Meg, Jo, Beth or Amy? Oh "Little Women."

The March sisters do not quit their jobs and start branding businesses with each other. They sell their hair to pay for their mother's train ticket so she can go nurse their wounded Union soldier father. They get embarrassed for wearing rouge to the dance. They get scarlet fever from tending to poor babies in the woods somewhere. They fall through the ice when skating on frozen rivers and get rescued by dashing rich neighbor boys. They go to France to learn to draw and have good manners. They write novels and fall in love with much older men.

I could never figure out if I was polite and pretty (and kind of boring) older sister Meg, or exciting tomboy heroine (but a little bit obnoxious) and way braver than me, Jo. The younger two March sisters I had less in common with, but were my favorite characters. There was frail but sweet and talented Beth who was the most tragic character, and self-centered, blonde-ringletted, (but really cool) Amy. Hmm, I know which Thomas sister she was most like. I could just cry a bucket when Beth died. And I liked Amy more and more toward the end of the novel, because she could draw and ended up getting the rich neighbor boy, which I always thought was really neat twist at the end. Oh, sorry, Little Women spoiler alert, ha.

Amy's the one depicted on the cameo-style cover of my hunter green leather-bound Little Women book. It even has an attached green ribbon bookmark. It was given to me when I was eleven years old by one of my dad's best friends (who also gave me the nicest set of knives I've ever owned as a wedding gift, go figure).

I read this book about once a year between the ages of eleven and fourteen. It would sit on the shelf next to this doll I had that was given to me by my grandmother Verna. See her little braid (wink). This doll was really fragile, so I never played with it. But that doll was just another indicator that I had a serious Victorian era obsession, that's for sure.

Now, Kathleen (if you didn't guess from my hint above, she's the "Amy") if she even gets within one foot of a victorian-era-anything will fall asleep in about ten seconds flat. But Donny, he gets it. I mean, look at him. Plus I saw him sniffling during the intermission of Les Mis the first time we saw it on broadway.

I remember when the 90's movie version of Little Women came out. Now, I love me a Winona Ryder. She was the first goth girl I ever saw (thank you Beetlejuice). She was the blue-tights-clad Veronica with a smart mouth and poison pen (thank you Heathers). I even love her as bubble-gum popping child bride to Jerry Lee Lewis. "Don't thank Jesus, thank Jerry Lee" (thank you Dennis Quaid).

But Winona is no Jo March. No way. She's way too waifish, all dark eyes and tiny little elfish nose. Jo was tall and redhaired, boyish, blustering and brash. Now, Claire Danes cast as a weepy, frail Beth? Sure. That girl knows how to cry. And Kirsten Dunst as little blonde snooty Amy, who Kathleen gets mistaken for when she's in NYC's east village (Kirsten that is, not Amy) is perfect casting.

But Louisa May Alcott's Little Women is so part of the fabric of me, that the film version (as okay as it might be) is just one of those movies that won't erase the novel in my mind. Some films do, and I'm cool with that. And if we're talking Victorian era, I'd say for example (and don't hate me) but Pride and Predjudice as a story, is kind of a snooze for me, unless I'm watching the Emma Thompson or the Kiera Knightley versions.

Maybe it's just because I don't have the patience for the Victorian era anymore. Today my reading is more blood-lust, power-lust and just regular-lust. The lastest book in the Game Of Thrones series by George R.R. Martin is my current reading material. I alternate between Martin's violent epic and a really good small business help-book, Launch, by Michael Stelzner (this super-social-media-strategy-dude, sigh, aren't they all?)

So now my braided-head ball-gowned doll sits on a shelf in my home office. And I read my two books of the moment (one non-fiction, and one yes-fiction-please) on my Kindle. So I can easily toggle between how to focus my social media strategy and how to vanquish my enemies and put their heads on stakes (you're supposed to dip them in tar first).

No green satin bookmark attached with the Kindle, but at least it still has those really intricate pen-drawn illustrations that come on the screen when you power it off. So I can still lie there and stare at every inky detail before I finally turn off the bedside light, just like I used to do with that illustration of the little March women all sitting together under the tree... wondering which sister I would be.

Tara The Same. But Not The Same.

Things About Me That Are The Same As Always:

I drink a V8 from a can with a bendy straw every morning.

