An Uggly Winter

I’m a late adaptor when it comes to technology and even fashion. About the time everyone else has moved on to the next Big Thing, I’m just getting around to giving the last Big Thing a try. I still don’t have an iPod, I was slow to move to flare jeans, and I didn’t get a laptop or digital camera until fairly recently.

So it’s no surprise that a year or more after the Hollywood Ugg craze peaked, I got my first pair. For those of you who are even more out of touch than I am, Uggs are the bulky, fleecy shearling boots made famous by celebrities like Britney Spears (pre-Kevin), Kate Hudson, Courtney Cox, Sienna Miller, and others who sported them with everything from jeans (thumbs up) to shorts and miniskirts (puh-leese!). Uggs are an Australian classic that became a California fashion statement among the young and hip about two years ago.

Now that they’re off Hollywood’s radar, people like me, the old and not so hip, can wear them without seeming like a Wannabe. While boots spearheaded Uggs expansion into U.S. markets, I started my Ugg collection with a pair of black suede clogs embroidered with a starburst pattern and lined with fluffy sheeps’ wool. They looked comfortable and cozy in the catalog online, so I pointed and clicked and had them delivered to my door in October. While I loved them, they weren’t conducive to quick sprints or long walks to catch the bus or Metro, so I didn’t wear them as often as I’d planned.

While the clogs were a successful purchase, it was the E-Man who sent me into full blown Ugg-stasy. While in Australia in November, he bought me a pair of Ugg slippers, not because he was familiar with the Ugg brand but simply because he thought they looked like something I’d like. OMG—from the moment I slid my feet into the dense plush interior, I was a goner. I looked up at E and said, “I never ever want to leave the house again if it means I have to take off these slippers.”

I’m wearing them as I write this. Can you feel my deep contentment and hear my happy sighs echoing over the Internet? It’s less than 30 degree outside, the sun is faint, the ground covered with a heavy frost, and the ceramic tile floors in my house are delivering a big chill—to everyone but me. Ah! Ah! And “Ah!” again.

To pry me out of my slippers and get me out of the house, Santa delivered Ugg boots on Christmas. Not just any Ugg boots, no a special limited-edition design called the Rock Star. Sounds so me, doesn’t it? (In my wildest dreams!) These brown suede beauties are lined from top to bottom in the same plush fleece sheepskin that made Uggs famous, and the shaft is decorated with bronze studs (or as my son says, “Your boots have a thumb tack tattoo.”).

How could something so warm be so cool?

I never dreamed I’d love being an Uggly Grrrl.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 4, 2006

Shelves of Good Intentions

My house is full of bookcases, and there are shelves that overflow with my good intentions.

I want to be a serene, strong person with inner calm and great posture, and thus I have an entire shelf dedicated to yoga. Unfortunately, my spine is as stiff and unyielding as the books’. We’d both be more flexible if I cracked our spines more often. 

The yoga books share a shelf with the titles mirroring my other good intentions. I aspire to be a spiritual person who spends some time each day considering my faith and the wisdom of others. I have books with quotes, essays, and readings on simple abundance, prayers, meditation, Christianity, and women’s issues. They share dust with the yoga books.  How cozy.

Above the yoga and inspirational titles is an entire shelf of French books, dictionaries, and language CDs. I studied them regularly BEFORE I moved to Belgium but now that I’m here, I can’t seem to make it a habit. DUH.

I’m not totally apathetic. I occasionally read the books on writing, but mostly I just write. I occasionally read books on organization, but mostly I just organize. I have lots of cookbooks but mostly I just cook (or not—let’s be honest).

I’m moving through my shelves of unread novels at glacial speed. I have books of poetry that satisfy like nothing else—when I spend time with them. I don’t even pretend to read about history, politics, or science—unless it shows up on CNN.com.

My life is virtual in more ways than one. I only look good on paper. I don’t need to tell you my New Year’s resolutions, do I? I didn’t think so.

