Saving Women's Lives -and- Blurry Shots of Supermodels

Last week, I squeezed my Spanx-sheathed arse into a size 6 Armani dress from 10 years ago (postpartum triumph!) and prayed that no one would notice the length was all wrong. I was headed to the 4th Important Dinner for Women at Cipriani 42nd Street.

"I think I am the only one here wearing shorts," Helena Christiansen said, pointing to her trendariffic outfit, as we made our way to our tables after cocktails.

"That's funny," I answered. "I just joked that I'm the only one here with a Metrocard in my purse."

She laughed. Then stopped short.

"Wait...did you say a MasterCard?"

I thanked her for making my point.

I would describe the event as a gathering of 300 incredibly important and influential women from around the world, all to support the White Ribbon Alliance for Safe Motherhood and CARE. Or rather, a roomful of 299 incredibly important and influential women.

Or as Cindy Adams, the gossip columnist, said to me, Wait, there are BLOOOOOOGGERS here?

No. Just me.
And don't test your Botox trying to raise those eyebrows so high, Cindy.

(I kid. She actually looks awesome for 108.)

You couldn't swing a New York Post without hitting a boldfaced name in that room. I took a picture of the bar and realized Martha Stewart was in the shot. I randomly aimed my iPhone at the crowd and whoa, there's Diane Von Furstenburg chatting with Sarah Ferguson. It was that kind of night.

And it was just my luck to be seated at the table next to all the supermodels. Like, first name super models, all of whom continue to look awesome: Helena. Christy. Iman. And on the other side of of me, Melania. Wearing a ring that was bigger than my children when they were born. To my left was the event's hostess and Pepsi CEO Indra Nooyi with Trudie Styler. A few tables away I could spot Nicole Kidman. In front of me was Andrea Mitchell and then a little to the right, Naomi Campbell. Plus a few dozen gorgeous African women in simply spectacular outfits.

South African pop star Yvonne Chaka Chaka, contender for best name ever, with the voice to match. On the right, Melania Trump. Not ugly.

At that point, I decided what the heck, no one was there to look at me. I was going to eat the bread on the table, order the pasta, and have the dessert. Two desserts. Yeah.

I did thank goodness I was seated next to the one other tech-type person in the room, the uber-cool Rebecca Handler of Wikipedia who also ate the dessert. And kept me laughing. And was generally awesome. And then Rebecca pointed out Gayle. You know, Oprah's Gayle. Standing right next to us and looking swanky in silver.

My blogging friend went to Cipriani's and all I got was this lousy picture of Gayle's shoes.

All the while I keep thinking, hi! It's me, Liz! Maybe you've heard of me? I was in the 1984 Mamaroneck High School production of Guys and Dolls - Hotbox Girl #2? I'm sure you remember.

What was actually cool about the event was that it wasn't all about the gawking and me taking embarrassingly bad pictures on my iPhone. The women there were genuinely, profoundly interested in committing themselves to the cause of reducing global maternal mortality rates, as long as childbirth remains the leading cause of death of young women around the world.

(Think about that. That's insane.)

I was incredibly moved by the speeches from the hosts - Wendy Murdoch whose own grandmother died in childbirth, Indra Nooyi, Queen Rania of Jordan, Diana Taylor, and the remarkable First Lady of the UK, Sarah Brown who wowed me when she said, "If women hold up half the sky, shouldn't men hold up the other half?"

It's true; this is not just a woman's issue. This is a humanity issue.

[edited to add: Looking back at my notes, that was Indra Nooyi's line not Sarah Brown's. Both women wowed me. There was a lot of wowing. It was easy to be confused by it all.]

And all while that they discussed the factors affecting women around the world, I kept thinking, I'm here for a reason. I was sent here for a reason. I know it's not some cosmic fluke that I am here right now.

Last week was a tough week. On top of a grueling schedule and the first week of school, the universe conspired to throw me some curve balls that taxed my emotions and forced me to devote way too much energy towards the planet's lesser life forms who like to frequent these here internets.