I read storybooks out loud.

I get irritated easily.

I have a husband with impressive hobbies.

I have kids who inherited mad video game skills.

I clean house to Mary Poppins songs.

I like to build Lego towers.

I like epic novels and commercials that make me cry.

I like scary movies, and show tunes.

I always remember the words.

I sleepwalk.

I hang out with my parents every weekend.

I like to realize the things that have shaped me.

Things That Are Different About Me:

I started drinking coffee (a lot).

I started running (sometimes).

I started eating an apple a day.

I think perhaps I'm less cynical (but no less irritable).

I left the dream job that I had for fourteen years.

I started my own business with my sister (today).

I realize that I have yet to be completely shaped.

I think it's all those apples.

I just bit into something.

And now I just know.

Like when Donny hammered the first nail in his nose.

If he can do that, then I can do this.

And that's how I'm different.

But the same.

And glad that I'm not doing it alone.

Because my sister eats lots of apples, too.

Shelf of me.

Looking out at the here-to-come.

That's my Braid Creative & Consulting business card. (See the business card in stripedy pottery?) Kathleen talks more about our new adventure here. We're having an exciting day to say the least.

Sleep Leaping. I'm Inventing It.

I intended to do a post this week about our parents' recent and monumental move. However, my completely as-crazy-as-United States of Tara moment completely overrides that as the event of the week.

Right now I have the most hideous bruise on my arm. It's from a new form of sleepwalking (it's hereditary in our family) that I apparently evolved to a new form this week. I'm calling it sleep"leaping."

Now, to be truthful I actually have in fact "leapt" from my bed (while sleeping) on occasion in the past. Like to run from something that is chasing me into the bathroom, or to check on some pressing and timely matter that apparently needs my attention in the hall.

But this time, ahhhhh.... words can barely describe how ridiculous I feel every time I think of this, but then I just can't help laughing.

Okay, this time I decided to jump straight up onto my pillow. Like, standing on my pillow

Because there was this trail of colors on the ceiling that were going to drift right into the recessed light-can above our bed... think like something trailing down a drain... but on the ceiling... oh, and on the ceiling conveniently above my husband's side of the bed.

So of course I had to leap to catch them. Right? (Note, there were no substances of any kind involved in this incident. Just good old fashioned Thomas stress transformed into a nocturnal biological ritual of obsessive compulsiveness.)

The leap ended badly.

Basically I think I probably tripped on my husband's pillow (or head) which caused me to spectacularly crash into the bedside table. Ridiculous as it is to imagine, the bedside table on his side of the bed.

Now all of this happened in no more than three seconds from the first leap-up to the last crashing item hitting the floor. And let me tell you, everything crashed to the floor.

But because I also have eerily quick self-preservation sleep reflexes, I had already sprung back to my side of the bed (heart pounding and arm, and hip, and knee already hurthing) by the time my husband could slurrily exclaim "what the hell!?" as he (only half-awake) picked up his iPad and the Frank Lloyd Wright knockoff Target lamp that bruise-scratched the heck out of my arm.

I just breathily and quickly dismissed it with an "oops, sorry, nothing." And then he just went back to sleep.

The next morning he just thought I had knocked everything over reaching across him to turn off the light or something. No idea I had been practicing Mr. And Mrs. Smith caliber stunts across the headboard to create such a mess.

I'm that good at sleep leaping.

I had insomnia for the rest of that night to say the least. That's okay. I had to catch up on my episodes of United States of Tara. Which made me feel sane. I mean, compared to multiple personalities...

what's the harm in a good leap every now and then?

Running Like A Mother

So... I've sort of been "running." Like, for almost a year. It's been kind of a shameful secret (except to my neighbors who get to see me run by their houses every other day in giant mint green Forever 21 sunglasses being held together by safety pins and a purple sweatband, the tinny echo of Kanye and Beastie Boys and Fergie barely seeping out of my iPod earbuds as I have it cranked to full volume).

It's a guilty kind of admission, because I've always been an "indoor girl." The last time I ran anywhere was some fun run I convinced my dad to take me to at 5am in the morning with my then-best-friend, Patty, above.