Inhale, exhale, don’t hold your breath. I’m changing as fast as I can.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 30, 2005

Me and Eddie Go All the Way

Things got pretty hot and heavy with Eddie over the summer. We spent hours online together, I kept getting packages from him, and he always seemed to know just what a Grrrl wants—soft hoodies, linen dresses, cute wrap tops with modern prints, t-shirts in my favorite earth-tone colors. When the weather cooled down, Eddie and I weren’t in touch as often, though I’ve lived in his turtleneck sweaters and fabulous down vest with the fur collar.

Those of you have been following my love affair with Eddie know that he never disappoints me. We have a long term relationship that goes back at least 15 years and has only deepened over time. Sigh. Eddie’s in my heart, he’s in my head. Let’s face it--he’s all over me. It’s true--Eddie Bauer has got me covered from head to toe with the kind of quality clothing and gear I adore (www.eddiebauer.com).

Today I received the best after-Christmas present ever—pants that fit! Yes, we all know that finding pants that fit is heavenly under any circumstances, but finding pants that fit online is an absolute miracle. I’ve been living in jeans and sweats for months. After ordering--and returning--some pants from a big-box mall retailer online, I tried some on in local stores, but they never fit right or flattered me.

Catalog stalwart Lands End always rubs me the wrong way. And L.L. Bean doesn’t fully appreciate my long legs. Let’s face it, both LE and LL make me feel a little dowdy, a little old. Still I wasn’t ready to let other catalogers into my pants. I mean, sure we’ve shared a sweater or two, maybe some outerwear, but pants are different. I mean, I didn’t even feel comfortable letting my faithful love Eddie in my pants after an awkward incident in a dressing room years ago.

But Eddie Bauer has changed since then. Grown up. Matured. Now he’s more experienced. He completely revamped his pants sizing and fit categories this year,  just as I was getting a little desperate.  Timing is everything. Finally,  just before Christmas,  he propositioned me with a 20 percent off discount and free shipping offer. Clearly it was now or never.

It was time for Eddie and I to take our relationship to the next level. I spent hours online, studying the fit diagrams and descriptions, reading the Web catalog copy, and making a wish list. And then I JUST DID IT—I ordered SIX pairs of pants from Eddie in different fits, styles, and colors praying ONE of them would work and I’d be freed from my slovenly existence of all jeans, all the time. I was filled with both anticipation and dread—how would things work out?

Today Eddie finally showed up on my doorstep, and I couldn’t wait to get at that package. Fifteen minutes later, all I could say was “Oh Eddie! Oh Eddie!” ALL the pants fit. ALL the pants flattered. How could I ever have doubted him?

But now that the afterglow has faded, it’s time for reflection and a bit of remorse. I shouldn’t have! Six times! What was I thinking? How am I going to explain all this to my husband E? Will he understand? Will he forgive me? Will it all blow over in a month when the credit card bill is paid?

One thing I know for sure: I need both E’s in my life. I would hate to have to choose between them. One dresses me, one undresses me—it’s an ideal arrangement. Every woman should be so lucky.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 28, 2005

Ten Cheap Thrills for My Grrrl Friends

Hey Grrrl Friends! Looking for cheap thrills and winter pick me ups?  Here are a few of my favorite things, most of them available at your local discount store for way less than $10, the rest from Sephora:

1) Covergirl TruBlend Makeup. I’ve bought at least three different types of foundation in the last year, the most expensive leaving a $38 hole in my wallet. I was searching for that perfect combination of natural color, light coverage, sunscreen, and ease of application. I found it for less than $10 when I picked up some TruBlend powder foundation. Finally—the 2-minute all-in-one solution. The first foundation that seamlessly blends with my skin so I can spot apply it without fuss.

