An American Girl in Nice: Photos from France

I'm sitting at our home office with a bowl full of Cheerios (no milk). I've been holding my abdomen since yesterday afternoon thanks to a stomach bug I've been nursing for the last 18 hours.

There are plenty of theories about why I'm sick. My mom, the nurse, is sure I have reverse Bonaparte's revenge or delayed jet lag. I think it was the Subway veggie sub I ate yesterday. Judging by the Always wrappers in the trash this week, it sure as hell isn't a bun in my oven.

Another theory is that the stomach bug is a gift from Mother Nature, who while in France helped me not gain any weight (I was actually down a pound when we came home), that saw the weight loss progress I was making before I went to France and would like for me to keep my calorie intake down so I can keep it going.

But I digress.

Being sick has given me time to upload all of the pictures from vacation. Seeing the pictures after the fact makes me miss Nice again. It was wonderfully warm, incredibly relaxing and for the first time in my 5-year relationship with my husband, we didn't have a huge fight while travelling.

Now that we're back home I miss the fresh Brie and baguettes I bought at the market every day. I miss the fact that in order to do anything, I had to walk at least a few miles every day. I got to a point a day or two in that my legs would ache if I was sitting instead of walking. I miss the laize-faire French way of life and I really miss the warm, Mediterranean sun on my pale white face.

But thankfully, we're back home in our warm house where we understand each and every word that comes out of our mouth. We don't have to struggle to conjugate a verb or stand out like tourists.

I do plan to write more about the trip, but for now, Mother Nature is calling again and I must heed her call.

Until I can recount all of the adventures and misadventures of the trip, you'll have to settle for a photo album :-)

France Vacation

Bonjour!!!

"I have returned!" she says in an uber-exhausted but excited groan.

Alas my fair ladies and gents, I am back from France but under the weight of 300+ emails, blog posts and feed reads. I'll try to get some pictures and commentary up about the trip in the next day or so, but for now I wanted to let everyone know how glad I am to be back home...

I missed y'all!

301

This marks my 301st post on the Erin Experiment.

This also marks the pause on my blog where I stop for a week to go on vacation.

I don't have any guest writers filling in for me; however, I might find an Internet connection in France and blog from there.

When I return, I have some cool news to report (no, I'm not pregnant)...so please come back soon!!!!

Bloody Mary

Today I earned a platinum star for Stepmotherhood.

It was a crazy Monday like every other -- bad traffic, too much work to do, and an early exit for my stepdaughter's dentist appointment.

It was supposed to be a routine tooth extraction. I thought it was routine because I'd had 6-7 in my teens. I told my 12-year-old stepdaughter repeatedly how we'd be in and out in a little bit and that there was nothing to be scared of.

Obviously, those famous last words bit me in the ass.

I'd been in the waiting room when I heard the first scream. The receptionist looked at me and looked toward the room my stepdaughter was in.

The second, blood-curdling, scream forced me out of my waiting room chair and down the hallway to see what was going on.

My stepdaughter, it seems, wasn't taking too kindly to having her tooth pulled out.

She'd worked herself into a frenzy so much so that every time the dentist went in to extract, she'd curl up and scream so much that he wasn't able to do it in one yank. Instead, it took 90 minutes of piece-by-piece extraction followed with a tortured scream chaser.

At one point, it was so intense I had to sit down because I was starting to faint. It was at this point I texted my husband "get to dentist asap."

He was just leaving work so there wouldn't be any ASAP. Couple that with the dentist suggesting we move her to a more specialized dentist that evening because her behavior was so intense the current dentist wouldn't be able to finish and you had one freaked out stepmother.

But, I did what any mother would do. I bargained: "I'll go to Chanel just for you in France" or "We'll go get Starbucks after this" were my first tactics. Then, I let her swear. I told her that for as long as she was in the chair, she could say whatever she wanted and wouldn't get in trouble.

We cursed the tools, the tooth and whatever else we could find. The dentist, patient man that he was, returned to the room after a 15 minute hiatus to begin again.

This time, the mantra my stepdaughter and I created, "I hate the friggin' tooth" seemed to help. She was still scared but the hatred and anger seemed to curb her screams.

When the dentist went in for the final piece of the tooth, she screamed like I've never heard before. But it was over and she was free of the tooth.

