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Boundaries.  In case you were wondering, I have none.  I honestly can’t remember the last time I said no to something.

I say yes to everything. I accept every invitation.  I volunteer when asked. I work extra hours.  Until something overlaps.  Like the jewelry party I RSVP-ed to this weekend and then forgot to back out of after I discovered I had a work conflict (yes, a work conflict on a Friday night). Or, I go until I have a personal implosion, which usually ends with an emotional explosion on poor Hubs.  The explosion sounds a lot like this:

Me: I’m just so stressed right now.

Hubs: Why?

Me: I’ve go to do (insert long lists of items here) on top of work and nevermind any personal things I might want to do for myself (like blogging), there’s never any time for those.

Hubs: Why did you say yes to (insert long list of items I just rattled off here)?

Me: Because I would feel guilty if I said no.

And there it is. Guilt: the root of my lack of boundaries and the cause of my current stress. Even as I type this, I feel overwhelmed by all the things I’ve told people I would do, yet I feel guilty that I’m not doing more.  I always feel that I could be doing more.  And more always comes at the expense of me.

So why am I telling you all of this? I’m sharing this because to the outside observer of this blog, I’m sure my life looks pretty charmed.  And let’s be honest, I have had some amazing experiences in the two and a half years since I’ve started The Style Geek, but I’ve also had some less than stellar moments–some that I chose to share and some that I did not.  The impetus for wanting to start a series called The Style Geek In Real Life (TSGIRL, which I mentioned last week) is to demonstrate to those of you reading my blog or any of the other fabulously curated lives available online, that sometimes we as bloggers paint a picture of our existence that is far rosier than the reality.

Here’s how this is gonna work.  True to its original intent, The Style Geek will begin to focus exclusively on fashion and technology related content (not much of a switch from what you’re already seeing).  Peppered throughout most of my posts, however, you’ll find links to posts on my new blog jennprentice.com that will give you a behind-the-scenes look at that particular event, day or week in my life.  Jennprentice.com will also become a hub for the long form content I often shy away from sharing on here.  In other words, The Style Geek will be a place to share the glam; jennprentice.com will be where I share my heart.

Yesterday I attempted to make the salted caramel macarons I saw on my favorite blog, Cupcakes and Cashmere.  To look at Emily’s pictures, you’d think these cookies were a fluffy piece of easy-bake heaven.  To make them yourself, you will realize they are messy, not-so-fluffy and just downright frustrating.

Like her post about the macarons, all of Emily’s other posts indicate that her life is pretty close to perfect (or at least it looks that way in pictures).  As if Hollywood wasn’t bad enough, social media and the blogosphere has given us girls a whole slew of women to compare ourselves–and feel inferior–to.  While I don’t doubt that many of the ladies who put their lives online each day do lead a fabulous existence, the truth is that all of our lives (celebrities, bloggers and social media mavens included) often look a little more like MY macarons: sticky, difficult and kind of a disaster.

Unfortunately, many of us fail to remind ourselves of that aforementioned truth as we look at the fabulous outfits, careers, families, houses, etc that so many of our favorite personalities–or even some of our closest friends–put on display online.  I mean, seriously, how often have you navigated away from a blog or even just logged off of Facebook feeling discontent because at least 10 other people are leading a life that is far more fabulous than yours? It’s a vicious cycle, and it has to stop.

So, in an attempt to expose just how much your favorite bloggers and Facebook friends aren’t telling you about their life, I’ll be launching a new series called The Style Geek In Real Life (otherwise known as TSGIRL).  Starting next week, I’ll be sharing some of the more glamorous moments of my daily life with all of you on this blog and then linking to the TSGIRL version of that moment on my other blog, JennPrentice.com.  (Yes, that means I’ll finally get to start blogging over there too.) This series will be part of a larger movement I’ll be starting to encourage all of you to “Live Counterculturally” in 2012.  (More details about that to follow on Monday as well.)

