We may have to cross Harvard off the list of future colleges! My four year old has taken rhyming to new heights. She jumped on the bed Wednesday morning. Mom, what rhymes with head!?

Right. That’s super!? I say.

She slides onto the rug next to the bed. Rug? What rhymes with rug, Mommy? She spits out her own answer. I nod. Okay, sure kug rhymes with rug? She trots into her bedroom. I drag myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Just as the suds in my mouth she pushes the door open. Mommy, door, what rhymes with door? I mumble some resemblance of floor? I can see the wheels turning in her head. Mommy? Be careful. Rhyming can be dangerous.

Don’t play this game in public.

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You can figure out a guy’s personality his way by what his “go-to” drink is. So, watch and listen next time you sit at the bar, cross you legs, and dive into that peanut and cashew bowl.

If you hear,

“Excuse me,” He eases up to the bar and says”

“Martini, please.”

Next, he?ll say, “Hey, beautiful, where have you been all my life.” A martini guy is a player. He’s suave and debonair, he has charming lines makes you laugh, well, most of the time. He has friends who sail: he knows which champagne goes with oysters; and, his sister-in-law’s brother’s cousin lives the next street over from Jennifer Aniston. Another guy slides up behind your bar chair. His breath smells like onions.

“Scotch and water.”

He taps his fingers on the bar, swirls the ice cubes, and winks. He then pulls out his cigar, and talks to your boobs. ?His moustache gets wet when he drinks. Meanwhile Mr.Jeans and polo shirt leans in and smiles.

“Cabernet.”

He wears brown leather shoes, and listens to the Dave Matthews band on his Ipod?not at the bar, of course. He’ll ask you questions about tasty restaurants in town. He likes to backpack in the White Mountains and can do the black diamond runs and tells you just that. Then there’s…

“Your choice..”

This guy pulls wrinkled money from the front pocket of his jeans. He is the Sports Channel. My team lost today. Manager should have pulled the pitcher after the fifth. He pops nuts in his mouth, but misses a couple. They fall in your purse tucked next to your leg.

Oooh watch out another one is right behind you— Pay attention to what he drinks and make your decision about whether you are going to order something with those peanuts and cashews or head for the door.

  Filed under: Chick on the go, Chick-ism, Stuff that floats through this chick?s mind. by  Gwen  No Comments »

We are proud to announce a contest for the Cutest “Chickie” on the Block. Submit your little ones wearing Simply Chickie designs (on Facebook or via email) and on June 30, 2010 we will crown the winner.

Our Cutest “Chickie” will receive a basket of Simply Chickie and organic skin care products valued at $500 and will be profiled on our website wearing Gwen’s latest designs! There’s no time to waste so get your camera and your cutie and start submitting today!

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So much can be told from a guy’s shoes. They are what he stands in and stands for.

Sneakers suggest a guy is too casual, and that he works so much that he?never contemplates the thought of going out on the town. He thinks he will meet his dream girl in the supermarket over the frozen food section or while picking up a pizza. A bar and the frozen food section are one and the same it’s where one goes to pick up stuff at night.

Now, shoes that are too black and too shiny indicate he’s narcissistic. But, a nice pair of slightly worn leather kicks portend that he loves slowly and completely. He’ll make coffee in the morning.

  Filed under: Chick on the go, Stuff that floats through this chick?s mind. by  Gwen  No Comments »

Fast food ahhhh! I don’t drive through the golden arches, my daughter doesn’t have Dunkin Donut holes on the weekend, and what does a bell have to do with a taco?

But, twice a year I’m naughty.

I visit my brother in Atlanta. When the airplane wheels touch the ground and the wings level off, I begin thinking of wings attached to chicken and I plan my first taste of a succulent chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and lemonade at Chick-fil-A.

I?m the first to buy at my local farmer’s market even getting the heirloom chicken there, the carrots, the cucumbers, the creamy freshly made yogurt but when I get on that Atlanta destination flight all reason flies out of the plane when the stewardess? closes the door. I become a different person a  butter-roasted juicy chicken sandwich seeking person.

Upon entering the Atlanta airport tram, I spy my first red and white Chick-fil-A wrapper, and my heart beats faster.

