whole Bicycle Inspired Wedding from My Bride Story.

And while we're talking about My Bride Story, if you're planning to propose to me any time soon, I definitely wouldn't say no to this ring...

Actually, the whole site is pretty obsessable!

I would happily look through wedding photographers' portfolios all day long, or spend hours browsing centerpiece ideas.  Don't even get me started on dessert tables! 

 Because I'm a little perfectionist and a lot detail oriented, I think planning a wedding just might be the funnest thing ever, but I do worry that these characteristics might also lead to me alienating my closest friends with bridezilla tantrums.  I also wonder whether my future groom-to-be will be thrilled with the idea of being slotted into the groom-shaped space in my totally preplanned wedding.  How will I cope if he has an idea about napkin rings that doesn't match my perfectly designed table scape?  I understand that there is no economic sense in having a down-payment-on-a-house sized budget for a wedding, and I know that trying to micromanage every detail of a 300 person event would probably lead to a nervous break down, but I have been dreaming about this day since I can remember.  I want it to be special and memorable and perfect. 

Much to the consternation of my parents, I'm pretty much the most single person I know.  By the time I'm ready to get married, I know that I will find a balance between my dream wedding and the manageable (but still pretty special) wedding that I and my talented, crafty, adorable family and friends can throw together, and if the man I love wants plaid napkin rings on my floral, polka dot table top......I sure hope that I'm womanly enough to smile and compromise.

Week 4 is KILLING me!

 Recently, I came across the Cool Running Couch-to-5k training program.  I had been toying with the idea of trying to become a runner for awhile.  I have a few friends who are runners and they seem so fit and happy.  I wanted to be fit and happy too, so Roomy and I left our couch behind and decided to become runners.

My pink, extra wide, New Balance balance cross

trainers and my pink I-pod, the accessories that

belong to my new runner lifestyle.

The first day was MISERABLE!  I mean MISERABLE!  It was eight intervals of 60 seconds jogging and 90 seconds walking.  After the third jogging interval, I literally thought my chest was going to explode into flames!  Every breath felt like a million tiny knives shredding my lungs and esophagus.  As I jogged at a snail's pace, questioning my decision to try this insanity, I chanted to myself, "I'm not a runner.  I'm not a runner."  I did not think there was any way I could make it up the steps to our third-floor apartment.  I'm sure it was a pain greater than child birth!  I vowed I would never run again.

A few days later, Roomy somehow convinced me to try again.  And it was easier!  In fact, every day it got easier to run.  I felt myself getting fitter and stronger and my lung capacity increasing.  My gasping chant to myself changed to, "I am a runner. I am a runner."

Roomy's totally in the "runner zone."  It's just her and the track! 

It was so motivating that I became a sort of Couch-to-5k evangelist.  I couldn't stop telling everybody what an amazing program it was!  I waxed poetic about the greatness of the gradual increases and how nice it was to have a program to follow.  I almost begged people to download the podcasts (specifically the Chubby Jones podcast). I told everybody they needed to be awesome, like me, and become runners.  I looked with scorn on all the people I knew who weren't tenacious enough to be a runner like me. 

And then came week 4.  It is HARD!  It involves "running" 5 minutes straight... more than once!  I know jogging for 5 minutes does not sound like that long, but seriously, I know I haven't done it since at least high school.  It is HARD!  I think I've reached what they call a plateau.  I'm stuck on week 4 because week 5 is even HARDER!  Seriously, I've attempted the week 4 workout at least 5 times and only successfully completed it once!  

I guess I have to celebrate the victory that I have been able to complete week 4 one time.  If I did it once, I can do it again.  And of course, I really appreciate the chance to look back at where I was when I started and see where I am now.  I feel so close to my 5k goal, but stupid week 4 is KILLING me!

The Lost Art of Ironing

On Easter, one of my friends dressed up as the resurrected Jesus and took pictures with all the Sunday school kids.  Some might call that irreverent, but I call it good, clean fun.  Part of my job was to help "Jesus" get ready for his photo ops.  When we pulled the costume of of storage, it was REALLY wrinkly.  I tried to fix it with a steam wand, but it definitely needed a good old fashioned iron! Even though many of the pictures are adorable and quite kitschy, ALL I see when I look at him is the wrinkled robe!  For the love of all that is holy, somebody get Jesus to an ironing board, STAT!

Actually, this is not the first time that my pictures have been ruined by wrinkled clothing.  My iron and I are not really friends.  In fact, I don't know when I last used it.  Part of my problem is that I only have a baby-sized ironing board.  It's tough to maneuver woman-sized pants on it.  The larger problem is that I have NO IDEA how to iron! 