2) Cargo Bronzer. Being the fairest of them all and one who has had surgery for skin cancer, I avoid the sun and wear sunscreen year round. My life without tan lines means my face can get positively pasty looking, giving new meaning to the phrase “dead of winter.” Cargo bronzer is the gift of life for the sun deprived. It doesn’t have orange or yellow undertones, it won’t put glitter on your face or leave it shiny, nor will it make you look like you’ve been working in the mines. It imparts that rarest of all things—a perfect healthy wash of color, as if you’ve just dashed into a building through the rain, shared a good laugh with a friend, or spent a few moments remembering the great sex you had last night. Apply with a big, soft fluffy brush and feel the love, grrrl friends

3) Neutrogena Advanced Solutions Facial Peel. I’m a big fan of Neutrogena skin care products and this one is amazing. Twice a week you apply this to your face, let it sit for about five minutes, then gently massage your face with a light touch, and rinse everything off. The mild exfoliating AHAs and BHAs dissolve the dull outer layer of dead skin cells and let your best self shine through. Hey, I still have wrinkles but my skin has more of that peaches and cream look that ruled in my 20s.

4) L’Oreal Colour Juice Lip Gloss. I’ve always been a fan of lip gloss. It’s quick and easy and it adds a touch of color and shine with lots of moisture. I’ve used the type that comes with wand applicators and the stuff in pots you stick your finger into. Some are sticky, some are oily, some are gloppy, some taste or smell gross, but L’Oreal’s are just right. Perfect texture, sheer color, a bit of shine, and comes in an applicator tube—no need to use a mirror or your fingertips to blend. Go ahead and smile, Sweet Lips.

5) St. Ives Invigorating Apricot Scrub. I’m a big fan of exfoliation. Some body scrubs are too tender to get the job done, and some are too rough. Others are just a hassle to use or leave my skin feeling oily, not moisturized. This is the perfect body scrub. Comes in a handy tube, costs less than $3. Even if you’re not a body scrubber this is great for winter weary hands and rough feet.

6) Jergens Natural Glow Moisturizer. Most self-tanners are awful. The irony is that the people who need self-tanners the most (the whitey whites) are the people that have the most problems with them. Most formulas develop tans that are too dark, dramatic, or orange and many formulas are tough to apply evenly. I don’t want to look like JLo, I just don’t want to look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Jergens Natural Glow doesn’t deliver an instant tan, it delivers a subtle bit of color in an emollient base that is easy to apply and spread evenly. Use it every day and you’ll gradually develop natural looking color a few shades darker than your own. Follow the directions on the label.

7) Tommy Girl Summer Cologne. I know it’s the middle of winter. You won’t be able to find this in stores, but as soon as it appears, give it a spritz and let it transport you to your teenage beach days. It’s light, fresh, summery and has a hint of that irresistible Coppertone lotion smell. I love the bottle too. So pretty.

8) Johnson’s Bedtime Lotion (for babies and those that need to be babied). The smell, the texture, the way it softens your skin—everything about this lotion is comforting. I even use it on my face sometimes.

9) Sally Hansen Cuticle Massage Cream with Apricot Extract. Ideal for those of us with natural nails, short or long, unpolished. This is a solid moisturizer that comes in a little pot, easy to keep in your handbag. Smells wonderful, leaves a subtle shine on your nails, no oily residue and keeps cuticles and nails from getting ragged.

10) Blistex Fruit Smoothie Lip Balm in Mango. The last thing I put on at night, the first thing I put on in the morning. Ah!

OK, enough about me--what’s your favorite cheap thrill?

Winding down the year

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is one of my favorites. It’s the time of year I embrace all the odd projects I haven’t had time for—and do everything or nothing without guilt!

This is the week photos will go into albums and the post cards I’ve bought from the places we’ve visited will finally be placed in a scrapbook. I’ve delved into the stamping supplies and idea books I got from Shirl Grrrl and have made notecards with little E. Today I’ll sit at the kitchen table with my kids and write thank you notes. I’ll take a long walk. I’ll update my Web page. I’ll start a good book. I won’t be thinking about what I should be doing instead.

This is the week we wile away with jigsaw puzzles and board games. E and A will work on the models A got for Christmas. We’ll forage in the refrigerator at meal times or rev up and cook something different. We’ll stay in pajamas without apology until lunch. We’ll take naps. We’ll watch movies. And yeah, we’ll bicker and scrap and get in each other’s way. Thank God this house has three floors, there’s always a place to hide.

