5 Ways to Get the Most "Out" of Closet Organization

Before summer fully unwinds, and fall peeks its head around the corner, now is a great time to tackle that long avoided household to-do list. One of the many projects I had on my to-do list this summer was to start a mini clean sweep on our closets before our hectic fall schedule sets in. No matter which closet you decide to tackle first - bedroom, linen or hall - here are a few simple steps to get you started:

1. Clean Out - Start by removing everything in your closet. Yes, everything! Then take the time to really clean it by vacuuming dust bunnies, small cobwebs and shelves. Dust mites can cause allergies and destroy fabric.
2. Sort Out - Have three bags, boxes or storage bins ready and begin sorting before you put anything back in the closet: one for trash (dry cleaning bags, wire hangers, damaged items), one for donations (do you really need that 80's jean jacket?), and one for seasonal items or items that no longer fit (especially for fast growing kids!). Remember to wash or dry clean any clothes before storing them because make-up, antiperspirant and cologne can attract insects.
3. Plan Out - Before putting anything back in the closet, decide if you have the right tools for the new space. You don't have to spend a lot of money to organize simply. Better yet, see if you have plastic containers, wicker baskets or valet hooks somewhere else that could be used here instead. Re-purposing is always better for the environment and cheaper for you! If you need new organization supplies, check out container stores such as Space Savers or The Container Store - or think outside the box (ha-ha) and visit Ikea, Target or Pottery Barn for fun alternatives in all price ranges.
4. Space Out - Every thing has its own space...but it doesn't have to be in this closet! If it no longer makes functional sense to store an item in a certain location or with the other items, simply find a better place. Clothes closets: organize first by function (sweaters with sweaters, pants with pants) and then by color (think ROY G BIV). This makes finding clothes easier. Remember to wash any new clothes or seasonal clothes that you bring into the closet at this time. Linen closets: organize by function (bath towels, wash clothes and hand towels together; band-aids, thermometers and cough syrup together). Place items used least on the highest shelves, and products used most at eye level or lower. Remember to practice safety in a home with pets or children - place cleaners, medicines, fire extinguishers, sewing supplies or other dangerous items on higher shelves away from curious little fingers!
5. Shout Out - As in, give yourself a shout out and a pat on the back for a job well done! Don't try to tackle more than one closet per day. It's better to finish the job right and in one day than to leave a mess for weeks. Pace yourself. Then, take time to celebrate the zen of your clean closet (and reduced stress level!) with a glass of wine or a hot bath!

Happy organizing my friends!

A prayer for the children, not for Michael Jackson

I'm sitting here at my computer (obviously), after a very long day, and a very long week for that matter. All I want to do is to curl up in bed, with my tummy that's still rumbly, and start my new book, "Before the Storm" by the amazingly gifted Diane Chamberlain.

I feel compelled though to blog first about a storm that's brewing on Facebook: there seems to be two camps of thought about the death of Michael Jackson. Either 1) People are lamenting the loss of a great pop music icon and shedding tears upon tears with status updates that include song lyrics and tearful good-byes, or 2) People are saying good riddance to a child molester, let's not waste any more time and energy talking about him.

The sad truth, that I hate to admit today, is that when I was a child, I loved Michael Jackson. My friend Tina and I lip-synced and danced to "Beat It" in the fifth grade talent show, wearing the black pleather pants my mom sewed for us, and a shiny black pull-over vest with strategically placed zippers from Debs (shout out to all you New Yorkers who remember the store Debs!). While making our back drop scenery for the talent show, Tina and I got into a paint fight with brick read paint, and our foot prints are still on her parent's garage floor to this day.

We also drew pictures of Michael Jackson, collected magazines and posters, wore white gloves, sold bagged pop-corn door-to-door to earn enough money to buy his 45's, and collected every single trading card in the collection. Remember those? I was so excited when I got the Michael Jackson barbie-like doll for a birthday gift. I still have the original one, but never kept the box. Who knew back then that one day there would be an e-Bay in which to make a fortune off selling such things? As a side note, much to my disgust, at the time of this blog, there are now 125 Michael Jackson items on sale on e-Bay posted after his death was announced earlier.