Seriously, I am kind of a nightmare around that hot, heavy thing.  Best case scenario, I end up with creases in weird, inappropriate spots.  Worse case, I often end up with burns and one particularly memorable time, I glued the iron to the ironing board with a pair of brand new pants that melted when I used the "cotton" setting. 

Living with Roomy has made me realize that this might be a generational problem.  She irons more often than I do, but definitely prefers to de-wrinkle her clothes in the dryer.  Her ironing nightmares include melting her carpet with the iron because she too dislikes the baby ironing board.

Why didn't our mothers teach us this valuable woman skill?  In the case of my mom, it's because she doesn't really know how to iron either.  So, I'm searching for an ironing mentor.  If you are an accomplished ironer, please share your tips and tricks!

With sincere thanks,

Hopeless with Heat

On Coworkers and Whimsical Thinking

This post is dedicated to Kate and Allison, who follow my blog even though they are not obligated to do so.  They are both coworkers; Allison is mine and Kate works with Roomy.  Ladies: Thanks for reading and making me feel like a real blogger!  I sincerely hope you enjoy this. :)

Coworkers can make or break a job.  Even the worst job in the world can be bearable with great coworkers!  I'm super fortunate because I work with a really fun group of people.  Despite the fact that I work at a hospital, where things can get busy and intense, I spend an inordinate amount of time laughing.  My coworkers are definitely one of the best parts of my job.
Part of the greatness of coworkers at the hospital is that I have a whole bunch (honestly I think the hospital has 3,000 employees!) of them from many departments.  There are people from some departments that I see frequently, but never really interact with.   I sometimes make up stories about them.
Specifically, I make up stories about the staff members of the Inpatient Psych Unit (IPU).  In my mind, if the hospital was high school, they'd totally be the cool click.  They're all attractive and cool and always look like they just stepped out of an Anthropologie catalog. When someone from the IPU gets on the elevator, one glance at their cute little outfit and their amazing accessories tells you where they work.  The fact that they work on a locked unit really adds to their air of mystery and coolness.  It's like they're all members of an exclusive club from which I am excluded.

The IPU communal closet where they all find their adorable outfits.

An IPU staffer hanging out, waiting for group therapy to start.

An IPU charge nurse getting ready to round on patients.

The whole IPU gang.

Just kidding!  Although many of the people who work on the IPU seriously dress like this - at work - the above captions are totally made up and all images are in fact from Anthropologie.  In reality, there is not some hipster version of Grey's Anatomy happening in the super-exclusive IPU.  Actually, they do some amazing work with tough patients and every time I talk to any of them on the phone, they are lovely and kind.

My own unique brand of whimsical thinking extends past the end of the work day. A good example of this is occurred when Roomy and I first moved into our apartment.  I kept seeing a small shadow out of the corner of my eye.  Naturally, I decided we had a ghost cat.  Roomy sort of humored me and it was sort of a peripheral inside joke for a while.  Then, late one night, I noticed some smudges on our sliding glass door that looked like someone had written us a note.  I squinted and turned my head and I thought I read "LET ME OUT."

I looked at Roomy, who was getting ready to go to work and leave me home alone for the night and said "I think something is trying to get out of our apartment."  I began that statement with a casual flippancy, but by the end, I realized that it was a statement that really belonged in a horror movie.  I started to freak myself out.  Then I thought about the spectral shadows that I had seen and I really started to freak myself out.  Of course, as a grown woman, I do not believe there is really a ghost cat in our apartment, but what grown woman doesn't have a small remnant of a little girl lingering inside, and Little Nicole is terrified of ghosts!  "Roomy," I said. "You CAN'T leave me home alone all night with Ghost Cat!"

We all know that hysteria is catchy, so within a microsecond, Roomy, our friend, Christina, and I all went from casually hanging out to genuinely scared.  I was about to beg Christina to stay the night so that I didn't have to be alone, but decided to suck it up and investigate the lettering on the sliding glass door more carefully.

It turned out that it actually said "LET ME IN," which scared me significantly less.  It is much less scary to have a creepy thing lurking outside the apartment than inside. Then Grown-Up Nicole started thinking about how words might have been written on the outside of our third-story apartment.  I thought back to a few months before, when we had a party and some of the boys locked another boy on the deck.  I suddenly recalled that he had breathed on the door and written LET ME IN and made a sad, puppy dog face until they unlocked the door.