My brother picks me up at the airport?and I smile at the Chick-fil-A billboard on the highway. When did you last have a chicken sandwich, bro?
He furrows his brow hummm. Last week, I think.
He doesn’t know how could he not know!
I get to his house. Hug his wife. Unpack my clothes. So, I lean on his black kitchen counter, Any chance I could have the keys
Yeah, sure. You want me to get something for you He offers.
No, just thought I’d head out for a few minutes. I’ll be right back. Do you remember how to get where you are going My sister-in-law asks. I nod and extend my hand for the key drop.

As I drive up route 140, I swear warm chicken smelling fingers reach toward me to guide my way. At last the bright red Chick-fil-A sign welcomes me like an angel. I pull behind the trail of cars that awaits bliss in front of me. I gnaw a left hand nail in anticipation.
“May I help you,” I think the man inside the intercom says I love you. “Number one combo, please.”
My car eases toward the take-out window.
The window slides open.
The exchange occurs.
I feel and smell the golden package in my lap.
I can wait no longer. I plunge my hand into the paper bag, rip open the sandwich bag and chomp on the chicken. Each chew releases tingles on my tongue?and the fries are such happy companions to my chicken.

So much fast love wrapped in such a small red package.

  Filed under: Chick on the go, Chick-ism, Stuff that floats through this chick?s mind. by  Gwen  No Comments »

My relationship theory goes like this the distance a couple sits apart from each other in public has everything to do with how much they are together.

If they are in the first phase?the lust phase, they use no less than four touch points:

–the shoulders,

–the hands,

–the hips.

Their feet are definitely kissing.

Don?t bother saying excuse me. Neither love bird will hear you.

Two touch points, the shoulders and the knees, mean they have entered the love phase.

They don’t know what’s happening or where they are going, but they enjoy every minute of their bliss.

Both will acknowledge your presence, and they will smile simultaneously. Whatever conversation you choose to have with both or just one (good luck), optimism will rain down on you. You will believe that anything is possible?even the odd notion that toothpaste can be stuffed back into the tube.

When a couple enters the comfort stage, they may not touch at all.

In fact, one may be talking to the bartender while the other one discusses politics with a stranger. Their eyes reveal though; there is a deep knowing.

You can have an in depth conversation with one of the members of the duo and come away enlightened especially after the sharing of a good Tuscan wine. You will even know the best castle to explore while visiting Austria.

Questions have been answered by this couple. Eyelids blink slowly.

They?ve come upon a secret.

A together feeling a together secret no more performances are necessary.

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?

Coffee

?

You know that feeling?

?

That feeling you get when your friend just finishes his cup of coffee while sitting at your

kitchen counter?

?

He shifts on his stool in front of you, and?takes a breath?

and you ask,

?

?You want some more? Some coffee??

and you wait?

?

for another second?

but the time seems to stretch for a minute and then another minute and your head fills up.

?

What if he says, ?No.?

?

You will then have to take a shower and get ready for the day?

?

Find the unwrinkled brown corduroys?they are the only pants that fit because you had too much of your mom?s cheesecake last week; dig out matching socks; find both pads for your bra, search through the closet for the thick brown sweater, and brush your teeth which will remind you to clean the green toothpaste off the faucet handle that your three year old spit on two days ago.

?

And, oh yeah, you forgot to plug your phone in?the charge is low?so you have to remember to plug it into the car connection?so you can talk all day?

?

to everyone.

?

You left the letters on the car seat without stamps?so you have to get the stamps at the post office and there better not be a line because you don?t have time to stand in that long line with all the people picking their nose, rolling their eyes, and shifting their hips waiting and waiting and waiting in front of you.

?

But instead?

he says,

?

?Yes. Yes, I?d like some more. Fill it to the top.?

?

You breathe again. Take the top off the coffee pot and pour.

Pour until the brown liquid just licks the top of his cup.

?You want some more?

?Cream too???

right??

  Filed under: Stuff that floats through this chick?s mind. by  Gwen  1 Comment »

Grandmothers are like Sweden.

Sweden is a country that rocks?fashionable, solid, and full of people with names like Anja, Sofia, and Hanna who can do any winter sport with a smile.