Kathleen told me I pretty much did Couch to 5k without knowing it, since 3 miles without walking is now my standard and before I could only run half a block. Times I do take a walk break are a.) if I start crying during a sad song or even just a really cool song (it happens), b.) if I start thinking too hard about an ad campaign I'm working on, c.) if my elderly barely-four-foot-tall neighbor Dorothy literally throws herself in my path to gossip about our "hood," or d.) I have to blow my nose a lot (not from crying, like, from allergies.... or, er, okay crying. I tell Dorothy my face is sweating. On my cheeks. In a very specific track under my eyes. She's too short to tell the difference anyway.)

The deal was sealed back when I was only at about 2 miles running, followed by 1 mile walking, when I read the best book, Run Like A Mother, (isn't that a clever title?) on my Kindle during a plane trip a few months ago and I could not put it down. Not even when the captain told me to turn off all electronic personal devices. That pushed me over the edge to "just do it."

So if a weeping, indoorsy, trendy broke sunglasses wearing, Fergilicious mom doesn't make for one bad-ass Nike ad, I don't know what does.

Practice Makes Perfect

Tara Nicole Thomas practices the piano. In the Thomas family multi-purpose piano room of course. She knows, as every oldest child does, that "idle hands are the devils playground (or-something-or-another)," "the early bird gets the worm," "haste makes waste," and of course... "practice makes perfect."

Now here, performing Fur Elise at the Hazel Owen's Elementary talent show. Fifth grade. I followed it up with an encore of Rock Me Amadeus. Everyone went nuts, 1.) because Falco was a big deal, and 2.) a McDonalds commercial with a little girl playing Fur Elise on the piano was super popular then, too. Tara Nicole Thomas also knows how to pander to the crowd.

Notice, top picture... with sheet music. Bottom picture... no sheet music. See, when it comes to the actual performance, uh, you're supposed to memorize it. I was a memorization machine.

Because I practiced.

Fast forward to the piano recital debut of Kathleen May Thomas.

Let's see. As the youngest child her childhood mottos were, "carpe diem," "all work and no play make Jack a dull boy," and, oh probably something like "turtle power!" (courtesy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.)

Now, Kathleen is also a crowd pleaser (and a self-pleaser) so while I was choosing Canon In D and Hungarian Dance No. 5 for my recital numbers, she chose... Lean On Me.

Now, imagine the Lean On Me tune in your head:

Some. Times. In. Our. Lives. (five notes going up)

We. All. Have. Pain. (same notes going down)

We. All. Have. Sorrow. (now back up)

Now, just repeat.

Easy enough. Kathleen would groove those five notes for about five minutes after school. Then she'd run outside to rollerblade down our suburban sidewalks, or practice five equally non-challenging notes on her electric guitar over with the neighbor boy she was in love with.

Meanwhile I tsk, tsk, tsked her. "Kathleen! You have to practice. Even if you think you know your (lame) song, if you can't play it forwards and backwards in your sleep you will get super-nervous once you are up in front of everybody and you will completely forget it. You have to know it like a zombie. Like a robot. Like it's Memorex (another eighties ad slogan)!"

Okay, so maybe I sucked all the fun out of it. But I was just trying to prepare her for the real world.

So in this story the real world was recital day. Kathleen got up there at that grand piano, and she plunked out those first five notes notes. And then she stopped. And then she started again... plunk.. plunk,plunk,plunk, plunk. "Some. Times. In. Our. Lives..." and stopped again. And started again.

Ug. I just dropped my head in my hands in the third row with my family. Not very keeping in the Lean On Me Spirit, I know. Kathleen eventually just got up, looked embarrassedly at her piano teacher (pictured above) and walked off.

Mom took this picture of her and her teacher together afterwards. Mom's hand was mercifully shaky, or you would totally see that Kathleen was all lump-in-her-throat sad. Everyone was really nice to Kathleen. Even me. But I never let her forget it either.

So earlier this week all-grown-up Kathleen emailed me to tell me that her first public speaking gig was a huge hit. That she had fancy slides. That she made people laugh. That they asked tons of questions at the end, and she's even booked for another one coming up soon.

But mostly, she wanted to let me know that she practiced, practiced, practiced ahead of time.

You're welcome, Kathleen. You're welcome.