So despite all of my beloved childhood memories that are forever mingled with Michael Jackson, I can't help but feel dismayed by the open grief over his death. Yes, I understand that he was some one's child, some one's friend, some one's father. And yes, I appreciate the ginormous impact he's had on pop music and the music and dancing scene in general - I mean, c'mon, who didn't learn to do the moonwalk at some point?

But we are forgetting a few quiet people in the midst of today's celebratory memorial: the victims of child abuse. I understand that in a court of law, he was not convicted. I understand that there are many people who believe he is truly innocent. But there are also children who were harmed irrevocably as the results of his inappropriate actions one way or the other.

In my heart, I believe he is guilty of the multiple charges that were brought against him by so many children. He may be the King of Pop, but he was also a man who clearly suffered from Peter Pan Syndrome in addition to physical and emotional abuse by his family. He never had a chance to live a normal life, thrust into stardom at such an early age, and coming from such a dysfunctional family. Perhaps this is why he went on to abuse children himself. We may never really know the whole truth, though evidence against him seemed damning, including the child pornography seized from his bathroom along with boys underwear the size of which matched one of his accused victims.

I am not a judge, simply an observer, writer and mother with strong feelings against child molestation and pedophilia. Here's what you need to know about childhood sexual abuse, according to the National Alert Registry:

• 1:4 girls will be molested by the time they turn 18 and 1:6 boys will be. These statistics, while staggering, aren't even accurate because so many cases go unreported.
• A standard pedophile molesting girls will molest 50 before being caught.
• A standard pedophile molesting boys will molest 150 boys, and commit up to 280 sexual crimes in his lifetime.
• Most sexual abuse happens to children between the ages of 7 to 13.
• There are over 491,720 registered sex offenders in the US.
• Molesters known by the family or victim are most common, and "Acquaintance Molestation" accounts for 70-90% of reported cases.

As a parent, these numbers are terrifying. If you can put yourself in those boys' shoes for just a moment and imagine the anguish they faced and the courage they displayed by coming forward and telling their story, perhaps we wouldn't be so quick to celebrate the man accused.

Regardless of your own beliefs about Michael Jackson's guilt or innocence, protect your children. Know who they are with and what they are doing. Another statistic from darkness to light says that 1:5 children are solicited sexually while on the Internet. Don't be afraid to monitor and block their usage. It's not an invasion of privacy, or a breech of trust. It's protection, pure and simple.

According to statistics, only 1-4% of molestation allegations are fabricated, and most children will never tell anyone of the abuse under any circumstances - mostly out of fear, embarrassment or shame. Many of these children grow up to face health and behavioral problems, drug and alcohol abuse, teenage pregnancy and promiscuity, or perpetuate criminal acts themselves. A staggering 75% of serial rapists report that they were sexually abused themselves.

The cycle has to stop some where, some time. We owe it to our kids, our neighbors' kids, our friends' kids, and all the children of the world who cannot protect themselves to stop the violence committed against them. Above all else, please listen to any child who finds the voice and courage to speak out against their abuser. They need an advocate in their corner.

So today, let's not glorify a man who in all likelihood was a pedophile. Instead, let's bow our heads and say a prayer for the innocent children left in his wake.

Don't focus on the rocks

I often read other people's blogs and question whether they care what anyone else in the world thinks of their writing. Some of it is just so damn trivial and pointless. I guess I come from an old school belief of "unless you have something important to say (or write about), don't bother" - which makes it kind of hard as a blogger to get fresh content on my site. I was shocked when I realized that the last time I had written was in March. Oh, I write in my journal, and my son Easy E's journal. I write letters out the whazoo to friends and family. I'm great at promoting another writer on Facebook (okay, so I'm a little obsessed with Kevin Alexander!). But hey, at least he has funny and interesting things to write about!