As we left the office, with tears of joy in her eyes because she'd managed to endure the excruciating pain, she let out a "THAT BITCH IS GONE!!!" which I couldn't help but laugh about.

As we drove home, I told her that it's a good thing she had a stepmom. I've heard a lot of stories about biological moms who can't bear the sight of pain inflicted on their child. While I didn't want my stepdaughter to be in pain, I also realized if we stopped at the first scream, there would be even more pain for a longer period of time. Her father, true to form, was the voice inside both of our heads (and the cellphone) that told her she had to do it whether she wanted to or not.

But a stepmom....a stepmom can cry with you, let you swear and have her hand squeezed so tight that her wedding ring draws blood from her her pinky finger, but she's there -- blood, gauze and all...

My "new" wheels

I'm about 4 weeks late on showing everyone my the new wheels I bought a month ago:















Meet Granita, my Schwinn. We go everywhere together :-)

Parlez Vous Francais?

The husband and I are jetting off to France next week for a much-needed and well-deserved vacation.

Actually, we're not "jetting off"; more like cramming into a sardine can with America-hating French people and/or U.S.A-and-proud-of-it-loving Americans.

I'm getting a little nervous about the trip. While I'm looking forward to the trip and what I'm setting up in my mind as incomparable beauty, I'm totally freaking out about fitting in.

This coming from a person who likes to buck tradition and flip convention the bird.

I may be playing in to a stereotype, but I don't want to stick out as a stupid American. I want to look like a sophisticated, don't-blame-me-I-voted-for-the-other-guy American traveller.

My suitcase will be filled (as soon as I pack) with ballet flats, scarves, a couple pairs of jeans and every black shirt I own. While I paint my nails in the luscious OPI Lincoln Park After Dark (dark is the new red dontchya know?), I'll be listening to the 17 tracks of conversational french on my iPod...

"Regardez la menu..."
"Ou est la W.C?"
"Je m'appelle Erin, l'exquisite Americane"

I feel like I'm cramming for my French final and I haven't studied in 10 years.

To make it more intimidating, my husband is counting on me to translate for him during the trip. GREAAAATTTTT. So if we wind up slopping shit in a pig farm rather than climbing the road to Eze, it's my fault....

I may try to check in during my trip and write an impossibly cool blog post from an impossibly cool Internet cafe'....or I may just be holed up in the flat we're renting because no one will talk to le tres stupide Americane...

New Goal for 2009

My recent discovery that I can fit, again, into a denim jacket I haven't been able to squeeze into for 5 years has me re-evaluating my goals for next year.

Please add: Become a total (S)MILF to my 2009 Objectives

Thank you.

Score One for Me

In a recent e-mail my grand-boss (my boss's boss) observed to the team that a recent redesign was the reason for a spike in our website traffic.

The typical feminine-behavior would have been to let the e-mail slip under the cracks and passive-aggressively stir about it for a few days.

I decided to take a different route: the Man Route. I decided to toot my own horn and not let my hard work go un-noticed.

I responded back to the whole team that the reason for the spike in traffic was not the redesign but the fact that I have been using every SEO tactic I know for months which is why our traffic has increased.

Score one for me.

A funny thing happened on the way out of the bookstore

I've been on the lookout for Martha Beck's Finding Your Own North Star for about a year. Ever since the miscarrage last year and the subsequent depression that followed, I'd been desperate to find a sense of purpose.

I'd discovered this book on Oprah.com and set out to find it. This book was elusive. It was like the perfect black dress, no-calorie cheesecake and non-thong-invisible-panty all rolled into one. I could never seem to find this book no matter which bookstore I went to.

And then on Saturday, on Day 2 of my ME week, I found the book at my local Borders. I piled it on my stack of books, seriously contemplating its purchase.

When I opened up the book and started reading, I noticed something about myself. The introduction, where Martha begins asking readers questions about what they're looking for and why they can't seem to find it didn't feel like it applied to me anymore.

I flipped through the book, desperate to remember why I'd been so eager to find it and buy it.

This time last year, I was a mental mess. I needed a sense of purpose and a sense of direction in my recently upended life. I wanted to cling to something so badly I could almost taste it. I was in a job that wasn't going anywhere and in a fertility state that was stunted. My marriage was shaky and my relationship with my stepkids' mother was marginal. I needed a fairy godmother or a really inspirational author to pull me out of my mess.