Okay, so not to paint Kathleen as a slacker. Obviously there are many things she is very disciplined about. Hello? Did you know her and Jeremy are in like their ninth week of P90X!? And have you seen how this girl eats?! Hard core.

Feeling Famousish

Usually Donny or Kathleen are getting press. But this month I've got my very own feature, okay, one page (pg. 21 to be exact), in MARCH magazine. It's for like lady-power-types like me. You know, because all the lady-power-types wear purple jeans and do all their work on Etch-A-Sketch. I just tried to channel Kathleen in this pose.





Kathleen only had to channel Kathleen when she was featured in the Glamour Weddings blog. Look! Kate Winslet and Kathleen are on the same page! Now, if that's not famousish, I don't know what is.





Even Donny got a bit part in Martha Stewart Weddings for officiating this really cool circus-sideshow-coney-themed wedding under the Brooklyn Bridge.

Look! Half his head! Martha herself picked out that shot, all Anna Wintour style. I bet there were like fifty pictures of half of Donny's head all pasted up on some stark backlit wall. Interns and art directors were crying. But in the end... an editorial masterpiece.



But usually Donny's editorials are of the counter-culture variety. I think this story was from Inked magazine. Martha's critical eye had no part in this meticulously crafted spread. She probably would tsk-tsk at the reversed out shadowed body copy type. She has standards, people, standards!

That's how she got to be a lady-power-type, you know. Like me.

Frankenbaby

This is one of the 500 baby pictures of me. Donny has about 150. Kathleen has about 50. And that's how it works when you are the oldest.

So lots and lots of attention and cute meticulously handmade outfits (with matching bonnets)... but also with a surplus of chub and a gigantic head.

Brownie Points. Bacon Badges.

Knowing my affinity for fake food, a friend sent me this link to this bacon patch from artist Lee Meszaros on Etsy.

It's part of her merit badge collection. This one is awarded to someone who, you guessed it, "brings home the bacon." And as a working mom/creative director, multi-tasking/multi-personality, busy-life/busy-body professional gal, I'm definitely bringin' it.



But in simpler times, I was a Brownie.





You have to be a Brownie when you're little (I was six here), before you become a Girl Scout. I think that's how it works? I wouldn't exactly know, since I was a Brownie for all of like one year and then my mom probably decided it was just more effort than it was worth. Piano lessons were more likely to benefit me in the long run, and required less... er, outfitting.

Because, man, was I all about the outfit. The beanie, the little snap tie, the sweet peter pan color, the brown striping, the zip-up jumper, the freakin little tassels that fold up under the top of the knee socks (my favorite part) and of course, the classic brown Hush Puppies.

The funny thing is, that I would wear this entire get-up to every single Brownie meeting. Whereas the other girls wore, oh, like a Brownie t-shirt and jeans. Maybe the striped blouse with kakhis. Definitely not the beanie. Or the sock tassels.

At the time I thought those other girls were just "too cool." But at the same time, while I perceived this, I was too little to be shamed into not wearing what I thought were awesome duds. It's like getting to wear a costume! Not even on Halloween! Hello?! But the conformity shame kicks in when your the ripe old age of seven. Hmm. About the time we quit Brownies. Maybe my mom was more perceptive than I give her credit for.

I did earn a few patches along the way. My own little merits. Probably for things like friendliness, honesty, helpfulness, sock flair. Soft stuff. 'Cause I don't remember learning any hard skills, you know, like building a fire with two sticks or tying awesome knots.

But if I had merit badges today? They'd probably be:



Tara Merits



Donny Merits

Donny was a Cub Scout for a brief stint as well. Long enough to build a little matchbox car. But he traded in his navy blues, his yellow neck kerchief and his Webelos beads for a black trenchcoat and Dungeons & Dragons at the age of eleven.



Kathleen Merits

Now, Kathleen's are easy to pick out. Miss healthy-fare/hiking-far. Miss still knows how to have a messy night out on the town. Miss invitation designer/inviting danger. And, no, she never wore a scout uniform even for the shortest amount of time. Why is no one surprised by this?

Last Day Of Winter Break

It's been a good go. Two-and-half-weeks off. But last day of winter break for Tara, means having to go back into the real world now.



Where doors no longer jingle.