These past few weeks since my last blog have been a little chaotic. We decided to put baby making on hold (well, not all aspects of baby making, just the actual creating of another life) for the next few months as we plan our much anticipated trip to Ireland this summer. As a result, I decided to get back into the best shape of my life. So, I've lost 25 pounds and am starting to exercise five or six days a week. During this time, we also particiapted in a charity walk in honor of my father who passed away from ALS in 2000. I was proud of our accomplishments as a team, but I still carry tremendous sadness and grief over his early passing. We're also tearing up our back yard to make a play area for my son and his friends, because there's nothing like adding chaos to an already hectic existance to make things seem even sunnier. On top of that, my little sister's in the hospital again, we're waiting for my Gramma to get some tests done to determine how her kidneys and throat are faring, a dear friend's mother just had heart surgery and is in critical condition, and I decided now was the right time to start potty training our son.

So, there's a lot going on, just not a lot I've wanted to comment on. This past month has been a sort of hybernation period for me. Head down, take care of business. But while promoting this other writer recently, it made me remember how much I love to write and how I wont be happy until I get my darn kids' book published. So, my goal is to blog or write something creative for myself at least once a week, so that my mind doesn't turn to complete mush from repeadly singing the theme song to Bob the Builder (Yes We Can!).

In the meantime, I'm just so tired of gloom and doom. I believe your circumstances are what you make of them. The more you focus on the negative, the more negative energy you draw to yourself. I went to a retreat once with my mother. There, they hung a large banner behind the stage that read, "You are exactly where you choose to be in life" (or something to that effect). A person's natural defense is to say, "Wait, no. I didn't choose to have certain things happen to me. I can't control x, y or z. This is being done to me." But when you sit and really examine your situation, you often realize how much truly is in your control. You bring into your life that which you focus on and where you put your energy.

It's kind of like when my husband and I took white water kayak lessons and our instructor told us not to look at the rock in the middle of the river. If you focus on the rock, sure enough, you'll become one with that rock (and trust me, that's not in a good Buddah kind of way). That doesn't mean you don't see the rock. You just have to focus ahead - on your path down the river - to where you want your kayak to go. Your destination. If you continue to look in that direction, instead of where you don't want to go, you will surely get there quicker, easier, and with fewer collisions.

And your spirit will thank you too.

Today, I am thankful for my son who makes me laugh, my husband who rubs my tired feet after exercising, my ability to bring images and stories to life, my health which is getting better every day, for a wonderful community of friends and writers who keep me inspired, a home with a beautiful yard that allows me to give my son a generous play area, and my one sugar-free jello treat I can have each night with a small scoop of Cool Whip Light. Hey, it's the small things!

Now's a good time to remember what we're most thankful for, and to ask yourself: In my life, what am I looking at - the river ahead or the rock?*

* Or, as George might say: "Watch out for that tree!"

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine wanting to tell your spouse or children that you love them, but can't because your voice no longer works? Can you imagine having a scratch, but you can't get to it, or tell anyone that you have an itch, because your arms and voice no longer work? Can you imagine needing a feeding tube to eat, because you can no longer swallow? Can you imagine being trapped inside yourself, unable to move, breathe, eat, walk, talk or communicate - except maybe with your eyes?

That's how my father died when he was 49.

The culprit was Lou Gehrig's Disease, also known as ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis).

My father's been on my mind a lot recently. He's always in my heart and in my memories, but certain times in my life drive him to the forefront of my life like a punch in the stomach. It takes the wind out of me remembering that he's no longer here in person.

My father and I grew distant in my teen and early adult years. Physical distance and basic teenage bullshit separated us for close to seven years. Imagine my anguish when I finally grew up and wanted to reconcile, only to find out my father had a fatal disease that would likely kill him in two to five years (on average)? Imagine my anguish, again, when the son of a bitch [ALS] took him in less than two years.

I have many regrets in life over this. My father never got to walk me down the isle. He never met his grandson. I never got to know all the things about him that still keep me up to this day. My step mother still answers questions about him for me, like what was his favorite number? 55. What was his favorite color? Green. Favorite team? Fighting Irish - of course! And there's an infamous story about the time he ate a bad clam at the Clam Bar that I'll never hear him tell. And if you've never heard an Irishman tell a tale of biblical proportions (as they all turn out to be), you're missing out!