Mystery solved. But Roomy and I decided it was much more fun to imagine that we had a Ghost Cat than to own up to the reality that we do not clean our sliding glass door very often.  Since then, Ghost Cat is the official third member of our household.  He's the destructive, messy one.  He's constantly doing naughty things, like spilling bleach on the carpet, eating the last cookie and bending the tips of my expensive knives.  He's a jerk.  He's also a whimsical figment of my imagination.

Roommate Date Night

Last week, Roomy and I decided we needed a reason to be cute and girly, so we took ourselves on a Roommate Date on Friday night. We decided to really do it up!  Roomy had a new dress to wear that she recently bought at a consignment shop.  I did not have a new dress because I hate to shop for clothes.  Luckily, Roomy has a closet full of clothes that are stylish and fun that she is super generous with.  She always lets me borrow great stuff.  I really like and appreciate it, but a small part of my brain thinks she is enabling my dislike of shopping and that it may not be healthy.  The rest of my brain tells the little part to shut up though and I get to wear new clothes without having to shop.

Roomy's new vintage dress

Roomy's other dress that she let me borrow, thus enabling me to continue refraining from shopping.

Seriously though, if you got to borrow clothes like these, would you spend your own time and effort looking for other dresses?

We spent ages getting ready, making our hair and make up perfect.  Roomy curled her hair. I ratted my bangs.  I wore sparkley eyeliner and glittery make up.  Roomy went with a more adult look. To compliment my whimsical make up, I broke out the whimsical accessories.

1. A cute little clutch with a bow that always makes me think of the wedding I bought it for.  2. A hair bow I decided to make at the last minute that turned out adorable.  3. Bow earrings that belonged to my great grandmother. When she passed away, I inherited 130 pairs of earrings! 4. A necklace that also belonged to my great grandmother.  I love wearing her jewelry and thinking about why she bought it and where she wore it.  My grandmother gave it all to me because she said it was meant to be worn and loved, so I try to honor that.

When we were finally ready - perfection takes a while - we headed into the city to go out to dinner downtown.  We found a parking spot in a lot that we though took debit cards because neither of us had cash.  When I tried to pay, the cute but mumbling and sort of awkward parking attendant told me that I needed cash and that I could get it from the ATM across the street.  Roomy was still locking the car, so I left her and headed to the crosswalk.

Because it was a special date night, I decided to wear high heels.  I don't often wear heels because I'm a little on the clumsy side and heels make accidents more frequent.  I really should have known better.  The sidewalks downtown aren't very even and there are lots of spectators, and to top it off, these particular heels are just a skosh too big.  Of course, just as I stepped off the curb, my heel got caught on something.  I managed to take three or four wobbley steps.  They were the kind of steps when everything is in slow motion and you know you're going to fall and you're trying to work out how you can kind of salvage the situation and fall gracefully. They lasted just long enough for me to get out into the center of the intersection, and then I fell.  It was not just a small trip.  No, I did a face plant into the crosswalk, in front of a line of cars and countless spectators enjoying their Friday night. 
When I managed to peel my dignity off the street, I quickly checked myself for bruises and abrasions.  Miraculously, I was totally intact.  I even managed to hang on to the debit card in my left hand!  The woman in front of me in the crosswalk asked if I was alright and then exclaimed that she had been afraid that I was going to fall on her.  A couple sitting outside a bar told me that nobody had seen. Countless drivers stared open-mouthed.  So much for graceful falling. I wonder exactly how many people got a peek at my pretty, pink panties.
I made it to the sidewalk and looked for Roomy, who I was sure must be on the other side of the street laughing her head off.  She wasn't laughing.  She wasn't even looking on with concern for my safety.  She was too busy flirting with the parking attendant!  She totally missed the whole incident, flying limbs, short skirt and all!
Since Roomy had no idea I had fallen, I decided to play it cool.  I didn't have to tell her that I was not capable of walking across the street.  Instead, I would act like I'd managed it, just like any other normal person.  I went to the ATM fully intending to return with the cash and act like nothing happened. 
There was just one problem.  When I got to the ATM, I realized that I had suffered a casualty in the battle with the street.  My poor, old debit card did not survive.  I only made it through with one half in my hand.  If you find the bottom half of an ATM card on the street in Belltown, it belongs to me.  Tell it I appreciate its sacrifice and that it was all worth it because I didn't scrape a knee or an elbow.

the Luck of the Irish

In honor of St. Patrick's Day last week, I baked these adorable cupcakes that I copied from a cute blog I follow.  She copied them from here.  They were rainbow-tastic and delicious.  I tinted the frosting purple to sort of complete the rainbow, but in retrospect, I wish I had left it white. But you know what they say about hind sight.
I was really happy with my decision to mix the colored batter in disposable bowls.  It made clean up much nicer.  The batter reminded me of Hook.  You know, when they have the food fight?