If we get cabin fever, we’ll hop on a train and check out a nearby city. We'll visit the shops in Ghent or the ice sculpture display in Brugges. There's an ice rink set up in downtown Brussels. It's been more than 20 years since I ice skated. It’s a good week to try new restaurants and take that road we’ve never been down before.

Tomorrow they’re calling for snow.

Most of the Americans we know here are spending Christmas at ski resorts in Austria , but I’m loving the glorious stretch of nothingness stretched out before me. In a few days it may all be too much, but right now it’s like rolling over without even looking at the clock.

Life out of time, life in the moment. A great way to wind down the year.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 26, 2005

Going Home for Christmas

My brother Tom and his wife Darcy sent me a coffee table book for Christmas, a photographic journey through Rockbridge County, Virginia, produced by two photojournalists who built their careers in Washington, D.C., before moving to the mountains. Bruce Young and Jennifer Law Young managed to capture the subtle details that distinguish the County as well as the panoramic views it’s famous for.

Nestled in the Shenandoah Valley and guarded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, Rockbridge County is a fiercely beautiful place, rocky and pastoral, historic and rural, and Southern through and through. In Rockbridge County, time seems to stand still even as the clouds sweep over the mountains and the Maury River cuts through the rocks of Goshen Pass.

I wasn’t born in Rockbridge County, but I came of age there, living on a farm in the shadow of Jump Mountain, 17 miles from the nearest town, which had only 5,000 inhabitants. I went to school surrounded by people who had lived in the area for generations,  and while my mother never really forgave my father for transplanting the family to the rural South, I related to the County on a visceral level, bound to its wild beauty and serene vistas, the spirit that flowed through its rivers and creeks.

I was rooted in the sense of the place, the permanence of its rocky landmarks, the moodiness of the sky, the lushness of the hills, and the way the roads never took a direct route anywhere. I loved the honeysuckle twisting through the pasture fences, the black angus dotting the hillsides, the satisfying crunch of its dirt roads, the canopy of hardwood trees, the stately presence of the old brick colonials and the Southern charm of the ubiquitous white farmhouses.

Like the narrow roads winding through the countryside, I was captive to Rockbridge County ’s geography.  I was unable to casually pass through on my way to another life. Every bend in the road forced me to slow down, observe the world outside my window,  and consider what might lie ahead. 

When I left the County, I was only 18 and already engaged. My fiancé had been born half a world away to Belgians living in the Congo.  Later he lived in Algeria, Turkey, and Greece before settling in the U.S. and attending college in the County.  On our first date we went swimming in the Maury River, less than a year later he proposed at the same spot.  I married him when I was barely 20, honeymooned in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and followed him to Oklahoma.

Eight years later, I dragged him back to Virginia because I simply couldn’t live anywhere else. For 15 years we made our home half-way between Richmond and Washington, visiting friends and family in the County when we could. Then last March with conviction we didn’t know we had, we returned to his roots, moving to Brussels, Belgium.

Last night during the Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal church we attend here, the Rev. Kempton Baldridge talked about his favorite Christmas song, “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” A Southerner and former military chaplain who has lived in Belgium for years, his voice choked with emotion as he quoted the lyrics: “I’ll be home for Christmas/ You can count on me/ I’ll be home for Christmas/ If only in my dreams.”

Kempton talked about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph as expatriates, people forced to leave all that was familiar behind, first to go to Bethlehem, then in their flight to Egypt. He spoke of the three kings who left their home countries to search for something bigger than the kingdoms they knew. He preached about our longing for “home” in both the physical and spiritual sense, how we’re driven by a desire for a place to call our own, a place where we’re loved and accepted just as we are, a place we can be our best and truest selves, a place we can be forgiven, a place that brings us peace.

In the glow of the church’s candlelight, surrounded by my husband and children, I knew I was right where I belonged and at home in my life, but this morning when I unwrapped Tom and Darcy’s gift, I was reminded of the place I’d left behind more than 20 years ago: Rockbridge County,  forever home, no matter where I live.

© Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 25, 2005

Hallmark Whore

Admitting I’m a Hallmark whore is pretty embarrassing. Hallmark? It’s cheesy! It’s sentimental! It's commercial! It’s too much of everything!

And I love it.

I became a Hallmark regular when I got hooked on Shoebox Greeting Cards. They were the first edgy, humorous line in the store, and many times I’d be stuck in front of the display with my purse breaking my shoulder because I couldn’t tear myself away—or keep from laughing out loud. I couldn’t resist their offbeat, quirky approach and bought some cards whether I needed them or not, knowing I couldn’t leave the store without that setup and punch line in my bag. I totally got into finding the right card for the right person. In the process, I developed a reputation for sending the funniest cards, and subconsciously lived up to Hallmark’s slogan: “When you care enough to send the very best.”

Soon, the cards were not enough. About 15 years ago, I got sucked into the Keepsake Ornament vortex. There were a lot of children in my life that I wanted to remember at Christmas, and sending them a boxed ornament geared to their interest and age became my tradition. Building them a collection year by year would reinforce their holiday memories and give them a starter set of decorations to take with them when they left home. Soon I was buying ornaments for friends, co-workers, and relatives and spending hundreds of dollars on them at the big ornament premiere every July. Yes, Hallmark should be proud of the genius of their cross-marketing strategy! They reeled me in.

Once I was lured into the store by the cards and ornaments, anything was possible. Soon I was sniffing candles and soaps and ooohing and ahhing over the Caswell-Massey bath products. Baby photo albums became a regular shower gift for expectant moms. I started buying photo frames for new couples. I was always charmed by the unexpected—funky reading glasses, nice costume jewelry, beautiful pens, French provincial totes and bags. I even picked up an occasional inspirational book, full of wise words and great photographs and illustrations. Whodathunk I’d buy one of those? For myself, no less!

My children adored Hallmark too. When the kids were small, I eased their toughest medical moments with trips to Hallmark to get a Ty stuffed toy. The pain of shots, dental procedures, and stitches were all eased by beanie babies and silky soft pastel bears. And the fudge they sold from a glass case at the checkout helped a lot too.

I’m thinking of Hallmark because my local store in Virginia is hosting its annual after-hours, invitation-only holiday open house tonight. Naturally when I lived there, I always got an invitation and tucked it safely away in my purse, waiting for the big event. Not only did they offer refreshments, new merchandise, and special prices, but they also gave out BIG goody bags loaded with all sorts of great products. Unpacking that bag at the end of the evening was such fun.

So Hallmark, I salute you for worming your way into my heart and checkbook. I’ve been wooed and seduced by your clever campaign. I thought I was way too cool to be a Hallmark Grrrl but here I am, a Hallmark Whore, just like the rest of the chicks queuing up at the store door tonight, waiting to get in, load their baskets, and grab their goodies. I hope they miss me. I miss them. Happy Holidays to the Hallmark Posse! May you always care enough to send the very best.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 18, 2005

My Glamorous Virtual Life

I got an e-mail linking me to the Neiman Marcus holiday catalog online and with the click of a mouse, I’m one of the Beautiful People. I’m rubbing shoulders with perfectly coiffed blondes and chiseled-chin men, and we’re all at a fabulous party in a place where everything speaks of wealth and elegance.

I see myself in the 18-karat white-gold diamond circle necklace with matching earrings, the black Vera Wang dress with the hand-beaded hem, the Manolo Blahnik sandals that cost more than a month of groceries, and that Tory Burch velvet clutch bag that is a “bargain” at only $378. A bargain, that is, compared to the horrific Fendi fox-fur bag that is ugly, tacky, and a crime against nature. It costs a whopping $2,100.

This a world where the food is fine and the wine is better. The laughter bubbles merrily and everyone is smart and somewhat famous. The 3-inch heels never hurt your feet, your date never acts like a jerk, your stomach never pooches out and ruins the line of your dress. You have just the right amount of cleavage to channel sexy but tasteful. Your arms and shoulders are defined and tanned, even though it’s the dead of winter. The dark lipstick you’re wearing makes you look like a model, not a vampire. Your hair is not frizzy, your roots are not showing, and your face glows with happiness, not oily shine. It’s the first of many parties and you don’t think of the kids for a moment because they’re home with the nanny. Life is good.