The people who know me best would tell you I proceeded to do what I do best: kick myself in the butt and move past the hurdle. I started on fertility treatments and while they didn't work, by the time I was told they wouldn't work, I'd already moved on with my life. As far as my job, I taught myself how to write HTML and how to finagle my way around the Internet and landed a new position doing exactly what I wanted to do.

It dawned on me that I no longer felt the need to chase the elusive book or the happiness I thought it would help me find. I did it on my own.

It's weird -- being happy. It's almost like having a perfect figure or mile-long eyelashes -- you never know what to do with it when you have it.

Naming Rights: What To Call My Stepkids

It's no secret that my stepkids call me "Stepmom." Born out of confusion over what they call Mom and Dad versus me, my stepson started calling me Stepmom a couple of years ago.

I love my moniker. Other mothers may hate it, but like my pole dancing bruises, I wear it with pride.

In an interesting turn of events, I've started calling my stepchildren just that -- stepchildren. For some reason, calling them "my kids" almost feels uncomfortable.

For instance, when I needed to email my bosses today to remind them that I was working from home, I mentioned that it was my stepkids' day off school as the reason why.

This name change has me a little startled. Up until a few months ago, I had no problem calling them my kids (i.e, "I have to run to my son's baseball game" or "My daughter has to be at cheerleading.") Neither my husband nor his ex-wife would argue against my right to call my stepkids "my kids"; however, I can't bring myself to do it anymore.

It's as if I'm having the opposite reaction that my stepson did a few years ago -- I recognize that they aren't "my" kids in the sense that I didn't give birth to them. I love them and move heaven and earth whenever and whereever I can, but they aren't "MY" kids.

Right now, this seems like a stepmom crisis of epic proportions. Will they feel slighted when I don't call them "my son" or "my daughter" or do they care? When my stepson corrects anyone and everyone who calls me "Mom"; it feels natural to then call him my stepson.

Like training bras and Thomas the Tank Engine, I don't know if this is a phase I, or we, are going through. Will I bring myself to call them my son or my daughter again? At what point do you drop the step forever and take to calling them your kids?

I'm curious how other people refer to their stepchildren. Are they your kids? Your stepkids? or The little curmudgeons your husband procreated?

I am a Pole Goddess

Today was a banner day: I stepped on the scale and discovered I've lost 17 pounds in the last 6 weeks.

I also got promoted to Pole Goddess in my pole dancing class.

How does one master such a feat?

From one handed gravity-defiers to who-knew-my-arms-were-this-strong-pole climbs, I have mastered 20sexy, graceful pole tricks. I even have the bruised up right arm and inner thighs to prove it.

I start inverting next week.

Wish me luck.

All About E

In honor of my week alone, I'm declaring "All About Me" Week.


First up, a pathetic self-induced meme for those of you who don't know me or for those who are curious...


1. Middle name: Alissa
2. Favorite birthday cake flavor: Lemon
3. Most memorable thing about junior high: Strip Rock, Paper Scissors at a P-town 8th grade birthday bash (Thankfully, I've got mad R-P-S skills so my clothes stayed on)
4. Tattoos: Shamrock on my left hip; heart on my lower back which is covered up by the bigger Chinese Symbol for Strength tattoo I got last year
5. Greatest accomplishment in 2008 (personal): Extinguishing the need to keep searching for that thing that will make me happier.
6. Greatest accomplishment in 2008 (professional): Teaching myself about search engine optimization and social media and turning it into a new job and consulting gigs.
7. Opening song in the movie of my life: Move Along, All American Rejects
8. Star(s) who would play me in the movie of my life: Riki Lake or Sara Rue
9. Current Hair Color: dark brown with red lowlights
10. Current Ring Tone: When you were Young, The Killers
11. Favorite Videogame: Rockband
12: Personal Heros: My mom, my sister, my grandmother, Melinda Gates and Michelle Obama
13. The accessory my husband won't let me get rid of: my Tina Fey-inspired geek glasses
14. Most prized possession: My passport
15. Favorite vacation destination: Italy
16. Three places I want to visit before I die: Egypt, Greece, Sweeden
17. Word I can't stand: Moist
18. Word I seem to be addicted to saying: Panties
19. My favorite body part (on me): My shoulders
20. Plans for 2009: Invert on the damn pole, attend an Obama inaguration event and laugh myself silly.