Also in honor of St. Patrick's Day, I'd like to talk about the Luck of the Irish, which seems to have missed my branch of the family tree.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining!  I don't have particularly bad luck in general, but I am often followed by embarrassing and awkward situations AND I am horrifically clumsy!

I submit to you an example of one of those embarrassing and awkward situations.  I'm not sure what about this post is womanly, but it's a pretty amusing short story. You decide whether you think I've inherited good luck from my potato farming Irish ancestors...

When I was 21, I had the fantastic opportunity to teach English at a boarding school in Austria. It was a dream come true!  Not only did I get to live in a castle on a lake in the Alps, but I got paid to do it!

(I know at this point you are not seeing the lack of good luck, but it's coming!)  The kids in my class were all a lot of fun, even if they were spoiled, little rich kids, and I loved the other teachers.  I especially adored the sports teacher.  By "especially adored" I sort of mean "was madly in love with."  We often stayed up late together talking and on one memorable night,we laid out on the castle lawn and watched the stars until we both fell asleep. 

One weekend, we took a school hiking trip.  Unfortunately, I am not very good at walking, even on flat, smooth ground, so I fell and twisted my ankle.  It was pretty dramatic.  I managed to limp down the mountain, but had to go to the emergency room.  After x-rays and lots of conversations in German that I did not understand, I ended up on crutches and in a hard, plaster cast. The plaster cast in conjunction with the fact that I had no idea what the doctors and nurses were saying leads me to suspect that I may have broken something inside my ankle, but to this day, I have no idea what really happened.

When I got back to school, the principal decided that I had to move out of the castle and into the boys dorm.  The castle was just too far from my classroom for me to have to navigate on crutches.  All the other teachers, including the love of my life -the sports teacher- were super helpful and supportive and offered to wait on me hand-and-foot.

Wrapped in a cocoon of their love and support and possibly a little high from European pain meds, I accepted the devastatingly handsome sports teacher's offer to move all of my belongings from the castle to my new room without even thinking.  As he started to walk away, the wheels in my brain began turning and I remembered back to the previous week, when I had lead a group of girls on a raid of the boys dorm.  Maybe it was all the teen-age-hormones floating through the air, or maybe it was a fleeting moment of insanity, I'll never know what made me do it, but in the confusion of the raid, I had stolen a pair of the sports teacher's boxers.  They were currently sitting smack-dab on the top in my underwear drawer.  I would DIE if he found them!

"Wait," I called after him.  "You don't have to do that.  I can move all my stuff."

The sports teacher came back and looked right into my eyes.  "Awe, you're sweet,"  he replied patting me on the head.  "But it's no trouble for me and I don't think you could carry all of your stuff on crutches."  He turned and bounded away again.

"No, I have personal stuff in there!  Somebody stop him!"  I guess all the other teachers thought I was being overly modest, after all I am a puritanical American.  Nobody stopped him, and when I tried to get up and follow him, I was pushed back into my easy chair. 

So, there I sat, blushing deeper red every second, while the amazingly sweet sports teacher boxed up all my possesions and found out just how much of a stalker I was.  He returned with all my stuff in one big box, with his green, plaid boxers sitting right on top.  He set it on my new bed and walked out; he did not awknowledge the fact that he had found his boxers mingling with my undergarments.  Maybe I dodged a bullet, I thought.  Maybe he didn't see them and he doesn't think I'm a lunatic.  He would have said something, right?

Throughout the rest of my time at the school, my love for the sports teacher grew.  He was amazing and lovely and adorable and as far as I knew, had no idea that I secretly had a pair of his boxers. 

When school was out, he graciously agreed to drive me to the train that was the first leg of my trip home. I stood crying on the curb while he pulled my backpack out of the car and set it on the sidewalk next to me, then pulled me into a tight embrace.  "I'll miss you," I said between sobs.

He leaned over and gave me two quick, European-style kisses on the cheeks.  "I'll miss you too. You can go ahead and keep those boxers as a souvenier."  With a mischievious grin, he hopped into his car.  I stood there mortified.  He'd known?!

See?  Awkard.  And embarassing.  And not very lucky, well except living in a castle on a lake in the Alps part. 