If nothing else, I hope that my TSGIRL posts serve as a reminder to all of you that no matter what it might look like from the outside, no one’s life is perfect.  But like my salted caramel macarons, sometimes the sweetest moments in life lie in our greatest failures.

*This is the third and (possibly) final installment of my posts about the miscarriage I suffered last week. You can read part one here and part two here.  Thanks for reading and for supporting and encouraging Hubs and I these past few days.*

When I started this blog nearly two years ago, I picked the URL The Style Geek because a.) it was available b.) it was catchy and c.) it gave me focus.  I’d done my research and noticed that the most successful blogs were ones that talked about specific things. Since I consider myself a stylish person and I work in the tech industry, I feel qualified to discuss two very focused things: Fashion and technology.

But the problem with life is that it doesn’t always fit into two easy categories. And the problem with being a writer is that you process life on a page–and this means you can’t always stay focused.  My posts from the past few days have been what I believe Gwen Bell (one of the bloggers who inspired me to start The Style Geek) would call “f-ing fierce.” While I don’t like the language she uses, I affirm the underpinnings of Gwen’s post: In a world that suffers from a digital disconnect, people can start being real with one another again by bringing more of their offline lives online and, as Gwen put it, “being unafraid of living brokenhearted.”

Unfortunately, I’m not sure I’ve been living “brokenheartedly” with all of you who read this blog.  Don’t get me wrong, the last two posts I’ve made were just about as truthful as it gets, but in both posts I failed to discuss the key thing that has even allowed  me to talk about this miscarriage so candidly in the first place: My faith.

Challenging Evil, Questioning Faith

In his book, The Case for Faith, former atheist turned Christian Lee Strobel, says that there are two main questions that people ask about the Christian faith: 1.) How can Christians be so arrogant as to think that Jesus is the only way to God/eternity in heaven? 2.) How could a loving God allow so much evil to enter this world?

The answer to question one is something that you can rest assured I will be addressing in a future post.  The answer to question two is what I will address in this post and what has kept me from falling to pieces during the past week.

The problem of evil is something that has troubled people since the beginning of time; but the problem is not unique to the Christian faith.  Every religion has to face the question of why there is so much evil in the world, but I personally believe that the Christian faith addresses it best.

The first book of the Bible talks about God’s power and the existance of evil.  In Genesis, an all-powerful God created the world and created humans to live in that world .He created humans who have the ability to make choices.  Evil enters the world when people know what they should do but choose to do the opposite.  God created the world as it was supposed to be, but humans diminished it. Evil is not a result of God.  It is a result of humans exercising their free will. *

As Pastor Rick Warren, author of  The Purpose Driven Life puts it: “Our greatest blessing is our greatest curse.  If God creates human beings with the power to choose, He may foreknow what they will do, but He will not control it…otherwise, they are not really free.”

So why didn’t God just create a world without evil? He could have, but He would have had to take away our free will–and then we’d all be puppets.  And God didn’t want puppets. He wanted HUMANS who could choose to love Him and choose to love one another or choose not to love Him and not to love one another.  Unless you have the choice to NOT love someone, it’s not really love in the first place.*

Can suffering be loving?

People often assume that love is not compatible with suffering, but as Strobel asks: Do parents rescue their child from every potentially painful thing that might happen to them or do they sometimes let them suffer through some things for their own good, to learn a lesson or to accomplish something? How many times have you yourself endured something painful–that, at the time, you did not understand why you were enduring but now look back and say “I see why I went through that?”

Joni Eareckson Tada, a world-renowned speaker, author, artist and philanthropist who was paralyzed from the neck down in a diving accident at 16 years old puts it this way: “To ask why God would allow suffering is to ask why a good doctor would put a needle in the back of an infant to inoculate him.  That needle will prepare the infant for something he is not even aware of. In the same way, God has wise, specific and good reasons for the suffering that we go through.”