The grandmothers in my world are like that.

One grandmother is my Swedish government-run child care system. (Did you know Sweden?s entire population has access to childcare so parents can work?)

When I?m working?who comes in to pick up during the vast time gap?Granny. She cheerfully tucks my little one safely into her car and takes her on adventures. Well?to her snow covered backyard where my little ?e? can run and practice those winter sports with a smile.

The other grandmother is my Swedish National Institute of Public Health (Their policies, by the way, include the statement that health is a key factor for sustainable societal development.)

Whenever ?e? has a cold?Oma has a wealth of knowledge to pass on regarding concoctions to assuage ills?honey and tea, salt and hot water, cold compresses for a fever, etc. And, then there is always the back-up call the next morning or in the evening.

My grandmothers climb trees, make snow angels, buy extra winter coats and hats with hearts, paint ceramic creatures with bright silver sparkles, find just the right fuzzy slippers for tiny toes, play with scarves and puppets, and know just how much to tug on soft hair matted and snarled from a nap filled with dreams of dragons and dinosaurs.

As a single mom, I don?t know what I?d do without Sweden in my life.

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?Mommy, I wish the world were a big heart,? my daughter says.

?You think of the best ideas,? I say.

?Love and pink and red everywhere,? she adds.

?That would be quite a world,? I say.

?So, today?like right now?can we make heart cookies?? She turns her head to the side and bats her eyes.

?You are four?what are you doing with those eyes!? I bend down. ?Where did you learn to do that??

?What?? She smiles.

?Four year olds don?t bat their eyes. I knew you were up to something!? I stand up and wipe the kitchen counter.

?Oh, please, mommy, I really, really, really want to make heart cookies. It?s my favorite thing to do.?

?I thought your favorite thing to do five minutes ago was to color dogs?and five minutes before that your favorite thing was to play ?Feed the Kitty,? and 5 minutes before that I thought making puzzles was your favorite thing to do?? I put my hands on my hips.

Her shoulders relax. She sighs. ?Mommy.? She twirls toward a stool. ?I would like a spot of tea.?

?A spot of tea?? I laugh. ?You make me laugh little girl! Okay, I shall make us tea with honey.?

?Oh, goody.? She raises her arms and hugs me.

?I guess we?ll need some cookies to go with the tea, huh?? I say. ?Heart ones??

?Yes.? She nods like she?s adding an exclamation point. ?Pink and Red.?

  Filed under: Parenting, Stuff that floats through this chick?s mind. by  Gwen  1 Comment »

Frosting is the perfect, sweet mix of butter, sugar, and milk. A white butter cream slopped in gobs on top of a deep chocolate cupcake is enough to send any toddler screaming with delight, and her mother too for that matter.

The process of creating frosting is pure fun.

On one particular day, my little one became the frosting.

She unwrapped the butter quarters, plopped them into the mixer, and watched as the wire whip cut and creamed the hard butter into yellow fluff. She helped measure the sugar?well, she poured it into a measuring cup and purposefully made it overflow onto the counter. He eyes increased in size as she stuck her finger deep in the middle.

?Yum.? Can I do that again, Mommy? She grinned.

?We need to make sure we have enough for the frosting,? I said.

?Oh, okay.? She momentarily understood. Though, the overflowing sugar part of the process was especially wonderful, the final product would be ecstasy?if she could wait that long.

The butter, sugar, dash of vanilla, and milk spun in a dizzy dance. She leaned over the mixer and reported several times, ?I think it?s done.?

Each time I checked, her level of anticipation increased; she leaned into the mixer more, her knees dug into the counter, and her feet tapped the stool.

At last, the creamy treat was ready.

?MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY!? She was frenetic. Heaven was within her grasp?inside a shiny, aluminum bowl. ?Can I please lick the bowl??

?Of course!? While I spread the frosting on top of the warm cupcakes, she sat on the stool with the bowl between her legs. Frosting covered her hair, her cheeks, her shirt, both legs, and some became toenail polish.

She officially became my cupcake.

To save this event for posterity I created the Simply Chickie t-shirt design?I am the frosting.

She is the frosting on my life.

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