Spring Time: An ode to Seattle

It is officially spring time here! The birds are back singing outside my window; the enchanting, well kept grounds at the hospital where I work display a new splash of color every morning. It's wonderful, glorious. I feel like breaking out in song, even though some days that song would have to be "Singing in the Rain." It makes me remember all over again why I love Seattle!

Say what you want about the dreary, rainy weather in Seattle, I'll take it over the harsh winters and hot, humid summers the rest of the country suffers thru!  In this Washington, the cherry trees started blooming by the first weekend in February!  I took this sweet picture Super Bowl Sunday on a walk around Greenlake, when the other Washington was enduring record breaking blizzards.

Daffodils, the cheery heralds of the new season began popping up weeks ago.  By the end of February, the whole city was colored yellow and white with the promise of impending spring! 

Last weekend, I even discovered baby buds on a magnolia tree!

Now there are flowers everywhere!

Yep, it's spring!

The flowers are beautiful and hint at the out-of-this world greatness of summer in Seattle, but to me, they're not the best part of my city.  Seattle is nestled snugly in the Puget Sound basin, hugged on all sides by the most marvelous sites nature has to offer.  For me, the best part, the absolute best part is the mountains!  I didn't really appreciate them until I was away from home for a whole year.  When I came back, I realized how much I had missed them. As my plane circled the city to land, I looked out my window and gasped.  I couldn't get enough of the rugged peaks of the Cascade and Olympic Mountain Ranges.  They're so young (geologically speaking) and fierce!  I vowed to never take them for granted again.  Now, on clear days, I can see the Olympics from my driveway.  I love to sit in my car and drink in their splendor!  How can deny the existence of a good God in the face of such beauty?

Oh, Canada!

Last week, Roomy and I took a quick trip north to the Olympic games in Vancouver with our cute, womanly friend, Christina.  We had a lot of fun and walked miles and miles in the rain, up-hill-both-ways.  Roomy and Christina tried to convince me that we walked ten miles each day we were there.  I'm a little skeptical, but I do wish we had pedometers.  It was great fun to weave in and out of crowds with a giant back pack on and rain dripping from the edge of my hood, enduring a sore back and cold toes all for the sake of adventuring.  I felt like a pioneer, an explorer, a woman!

The crowds were tremendous!  We had to stand in line for everything.  One of the best lines was to see the Olympic Cauldron up close.  We saw it after dusk on a blustery evening and it was pretty spectacular!

See!  Tremendous crowds! The lovely, welcoming city of Vancouver blocked off two major streets downtown to create pedestrian zones that were (to borrow an Australianism) chock-a-block with people and street performers, like these terrifyingly cheeky Abominable Snowmen or this bronze statue/robot/cowgirl.

My traveling companions had a positive womanly influence on my style during this trip.  When it comes to my morning routine, I'm very low maintence.  It's a good day if I manage to brush my hair and a banner day if I put on make up.  Roomy and Christina are not so much like this.  While Roomy and Christina each brought duffle bags with an assortment of clothing choices, I underpacked to such an extent that I forgot to pack enough shirts to last the whole trip!  I was content to wake up ten minutes before we planned to catch the train into the city, but Roomy and Christina wisely reminded me that we would be the subjects of many (approximately 6 billion) pictures and I would really not want to look like a scrub in all of them.  They helped me with hair and make up and made me cute for our grueling trek around the city and of course, made me fee even more womanly!  Thanks, ladies!  You're great pals and I had so much fun!

Closed Minded?

I have several things to clear up before I officially begin this post:
1) No, I have not cleaned my room yet.  The shame that comes from having posted a disgusting picture of my room online has apparently not given me enough motivation.  Maybe the shame of having to admit that I haven't cleaned my room despite the shame of posting a picture of it on my blog will be enough.  Maybe...
2) I did not finish Adam's scarf in time for his birthday.  Oh well, there's always his 20th birthday, and since he did not give me a Christmas or birthday present this year, I don't feel too bad.
3) All of my cleaning and blogging time lately has been gobbled up by my new obsession, Doctor Who. A boy in my Sunday School class told me that I would love it and probably should put a David Tennant poster up on my wall.  I do love the show, but I'm not quite ready for David's poster. His eyes are too intense, a little like a crazy person. I did have a Doctor Who dream last night though.

Now, on to the main event!