This time of year is particularly hard for me. Each spring I participate in the ALS Association's "Walk to D'Feet ALS" in memory of my dad. Then, this June would have been his 58th birthday, had he not died when he was only 49. And of all days to die, he passed away on the 4th of July. Going out with a bang, I suppose, is the only way for a good Irishman to go!

It's just a lot to handle in one season. On the flip side, one of my favorite parts of this time of year is what I get through fund raising. No, it's not just about the money (though, I am very grateful for every donation and you can click here to visit my team fundraising page!). When I fundraise, I often get personal letters and notes from family and friends about my father. For a girl who grew up missing a lot about her father, these are like gold to me. Personal stories of a memory shared, an image of a man loved and missed by many. It's like Christmas in April and is my saving grace during these wretched few months.

I also, unfortunately, get many stories from friends about their own brushes with ALS. While it's a wonderful thing that we're raising awareness, it never ceases to amaze me at the increase in personal lives touched by ALS, when just a few years ago most people had never heard of it. Just this spring alone, I've learned of a friend's uncle with ALS; a friend who lost a friend to ALS last year; a friend's sister who tutors for a family whose father has ALS; and a friend whose co-worker just learned of his diagnosis.

Just this is too many, and there are many more stories out there. The sad reality is that each of these people will die soon. And this, my friend, is why ALS sucks. This is what motivates me to help raise money for the cause each year. This isn't a fundraising plea (seriously), it's just to help drive further awareness for a tragic disease that has a way to personal impact on the lives of everyone it touches.

If you know someone who has ALS, please encourage them to reach out to the ALS Association nationally, or the Jim Catfish Hunter Chapter in NC, for emotional support, information, resources and communication tools, and financial assistance. They do not need to fight this fight alone.

In the meantime, I will imagine a day when ALS doesn't equal a death sentence.

The Special of Nothingness

This week has gone by in a whirly-dervish blur of activities including eye surgery, pre-school tours, building out my freelance Web site, my son's traumatic (for me) first pediatric dental appointment, obscene amounts of cat poop, and play dates at the park. (Note: I know 'whirly-dervish' is not the proper usage of the noun 'whirling dervish', but I like using it as a verb. It makes me smile. So deal. Also, to retain readers, I will abstain from sharing what really happened behind the scenes with the cat poop.)

Despite the hectic week, there have been snapshots of pure joy for me, in those moments when my family and I are doing nothing particularly special, but my life feels complete just the same. I can't help but think of these moments with Valentine's Day just around the corner.

My husband and I don't really celebrate Valentine's Day as a commercial holiday. We do exchange cards, but not gifts. All I want is to spend time with him and our son Evan...to make memories together instead of adding more 'things' to our lives - which we don't really need any ways (well, except for a dishwasher; we may get a sexy, new Valentine's Day dishwasher!). It's not the specific day that matters to me. It's these moments of doing nothing with my family that mean everything.

Take, for example, my husband D who took off work Monday to drive me to my eye doctor for out-patient eye surgery. It wasn't too bad. Heck, I didn't even really need drugs. I was, however, grateful for my left-over Valium from my previous eye surgery. There's nothing like a little needle to the eye ball to make a girl anxious! (By the way, in case you're curious, the eye numbing shot was far worse than my spinal tap for my c-section!)

Despite D being hugely busy at work, he never made me feel bad for needing his presence, or his help, getting me through my traumatic afternoon. He never even cracked a joke after the sexy eye patch came off, even though I looked like I had gone a few rounds with Mohammad Ali.

Then there's our son Easy (short for one of his first nicknames Easy E; hey, it's either that, Monkey, or Peanut. I call him all of those pet names, but let's be honest, Easy is the quickest to type!). Easy's the most amazing creature on the planet. I love how he teaches me new things every day. This week, we've had to make some substantial changes to his use of his sippy cup (which the dentist abhorrently referred to as a "toddler bottle"). Granted, the first night was rough, going to bed without his beloved sippy of water. Selfishly, we were worried about how many times we'd wake up in the middle of the night to the chimes of "juice please!" But look at the beauty of this: even when he's upset, my son has the grace to ask for juice "please."