But then, the universe works in mysterious ways. And it somehow scored me a seat at the table for this amazing event to remind me that there are issues that warrant my attention far more than internet bullies and crackpot trolls. There are 500,000 women every year dying. Dying. Because they don't have birth control. Because they don't have education. Because they simply don't have doctors when they deliver and so they bleed to death.

Sometimes their babies die too.

10 million more women end up disabled or with chronic, debilitating illnesses.

Forever.


Mothers Day Every Day: The Campaign for Healthy Moms and Newborns is an effort worth learning more about. And if it takes celebrities to get people to stand up and take notice, so be it.

The aim is to reduce the mortality rate by 75% by 2015 through political will and low-cost interventions.

So here's what you can do, if you're so inclined.

1. You can donate money. It was suggested that the very next purchase you make, donate the equivalent to the cause.

2. If you can't donate money, you can put up a button on your blog like this one, and maybe reach someone who can donate money.



<a href="http://www.mothersdayeveryday.org/index.cfm" target="_blank"><img src="http://i57.photobucket.com/albums/g240/lizcoolmompicks/Mom101%2008/MDED_logo.png" border="0" /></a>

3. Otherwise, I don't know, you're creative - What do you think you could do? Lemonade stand? Bake sale? Performance art? Blog post? It's all good.

To thank you for your consideration, here is a blurry photo of a supermodel's head.

Christy Turlington Burns' very pretty hair. On the left, the radiant Iman.

We don't all have the soap boxes of the Queen of Jordan or the wife of Rupert Murdoch, but we do have our communities. And each other.

Dance of My Sugarplum Fairy

After more than a year of donning 2T tutus in the living room, cranking up the classical on demand channel or the Prima Princessa ballet DVD and thinking that would somehow suffice for my whirling, twirling, leaping little girl, we gave in. Yesterday we took Thalia to her first real ballet class.

It was the most singularly poetic scene you can imagine - a dozen little four year-old girls in pink, lining up to show "Miss Patty" how they walk on tiptoe.

(I do admit the "Miss Patty" thing kind of freaks me out for some reason. Why not just Patty? Or Miss Johnson? All I can hear in my head is "Miss Scarlet." Eep.)

I was pretty much choked up through the entire thing, four being the same age that I took my own first ballet class. Which lead to a second. Which led to a millionth, at which point I graduated college and realized that my 17-year hobby wasn't going anywhere. Watching Thalia line up wave her arms up and down and fly around the room, I had the most vivid flashback of my own pre-K ballet recital, and the one adlib moment of the piece in which our teacher called from the wings, Run! Run wherever you want to!

We flapped our arms as the flowy yellow sequined fabric attached to our wrists waved and undulated, and by God if we didn't feel like we were actual butterflies.

It was magical.

Looking through the photos the next morning, the one thing that strikes me is not that Thalia was the most poised or the most talented. (Although if the teacher were to come over after class and rave about her natural ability, suggesting that she's on track for a walk-on in the Lincoln Center Production of the Nutcracker, I wouldn't push her away.) No, what stood out most is that Thalia had the biggest smile of any of the girls through the entire class.

That'll do.

Wanted: People to laugh at the funny parts.

Oh my gosh, what with the first day of school and the begging for El Bulli dinner reservations that the Queen of England couldn't get, get and the cleaning up of cat poop six hundred times a day, I almost compleeeetely forgot to beg you to come to a show.

Yes, a show. You like shows don't you? Of course you do!

This one is called Expressing Motherhood and there are going to be all kinds of funny and thoughtful and generally awesome pieces read by talented writers who just so happen to be moms too. One of them is Motherhood Uncensored. And one of them is me.

It's on Thursday, Friday and Saturday night in NY at the Tada theater on 28 Street and all sorts of other funny bloggers and other writerly types will be there, like Yvonne and Devra and Isabel and Doug and Laurie. So you won't even have to sit alone if you have no one to go with. Or you can sit with my mom on Friday night. Or you can sit with Nate Saturday if he doesn't blow it off which he probably will. Or if you do sit alone I won't tell anyone. Or if I tell anyone I'll make it funny.

Oh shoot, that reminds me, I have no babysitter Friday night. So I just may be up on stage reading while my children run around singing Fish Heads. We'll call it performance art.