In the 21st century, we have access to an incredible amount of information.  A reasonable person might think that this would make people more well rounded and better informed.  According to a story I heard on NPR, this just isn't true.  Instead of seeking out information from a wide variety of sources, people mostly read stuff written by people who think like them.  So their oppinions are enforced and the other guys look like idiots.  When I heard this, I shook my head with all the moral superiority I could muster.  "Oh, you people," I thought. "You're so closed minded.  Why don't you try listening to someone different from you."  Of course, I knew I was different.  I'm all about dialogue and I'm totally interested in the opinions of people who are different from me.  Right?
Not so much.
A quick glance at my Google Reader shows that I almost exclusively follow mommy blogs and craft blogs that lean toward the rural side. Pretty much, I read stuff from the women I hope to be. 
My biggest blog-crush is totally the Pioneer Woman (of course who isn't just a little bit in love with her?).  Her photography and sassy writing make me want to move to Northern Oklahoma.
If Oklahoma doesn't work out, I've got a back up plan, Montana.  I recently fell in love with Teresa at Meadowbrook Farm.  Teresa, can I PLEASE just move into your house?
The one, redeeming blog I follow from the person who thinks the least like me has got to be the Sartorialist.  He's a fashionista, who has taught me that you can pretty much wear whatever you want, as long as you have the appropriate attitude.
So, maybe I am a little closed minded.  I mostly like to read stuff that agrees with me.  I guess that's okay, as long as I keep in mind that other opinions do exist and they are often intelligent and well thought out.  At least now, the morally superior look has been wiped off my face.

Womanly: a post feminist rant

“If a woman is sufficiently ambitious, determined and gifted - there is practically nothing she can't do”

                        -Helen Lawrenson

As this is a blog about becoming a woman, I believe it's pretty important to define what womanly means to me.  With all due respect to Gloria Steinem and company, THIS woman is all about cooking and cleaning and crafting, in short - homemaking.  I so value and appreciate the things great women, like Susan B. Anthony and Simone de Beauvoir have done for me personally.  It's great that I can have an intellectual conversation and be taken seriously.  It's also great that I can be a high-powered corporate executive.  The beauty of post-feminism is that I am free to seek fulfillment in a career, but I am also free not to.  I choose sort-of not - at this point in my life, I am pretty career oriented, but only out of necessity. So, thanks ladies!

Female role models in the public sphere don't often line up with my post-feminist ideals.  They tend to be more feminists, with crazy important things to do and families falling apart (Hillary Clinton style) or anti-feminists who believe women belong in the home making food and making babies.  (Ok, to be fair, it's not very common to hear about the second type but that's because they're too domestic to be in the public sphere).  Because of the lack of public role models, I've turned to my personal heroes to help me define "womanly."  I have been blessed with amazingly strong, talented and womanly women in my life!

My grandmas are AMAZING example of  women.  My mom's mom is smart and well read and funny and people really like her!  She was a beauty queen as a teenager, but that didn't make her vapid, instead it made her well spoken.  My step-mom's mom practically ran the small town where she lives in her career as a city secretary. She's a very skilled organizer!  My dad's mom might just be the pinacle of post-feminist womanhood. She is so put together and intelligent!  In the days before disposable diapers and helpful husbands, my grandma bore nine children - 6 of them in the first five years of her marriage!  Grandma has a quiet strength that can be surprising sometimes, but it shouldn't.  She was also a working woman with an illustrious career at the post office. How womanly is that?!

My step-mom has also been an awesome example of womanly virtues in my life.  She's so entrepreneurial and creative!  She is a small business owner, which requires tremendous hard work and dedication, but she always manages to make time for her family too.  She taught me the bulk of my foundational crafting knowledge.  I really admire her for her strength of character and drive to accomplish great things.  She inspires me to dream big.

George Washington said "All I am, I owe to my mother." If I'm being totally honest and not sentimental, I'd rephrase that to "All quirky things I am, I owe to my mother."  I inherited so much of my personality from my mom.  In fact, many of my friends say that she's just me plus 20 years. (Sorry to make you seem really old, Mom.)  She's intelligent, quick witted and she really lights up a room.  She's also head strong and not easily lead astray.  My mom has overcome really terrible obsticles, that would have left a lesser woman hopeless and bitter, but she came thru with grace.  I would probably love her more though, if I had not inhereted the ability to trip on nothing or only sing in a key that belongs only to myself from her.

To the thousands of feminists reading my blog: Please don't be fooled that the majority of my "woman skills" center around homemaking.  I come from a long line of strong, independent women and value other skills too.  (I just value the girly ones more.)

Photo of Gloria Steinem courtesy of feminist.com