I was also moved while playing at the park with Easy this week. His personality is an interesting mix between cautious and climbing dare-devil. I love seeing him go after something he wants, and then my heart breaks just a little when I can see fear preventing him from seizing the prize. Yet on Thursday, he climbed all the way to the top of the massive jungle gym, all by himself; despite his disinterest in heights, he then walked across the bridge, suspended high in the air. He looked down at me with huge dimples, proud, and stuck his fist out between the bars for me to reward him with 'knucks'! I was so happy for him that he moved past his fear and experienced something so fun and rewarding.

I thought again about love and fear this week while reading PS, I Love You, by Cecilia Ahern. This is one of my favorite movies (and not just because of the two yummy leading men), so I decided to break down and read the book. I say "break down" only because, if you've seen the movie, you know how incredibly sad it is. The book doesn't disappoint, with a rare mix of heart ache and intense love. I was moved by one particular section early in the book:

"Growing older became something he wanted desperately to accomplish, rather than merely a dreaded inevitability. How presumptuous they both had been never to consider growing old as an achievement and a challenge. Aging was something they'd both wanted so much to avoid."

It reminds me, gently, that days are fleeting. Our time here with our loved ones should never be taken for granted. And to cherish the act of aging with a loved one, because as Holly learns in the book, it's better than the alternative. Our days may be filled with nothing special, but for each of us, therein lies the beauty.

Put down the mascara and love yourself, inadequately short lashes and all

Let me start by saying, that yes, while I am a feminist, I am not a militant feminist. By most standards, I'm opposed to such blind followership of any movement or group. I love freedom of thought, expression, and speech. I appreciate the ability to tirelessly question the institution, instead of relying on old beliefs and answers just because that's what's been handed down to us for generations. That said, I do believe in building women up instead of tearing them down.

Though we've socially and culturally oppressed and demeaned women for centuries, we have also come a long way as a society. Women across the world are finding their strength and power again. That's why, when I see something that takes us back a step, it makes me furious. Furious enough to blog about mascara.

Come again, you might be thinking. Yes, mascara.

In this case: Stiletto Mascara by Maybelline. Really? Yes, really.


I was watching the Bachelor last night. I know. Hardly a feminist show when a bunch of women throw themselves at a man to complete themselves and live happily ever after. But hey, like I confessed, I'm not militant. I, like any girl, do have my guilty pleasures.


During the Bachelor, a commercial for Maybelline's Stiletto Mascara comes on. I have to admit, the ad is sexy. I sit up and take notice. As a writer and marketer, who loves and believes in the power in branding, this ad concept is Genius (with a capital G, because it's so damn spanking smart! Look at this packaging. I could weep!). It's a mascara that does for your eye lashes what stilettos do for your legs. Think: miles and miles of unforgettable lashes!

I was with them, right until the end. That's when they showed this model wearing the mascara, and it was obvious that her lashes were not even real. I'm sorry, but no amount of mascara will take the average consumer's eyelashes and bring them from a normal length to so freakishly long they practically touch your eye brows. Yes, they were that long and thick in the commercial. It was like seeing a set of dark black daddy long legs on this woman's eyes.

As I'm watching this, here's what I'm thinking: advertisers and marketers have been telling us for years that we're not good enough the way we are. They sell us exercise equipment to help us change our bodies. They give us diet tips and tricks: 15 minutes a week and you too can have perfect abs! When that doesn't work, here are some Spanx (which I actually love, by the way). If that's not enough, let's whack it off with a knife! That makes bloody sense. Now, onto the hair. Surely we must want it glossier, richer, blonder, longer. But definitely, definitely not gray!

And our faces. They aren't beautiful enough. We need to plaster them with layers of creams to prevent wrinkles, firming lotion to give us back our youth, and make up to hide blemishes and flaws. Can't have those nasty flaws! While we're at it, let's inject our lips to give us a pout we wish we had been born with, but, not to worry! We can buy one!