Where Charlie will go back to learning first grade spelling... instead of Hogwarts' spells. Expelliarmus! Stupefy!



And where Sam will be required to wear actual shoes.

Fake Food

So obviously I have a "thing." I decided to make a permanent page about it, since I'm basically, oh... eleven posts into this blog and I've already used about half a dozen photos of fake food. You can check it out here. I'm sure the plastic-fabric-wooden-paper cornucopia will only grow, so it seemed fitting to give my non-edibles a home.

Four Hours. Four Dollars. Er... Art?

So the other day my colleague and bad-ass friend, Amanda, who also happens to be the president of the Planned Parenthood of Oklahoma City board, asked me to contribute a "work of art," for a dinner auction they're holding in a few weeks. After I cringed at the idea of being perceived as someone who creates "works of art," or even more gag-reflexy, being referred to as "an artist" – I agreed.

My paint inventory. Also known as paint we have in our cabinet that is not dried up. It's a truly sophisticated way to settle on a color palette. However, probably not a good sign that some of the bottles are labeled Folk Art in calligraphic font, when I'm already self-conscious that this "work of art" is going to end up looking like craft fair fodder.

I don't have a thing against art, per say. The word just kind of freaks me out. I mean, I was an art major, after all. It was not a bad experience. I just seem to find more inspiration in things a little less high brow and a little more digestable in general, like... er, Urban Outfitter catalogs.

So I had a few spare hours yesterday afternoon after flying home from a work meeting on a ridiculously early morning flight – meaning I wasn't expected back at the office. However, not being a glutton for punishment, I decided to not pick my kids up early from daycare, either.

That meant I had a single afternoon to create this potential masterpiece before I did have to pick up my kids. Unless, of course, I wanted to make my six-year-old's worst irrational fear a reality, and actually forget to come get him, and he would have to spend the night at the school I tell him that he can fashion himself a dust bunny pillow and make friends with the nice ghosts, but that doesn't seem to comfort him.

So as I drove home from the airport at 10:30 am, completely zonky from my six hours of travel, I decided to get this thing taken care of but set myself some rules. 1.) I wasn't going to go out and buy art supplies (not because I'm cheap, but because I'm lazy). 2.) I was going to finish this sucker in less than four hours (because of the kids' deadline, yes, but also because I'm terribly impatient).

I literally swung into the thrift store near my neighborhood on the way home with my suitcase still in the back of my car (there will be no going back out!) I was specifically looking for an old piece of crappy art but with a cool frame, that I could just paint over, so it would already be mounted and ready to hang. I prefer "turnkey" solutions whenever possible.

What I found instead was even better. This unassuming corkboard fit the bill.

It even had this string mounted on the back to hang it from, which actually looks kind of cool 'cause it sticks up over the top. The board (complete with tarnished thumbtacks stuck all in it) also fit my other requirement, which was something big to start from. That way I could just do something really broad 1.) because I may or may not have any small brushes at home (remember no buying supplies or going back out) and 2.) it can look purposefully big and splashy and generally unrefined.

Then on my way out I saw these wooden spoons, so on a whim decided to get those, too. A plan was forming. Maybe something food themed? Total cost plus the corkboard: $4.06.

The spoons made me think of these wooden discs I had stuffed in the drawer of my hutch. I've used them for random stuff over the years, like pretend coins, or eyeballs and warts for monster drawings for my kids. But, like Pippi Longstocking's endless bag of gold, I've never seemed to completely deplete their numbers.

Disc Oh

Until today. All of these little guys are going to be sacrificed to my project.

Tack Less

They look good with the thumbtacks, too, and have gotten my wheels spinning for other stuff I can scavenge from around my house to add to the mix.

This skull-stamped cork was a stopper for some glass jar party favors I made for a Halloween party a few years ago. Perfect for poison pasta (i.e. twine). Okay, I'm getting dangerously craftsy at this point, but I have to commit. Out comes the paint, and, whatever, I don't break into hives. I can say it, I start... "painting." Eesh.

It wasn't exactly easy peasy. But it was fairly painless. My six-year old liked it when he walked in the door at least. "It looks like all sorts of different good stuff to eat, you know?" was his exact quote. Granted, he was probably just sucking up to me because I remembered to pick him up from school.