First Day Blues

"Now hold my hand..." Thalia beckoned as we walked out the door to meet her new teacher and new classmates on Wednesday. "You have to hold my hand. That's what you do."

"Well okay!" I said, proud to entwine my fingers in hers all while wondering how long it would be before she swatted me away in embarrassment.

The answer? Six steps.

Just outside our front door, we ran into a new classmate of hers and Thalia broke away from me to hold her hand on the walk instead.

The perfect metaphor for four - not a little girl, not yet a kindergartener.

Today begins her very first full OMG I have to pack lunches God help us full day at school. Or as Nate calls it, "sending our daughter away for someone else to raise her." (Um...) Don't let his gruff, cynical exterior fool you, the guy's a softie through and through.

Thalia's changed so enormously since last year's first day of school, that when I look at that picture I can hardly believe it. But ironically, I haven't changed a bit.

"I'm sorry, I forgot the photo for her cubby," I told her teacher as we hung up Thalia's big girl backpack. "And the allergy form. And the medical form."

"Oh, it's okay," she said kindly. "Just bring it tomorrow."

"We'll, I'll try. But I'm warning you now - I'm That Mom, the one you'll have to remind six times."

She laughed. Bless her.

I needed the laugh. Because when I turned to say goodbye to Thalia, she was already gone.

OMG OMG OMG. In other words, the OMG post.

This week, I went to this event called Swagapalooza--which, hello, moms would be reeeeeamed for if they ever dreamed of throwing such an event. But we won't go into that right now.

It was actually not a swag whore thing --the swag bags were definitely secondary to the event itself--but rather a digital influencer experiment (how very 2009). Think the Shark Tank meets Donny Deutsch meets the Gong Show, only with a Justin.tv live twitter stream broadcast on stage as companies were pitching us. Which happens to be to be a lethal thing when coupled with free wine, no food, and 125 hilarious twitterers.

So when a site called Voyage.TV which is launching a six week Tweet Your Trip promotion, asked us to tweet our dream trip and they'd pick one at the end of the hour, I'm not sure how seriously anyone took it.




Then I tweeted:

And I forgot about it. I was too distracted by the mini Milky Ways I had tracked down in the bathroom (don't ask) and by the most excellent company around me.

That is, until, a little while later, when the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my entire life stood up on stage and announced my name as the winner.

And I cried.

OMG people. We're going to Spain.

The last real trip that Nate and I took, just the two of us, was a drive to Montreal on our anniversary five years ago. We have a beautiful child to show for it, so I'd say yep, it was a memorable weekend. But still - five years ago. That's a long ass time for two people who really adore traveling.

Since having the kids, there have been family trips and family weddings and family birthdays in Florida and the Great Trailer Experiment of 2008, and we're very lucky in the sense that we haven't exactly been stuck at home for five years straight. But still, we've yet to make that much-needed, relationship-healing, just-the-two-of-us kind of romantic trip. Every time we think we can scrounge together the money and the time off, even for a b&b weekend in the Berkshires, another family member calls with another travel obligation and we end up shelving our plans. Which kind of makes Nate want to kill himself.

Things haven't been easy since Nate started culinary school. Our schedules are turned upside down, and we barely see each other between the hours of 6 AM and midnight. I'm so proud though of how hard he's been working and how much he's been sacrificing, that I keep saying if I had a million dollars, as that song goes (sorry, it will be stuck in your head now for the next 16 years), I would take him on his dream trip to Spain to eat at El Bulli and pronounce z as th and gorge ourselves on churros that aren't served out of a cart on the 3rd Street Promenade.

Let's just say Nate is obsessed with Spain in a not entirely healthy way. The guy reads the Fodor's travel guides to Barcelona for fun.

And now we're going. We're really really going.

Oh, except there's this one other thing.

Because I was smashed (seriously empty stomach with that open bar) I added:

I may have jumped the gun on that. Although I think Nate would do it if we somehow got into El Bulli.