It seems like there is not a place left on a woman that hasn't been marketed to, that hasn't been told, "You're good enough just as you are." Just when I thought I'd seen it all, now I have to worry about inadequate lash length?

For God's sake. Really?

One of my favorite kids' books is "I Like Me," by Nancy Carlson. I'm reading it right now to my two year old son who says "Like Me!" The moral of the story is that it's okay to like yourself, exactly as you are. You can love your round tummy, curly tail, and tiny little feet.

When they are little, we try so hard to make our kids believe they are special and perfect just as they are. And they are! So why then, at a cruelly young age, do we allow others to systematically start tearing down their self-confidence? Our self-confidence? We're bombarded with messages that we're not good enough. We need to be faster, stronger, thinner, prettier, taller, and yes, have longer lashes.

When will this insanity stop?

Don't get me wrong. I love to try new product as much as the next girl. I actually wear Maybelline's Define-a-lash Mascara. As a marketer, I understand that products fill a need. Surely, they wouldn't create lash lengthing mascara if someone didn't need it, right? Wrong. If they create it, and make us believe that we have inadequately short eye lashes, we'll come running and pushing into the Walmarts and Targets across the country, demanding our new Lash Stiletto Mascara!

This rant isn't really just about mascara. It's about me becoming tired of women and girls constantly being told we're not good enough. We are. We are perfect exactly as God made us. I wish, truly desire, that we will all put down the make up, the dyes, the gels, the botox - and slowly back away from the televisions and magazines for a while. Pick up a copy of Nancy Carlson's book again, or for the first time. Discover, with child-like appreciation, everything you'd forgotten that you used to love about yourself. I grant you permission: love yourself again!

Sleepy little master: or, this is your captain speaking!

My two little sleepy heads are resting peacefully, at 10:25 am. Since the birth of my son, I have not been able to sleep in this late. Not that I wouldn't love to give it the old college try, but I physically cannot sleep that long any more. My husband, on the other hand, who gets an average of 5 hours of sleep a night, has no problem sleeping in on the weekend. Cheers to that, I say! And damn, but I wish I could.

What a weird morning. Our son, I call him "Easy", woke us up at 8:10 to the magical music from his shape-sorting plane. I hear, "This is your captain speaking" in an un-naturally chipper voice. Roll over, groan (me). I think, I'll just give Easy a few minutes to really wake up and be happy, then I'll go get him. Snore (me).

10:04 am. "This is your captain speaking." Why yes, yes it is Master Easy. I had jolted out of my half in/half out sleeping cycle at this point, panicked because I had actually fallen back to sleep so hard. Must be really tired. I can't believe he let me go back to sleep until 10! Yippee. Guess I can sleep that late sometimes afterall.

I guess it's time to go get my little monkey up. I take my morning vitamins, check e-mail and Facebook quickly (because there's nothing like priorities), tell my hubby not to worry, he can go back to sleep. I'll go get our son (so big of me).

Then, the strangest thing happens as I'm sitting here in my office, which is on the other side of the wall from Easy's crib. I can hear every noise, every giggle, every word, every shape sliding into it's proper opening into the plane. "This is your captain speaking." Then...silence. Uh. Silence? What's going on in there?

I wait a moment. I better go get him up...after I read my friend Leslie's 25 Random Things list. I know he's okay. But it took Leslie two whole days to do this list. She hates lists!

5 minutes later I head into Easy's room. Holy moly (sorry, I just like this word!), there's my precious little angel - sleeping again! At 10:25 am. He never even stirred when I opened the door and sauntered in proudly, as if to say, "Now serving Master Easy, juice for one!"

The little booger's sleeping again! Secretly, I'm delighted of course. Our in-laws are here for a visit this weekend, and we are going shopping for a dishwasher today. We were planning on letting Easy skip his nap (which he has been doing on his own lately any how!) so he could spend the whole day with Gramma and Grandpa. Little does he know, he fell right into our genius plan!

This is going to make for a very interesting day. I better start researching dishwashers while the little Master sleeps. 10:46 am.