Pita Pizzas: A Recipe the Whole Family Can Love

Yeah, I know. This isn't a recipe blog. I do, however, write about family issues and I will attest that everyone in my family -- the junk food-loving 7-year old, the healthy-eating 12-year-old, the food conscious 36-year old and the calorie-watching 32-year-old stepmom -- loves.

I present Pita Pizzas.

I know, hardly a newsflash of an idea, but seriously, it's a good way to eat healthy and make everyone happy.

Pita Pizzas
Wheat Pitas (I use a flat pita, not a pita pocket) In particular, I use Joseph's Flax Pita
Tomato Paste (not sauce, not marinara, straight up 59 cent tomato paste)
Reduced Fat Cheese
Toppings of Choice

Spread a teaspoon of tomato paste on the pita shell, sprinkle with cheese, top with goodies and bake at 400 degrees for 12 minutes or until golden brown.

Seriously -- everyone in my family loves these things and because of their size, you're never at risk for overeating. They're a pizza lover's dream come true.

I'd love to know if anyone else has tried these or if they try this recipe and love it, too -- let me know.

Me, the random note girl

Yesterday's post seemed kinda sad, so I'm following it up with some fun random notes and requests:

• I need outfit ideas for my photo shoot on Saturday. Any suggestions are appreciated.
• My mom is following me on Twitter. I love this woman. She created an account based on that little sidebar over there (I'm a social network floozy) that shows my Tweets. Next up: a blog and a Facebook page!
• I am planning on formalizing the social media consulting I do. Stay tuned for more info.
• My husband leaves for a week-long business trip tomorrow and the kids normally stay with their mom during that time. What this means is that I get a week-long session of "me" time...WOOT!!!!

That's it for now. I's got to launch a redesign.

Hi. It's Me. I haven't forgotten about you

Here's a random list of reasons why I haven't posted anything on the blog in a week:

• I was in New Orleans for a semi-work related thing this past weekend
• It was my stepson's birthday on Monday
• I'm currently rolling out a redesign of the website I work on
• I'm trying to workout as much as I can in preparation for my photo shoot on Saturday
• Our 18-year-old cat, Sydney, has reached the end of his nine lives. We're taking him in to be put down this afternoon.
• Work, work, work, work
• Life, life, life, life
• Not enough me time

Sorry loves. Will post more this weekend, once the husband has left on his week-long business trip and the kiddos are with their mom!

The Legend of St. Erin

Picture it: Two airports in the summer of 2004. A 28-year-old young woman is traveling with her boyfriend's 8-year old and a 2-year old on a bereavement fare. They barely make their flight out of Chicago at 7 a.m. and then sit in the Dallas airport for 8 hours trying to stay together on a flight to Portland. At 6 p.m., they're summoned to fly to Portland where the gate agent snidely informs the young woman that the three-some will have to sit apart from one another because the seats are not together.

"Fine, just get us on the flight," the young woman replies.

The young woman picks up the sleeping two-year old, his backpack, her carry-on and a handful of other travel necessities. They make their way down the jetway when a shift on the jetway causes her to trip, fall, drop the 2-year old and ram her knee into a metal plate.

The gate agent, fearful that the young woman would sue the airline, hurries to try and get the airport medic and to hold up the plane to examine the young woman and the child.

"No. Just get us on that plane," the young woman demands.

The three are allowed on the plane, where a flight attendant has rearranged three people in order for the not-quite-family to sit together.

At 9:30 p.m., they land. At 10:30 p.m. they make it to the house, where the young woman is christened "St. Erin."

Little did I know on that fateful trip in 2004 that I would set a precedent for my Stepmotherhood.

Whenever I tell other stepmoms some of the things I do to create the happy home you see from the curb, jaws inevitably drop.

"No way, I could or would never do that," I hear most stepmoms say. They're usually referring to the immense amount of driving or leaving early from work I do when my husband or his ex wife cannot get to the kids in time.

"He does what? And you let him get away with that?" is another response I often hear as it relates to my husband and some of his quirky behaviors as it relates to his "first family."

"And what about you?" Is always a shoe-in for the inevitable question to cap off what seems like an inordinate amount of "Oh my God's" or "I couldn't do that's."