Ah, there’s the good life, and then there’s the real life, where I doubt I’ll be invited to any holiday parties, let alone any that require evening attire. There is no slinky dress, sequined clutch, strappy sandals, or diamond jewelry in my short-term forecast. No sleek and sinewy body, no perfectly styled hair, no dark lipstick, no bright white teeth. No people sipping champagne and gazing into a starry night as the moon rises over the water. No enormous chandeliers, marble floors, or gilded mirrors. No endless sparkling conversation.

And that’s OK. Give me a fire and Irish coffee. The company of friends. A Christmas tree with ornaments made by the kids. A plate of dark chocolate truffles. Laughter that makes my mascara run and my stomach hurt. Big hugs at the door coming and going. And a starry, starry night to remind me of the blessings that sparkle in my corner of the world.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 16, 2005

October

Saturday evening I broke away from the kitchen after dinner and took a long walk, stepping out onto the sidewalk and kicking through the drifted leaves along the curb. I pause under a fiery Japanese maple and gaze up through its branches. The sky is clear and the air is cooling, the dipping temperature quietly heralding the end of the day. As I head down a dirt lane that winds between fields and forest, I notice the farmers are still on their tractors, harvesting sugar beets and potatoes. The fresh turned earth smells sharp and salty like the sea, and I pull in a deep breath and linger over the complex scent of life.

Further down the lane, someone is burning leaves, a sweet and acrid smell that fills me with an odd mix of joy and melancholy, triggering memories I can feel but can’t name. Here the road is lined with neat rows of towering elms. Their leaves set sail with the evening breeze and coast to a gentle landfall , decorating the dusty road with layers of yellow, green and brown. I tip my face up time and time again to watch them fall, but still I’m startled when one lands under my collar like a spastic moth banging into my face.

When I turn to head back toward home, I discover the full moon rising in front of me as the sun is setting behind me. Windows in the distance reflect the days’ fiery end as the butter-colored moon summons the night. A field of yellow flowers glows in the day’s last light.

Every fiber of me sings with contentment as the leaves dance and the trees lean into the lane like eager spectators at a parade. I draw in the sweet, smoky, damp smell in the air and watch my breath become visible with each exhale. Caught between the setting sun and rising moon, the deepening sky and drowsy forests and fields, I feel the season shifting gears. With gratitude I gather up the harvest of my happiness and turn toward home, my hands full of blessings, jammed in my pockets.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 17, 2005

V-Grrrl in Black Leather

With the cool days of fall upon us, I’ve been able to unearth my favorite boots from the back of the closet. Sleek and black, with impossibly long pointy toes and short pointy heels, these boots walk the fine line between evil and elegant, silly and sexy. The E-Man calls them Grinch shoes. The children think they were made by elves. I rather like to think they’re what the Wicked Witch of the West would wear on a hot date. Love them or hate them, these boots demand an opinion.

They’re Isaac Mizrahi’s and sport a lovely long seam down the center of the vamps, highlighting all their slender, sharp-toed glory. The impossible tips invite admiration and fear. Ooh baby, they’re sexy—but make a wrong move and they’ll land in a spot of the anatomy that can readily receive them. Likewise the spike heels are low enough to keep me steady on my feet and narrow enough to elicit a gasp. Stopping just above my  ankle, my boots are topped with a line of fine decorative stitching and an improbably small and sweet bow, like a coy smile that can be interpreted a dozen different ways.

Having these boots in my closet is like having a race car parked in the garage. When I slide these boots on, I think two things: fast and sharp. Most of my shoes are station wagons—sturdy, practical, and oh so to the right. But not my Isaac’s. No, no, no. When I pull them out of their hot pink and orange box and slide their zippers up, my heart hits the accelerator, and pulls into the passing lane. Out of my way, world. These boots are made for V-Grrrl. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 12, 2005