---

Update: As it turns out, Voyage.tv picked my entry based on the first tweet and not the second one. PHEW. Which means we're getting a big crazy, poor culinary student, foodie trip of Spain. Suck on that, Bordain! We did actually look into the whole marriage thing, but as it turns out, two weeks is not nearly enough time to pull off a wedding in Spain. Also, I'm not nearly as spontaneous as I'd like to think I am.

Dora the Explorer fragrance for children and other reasons the apocalypse is nigh

I try not to rag on the bad pitches I get at Cool Mom Picks. Really I do. Although last night, I did have a grand old time dishing with the totally cool editors of The Giggle Guide about the Worst Product for Kids Ever.

(My vote: The disembodied hand in the crib. Shhh...don't tell anyone.)

I know that most of these products, however misguided or patently horrible, are backed by a small entrepreneur who really believes in her idea, and I'm not going to be the jerk to burst her bubble and tell her that no, the parenting world is not waiting for a baby toupee or or an infant onesie that says Future Pole Dancer spelled out in CPSIA non-compliant rhinestones.

But this morning I couldn't resist.

I was pitched a Dora The Explorer Fragrance.

I only wish I were kidding.

Because evidently, if there is one problem three year olds have, it's that they just don't smell like bergamot orange.

So I blurted out on Twitter that I think the next product in the series is Elmo Tampons.

I'm also imagining some great cross-merch ops with Pinky Dinky Doo feminine body spray, Backyardigans nipple cream, and Diego-brand pregnancy testers. (Oh, that Diego. He's a wily one.)

What else is a terrible no good very bad idea? This is fun.

What happens in Vegas goes right on the blog.

The people of Vegas are not like you and me.

This is a place where the skirts are smaller than some belts I own.

And what would be considered a wardrobe malfunction anywhere else is, in fact, a deliberate style choice.

This is a place where it's not unusual to see a sign reading THIS WAY TO THE BARRY MANILOW STORE.

And people are actually following it.

The hottest towel north of Havana.

I'm here with my Cool Mom Picks colleagues Kristen and Julie and pretty much the entire juvenile product industry for a trade show, and in less than 18 hours, we've already gawked and giggled and pointed and gawked some more, enough to last us the whole week.

If you've ever wanted to know where acid washed jean shorts go to die? Where peroxide is a commodity? Where I am apparently the only person who doesn't know what a Bumpit is?

It's Vegas.

God I love it here.

Buh-bye 40

Today is my last day of 40. And I'm finding myself in that strange position I was exactly a decade ago, when 30 came to a screeching halt.

I remember having looked forward to 30 for so long, to the maturity and authority I thought it would confer, to the great milestone that is THREE-OH that I plum forgot that the birthdays didn't stop there. When 31 somehow sneaked up on me in the cruelest, most unexpected way with hardly any warning at all (save for those 11,321 or so days that came before it) I was blindsided. Absolutely taken by surprise.

Uh...you mean it keeps going? There's something after 30?

D'oh.

Evidently I don't learn from my past mistakes, because here I am at the dawn of 41, surprised again.

And all I can think is shit, 41 sounds old. Infinitely older than 40. Because 41 is forty-something. And forty-something is more than forty-nothing.

Yet I don't feel old. Yes, there are the knees that don't work like they used to and the boobs that don't say look at me! quite in the same way. I can't eat candy bars for lunch and expect to live through it. I don't get to giggle when a burly nightclub bouncer asks for my ID--nor do I ever actually get to go somewhere that might be in the employ of said burly bouncer. And yes, I tell Nate to turn down his music often enough that he thinks it's cute to call me grandma.

But still? I wouldn't trade it for 31 for even a minute.

Maybe just the boobs.

[photo credit]

Blog With Integrity, the next chapter

A few people have asked me lately what has come out of the Blog with Integrity effort.

Here is what has come out of it: A renewal in my faith in humanity.

I admit (mea culpa) I am often inclined to see the world in more black and white than it warrants. I have to work really hard to see lots of sides to stories, especially the ones that aren't readily apparent. I'd imagine that describes a lot of us. (Right? I'm not alone here?)

As it turns out, there are not simply bloggers with integrity and those without; those who disclose their paid posts and those who want to pull a fast one over on their readers. As it turns out, there's a whole mess of in between in there that's encouraging and promising and wonderful and makes me happy. Because I'm a sucker for good intentions.