Rest assured, my friends, I'm taken care of.

My life, specifically my stepmom life, is a juxtaposition of things I thought I'd never do and things I feel extremely fulfilled about for having done.

My husband's grandmother gave what I believe was the warmest, most heart-felt speech at our wedding (a close second is my husband's best friend's speech that revealed what my husband thought of me before he really knew me. Apparently, I was "a total hottie.") During her speech, my husband's grandmother extolled all of the virtues she respected about me: my loyalty, my ability to put other people first but not lose sight of myself, my moxy and my character. She told my husband, in front of our friends and family, that he was "damn lucky to have St. Erin on his side" and that if he remembers one thing in life, remember how special your wife is for what she's done for your life."

Her speech was the only one I teared up after.

She was right -- and still is. As a stepmother, and a wife, I defy society-perpetuated rules on a daily basis. I sign assignment notebooks, call coaches, arrange transportation, plan birthday parties and hang out with ex-wives without so much as flinching an eye.

I never tire of hearing the virtues of St. Erin when I talk to my husband's grandmother. Aside from my mother, she's one of the only people in my life that realizes my blended life isn't a bed of roses and that it takes a lot of character to be a positive role model when you really just want to throw a temper tantrum like everyone is.

That Erin: she was, and still is, a bit of saint.

How weight loss is like stepparenting

Now that I frequent the church of healthy lifestyle, I've found a few similarities between weight loss and stepparenting:

1. The beginning is always the hardest. For the first two days -- when I reduced my calorie intake -- I felt like I was going to throw up all the time. I had been consuming more food than I should have for God knows how long and my body was in party mode. I needed to wrangle it back in and reduce calories. Becoming part of my blended family was very similar. In the beginning I always felt sick and worried that I wasn't doing it right. I was used to my single girl ways and wasn't sure if I'd be able to stick it out long enough to see any results.
2. Once you see a result, you feel like you can do anything. When my scale showed a 5 pound drop the first 10 days, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. The workouts and the healthier eating had made an impact and I was reaping the reward of a trimmer waistline. The same thing goes for stepparenting. The first time my soon-to-be stepdaughter hugged me or my soon-to-be-stepson cuddled with me, I felt like I'd had an "in" and that this wouldn't be so difficult after all.
3. You will be challenged. I'm starting on week five of my new lifestyle. In the four weeks I've done this I've lost 11 pounds...I think. The morning after I'd had a whirlwind fitness weekend, my scale showed a one pound drop the first time I got on and then jumped up two pounds in the two other times I'd gotten on that same morning. I'd actually done things that morning that should have made the number go down but it went up. Needless to say, the scale is broken. Add to the fact that I'm supposed to rest this week because of my knee and I'm feeling broken and disappointed that I may never lose more weight. Any weight loss book would call this a challenge. Your commitment to this lifestyle is being challenged. Your body (or your mind) wants to make sure you aren't pussyfooting around this commitment you're trying to make. You will make strides in your blended life. You will move one step forward and two steps back at times. You will feel disappointed. But trust me, you'll get past it.
4. You will hit a plateau. Sometimes you feel like you're making progress and then all of a sudden, it stops. You haven't changed anything and you've been moving through life like a saint, yet you feel stuck. Welcome to the club. As far as weight loss is concerned, the advice is to check how your clothes are fitting. The scale may not be moving but your clothes are starting to fall off. You're growing muscles and those muscles are starting to fight hard in the battle of the bulge. With the blended family life, you may feel like you're making progress and BAM -- you've hit a wall. The same advice applies: stop and take a look at what else is starting to work better. You may be fighting more or the chores may have fallen by the way-side but the kids don't call you "Dad's wife" anymore or they actually look at you when you're talking.
5. You have to be patient yet still work hard every single day. This is probably the toughest pill to swallow whether you're talking about weight loss or blended family life. With weight loss, you may want to become reacquainted with a svelte, salty french fry or you may not want to hit the gym nearly every day, but you have to. These changes won't work if you don't. Same with blended life. You may not want to play nice with the biological mom or you may not want to give your stepkids a hug, but you do it because you're the bigger person and in the end, it really will make a difference.

I've thought of five comparisons and I'm sure there's more. If anyone has any other comparisons to throw in...please don't be shy