As it turns out, most bloggers want To Do The Right Thing, but don't always know how yet. Me included. And as it turns out, a rudimentary website with a voluntary blogger pledge can get people thinking how we can do to be better by our readers and by each other.

I love that thinking stuff.

And I love when we get an email saying, Hey...take a look at how I did this here disclosure thingamabobby on my sponsored blog post. Does that make sense? How could it be better? Because I never really thought about it before now, but now I want to.

Which made us think, hm, it would be nice if we could evolve BWI into something educational and informative and helpful, and take advantage of all the brilliant folks who have offered up their support. So that's what we're doing.

Look, we are all learning this blogging stuff day to day, making up the rules as we go along. I said as much on the For Immediate Release podcast recently with Susan Getgood - that most bloggers aren't journalists or marketers by background (nor do they want to be, by the way) and lack of transparency isn't always a result of shady practices or low moral fiber. Sometimes it's just that we don't have a rule book.

It's both what's exciting about blogging and what's scary about it.

Wednesday, Blog with Integrity is offering a free webinar on disclosure at 12 noon ET so we can continue the discussion and keeping figuring this stuff out together. We're going to be talking about what disclosure is, why to do it, and how to get it right, especially in light of the proposed FTC regulation of bloggers. We've even got a fancypants former SEC attorney (better known to lots of you as Pundit Mom) who is taking a break from her myriad CNN appearances to shed some light on the FTC and what it could mean for you.

Also? We've got a sponsor (yay Wiley Publishing!) so that this can be free for anyone who wants to dial in. All the info is on the website.

If you don't work with brands - eh, probably not for you. But if you've ever accepted a free trip, a free product for review, or dabbled in land of paid posts we'd love to have you join us. I bet you'll learn something. And I bet we could all learn something from you too if you want to chime in. Just email blogwithintegrity@gmail.com to confirm your attendance and we'll hold a spot for you.

You can even show up in your underwear. Just stay away from the webcams.

M is for Mmmmmmm. Maybe.

The other day, Thalia told daddy she now likes mushrooms. I'm not sure who was more excited, but I think it was Nate.

"Would you like to order some mushrooms on your scrambled eggs at the diner morning?" he asked her.

"OH, YES," she exclaimed. Nate flagged the waiter.

"You want them on top? On top of the eggs?"

"YES! Lots of mushrooms! I looooove them!"

Wait a minute, I thought - my little picky eater seems just a wee bit too happy about eating mushrooms.

"Thalia, where did you taste a mushroom? With Grandma?"

"With you!" she said brightly.

"With me? Where were we?"

"At the Renaissance Fair," she said.

"Oh," I said. "You mean the men flinging the little white things in those handmade slingshots into your hands?"

"Yes!" she said. "And you caught one and gave it to me and I LIKED IT! I LIKED THE MUSHROOM!"

"Cancel the egg order," I told Nate. "She ate a marshmallow."

Portrait of the marshmallow eater at the Renaissance Faire

Thalia will be excited that tonight, our gracious Fresh Air Fund hosts, the Fairly Odd Mother family, has S'Mores making on the agenda.

Not with mushrooms either.

And not with chocolate syrup. Let's hope.

I see London, I see abject humiliation...

"We had a little mishap this morning," my sitter told me.

What kind of mishap?

"Well, the stroller wasn't working," she said, "and I looked down to see what was happening and it was the wheel. Something was in the wheel. And so we bent down to try and fix it and I realized all tangled up on the wheel was...well...

Yes?

"It was your underwear."

That's not embarrassing.

"Yes, it was a big mess. and it was all around the wheel and I had to pull and pull and it was so tangled, all wrapped up on the brake and around the wheel, and Thalia tried to help me and we both pulled and then, finally, I had to just cut it off."

Excellent!

"And right then, the super came out of the building to see if he could help. And so I quickly blocked the wheel and said, 'nothing here! I'm okay!' because I didn't want him to see..."

My underwear.

"Right. But he saw it."

Well, was it...a nice pair?

"They were lacy. Yes. Pretty nice. I think it was a thong."