What are some of those reasons? Well, from my personal experience with suffering (broken relationships, mild depression, an eating disorder, and now a miscarriage), I have seen that I am a much more empathetic, understanding and compassionate person than I previously was.  I am also much less arrogant (not being able to make basic decisions like what to eat for your next meal will strip you of all of your pride) and I’m able to relate to and encourage so many other women who are currently enduring similar situations that I have found myself in over the course of my life.  Ultimately, that’s what it’s about: Using the trials that we endure here on earth as a way to encourage others going through similar things and point THEM to the love, grace and mercy that was extended to everyone through Jesus death on the cross.

And speaking of His death: Isn’t that the ultimate example of how something so heinous can be turned around and used for good?

God sent his own Son, Jesus, to leave his perfect life in heaven and take on human form–and all the ugly, hurtful things that come along with being a human– live a perfect, sinless life here on earth and then die an excruciating death on the cross so that we (and by “we”, I mean every single person who chooses to accept His grace) can spend eternity in heaven.

Living a perfect life and then dying the worst kind of death hardly seems fair; but as Pastor Rick Warren so aptly puts it once again, “The doctrine of Christianity, unlike any other religion, offers us real hope.  Jesus became a man and redeemed us through his death on the cross so that we can spend eternity in heaven with him.  When Jesus stretched out his arms on that cross, He was, effectively, saying to us ‘I love you this much. I would rather die than spend eternity without you’.”

Now, in addition to providing us with a way to spend eternity in heaven, Jesus death (and resurrection…something I’ll discuss in greater detail in the post addressing the aforementioned question one) is remarkable for yet another reason: He understands our pain. Philosopher and professor, Peter Kreeft says: “God is in the midst of our pain and He is taking the worst onto himself. It makes me feel a certain kind of kinship. God gets it. He understands. He doesn’t just have the facts straight; He knows exactly how i feel.  There is no pain that I’m going through that He does not identify with.”

Carrying Faith in the Face of Death

One of the people Strobel interviews in The Case for Faith is a man named Mark Harringer.  Harringer’s daughter was killed at only 18 months old when his wife struck her with the family van while backing it into the driveway on a snowy day.

Harringer recalled his thoughts those first few weeks and months after his daughter’s death: “Do I accept or reject the situation I’m in, based on not knowing the outcome? Can I be angry? Can I turn to drugs? Should I leave my marriage? Those things are not good outcomes.”

Instead, Harringer chose to cling to the promises he found in the Bible. Promises like the one Paul offers the Corinthians in Second Corinthians 4:16-18: “Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

I’ve also witnessed these promises–and the fixation on eternal glory rather than temporal suffering– lived out in the lives of my husband and his family and my mother and her family, all of whom lost a child/sibling in a car accident when that child/sibling was relatively young.  And this past week, I’ve had the chance to apply those promises to my own life.

Despite what may have happened to me or what will happen in the future (I’m gonna venture to say that a miscarriage won’t be the worst thing that will happen to me in life), I believe that God loves me and that He is working in my life to grow me as a person and allow me to support others during the times when he is “growing” them.  I don’t believe that this life is all there is.  I believe that I will know a far greater, happier, richer eternity than anything I could ever experience here on earth after I pass away and spend eternity with my Savior in heaven; and I choose to love Him who makes that eternity possible.

And as Harringer puts it, “That’s what real faith is: not knowing the future, but knowing enough now to make a decision that will change our future…This is all just temporary.”

*Indicates notes taken while reading The Case for Faith.  Unfortunately, I cannot find the exact page or quote I am referencing, so I am giving attribution to the book in general at various points in the post that I know are not my own words.

First of all, let me say thank you to everyone who has sent me a message through this blog, Twitter, Facebook, email or phone over the past few days.  Hubs and I have truly been overwhelmed by the support and love we’ve felt from all of our friends and family.

Second, now that the cat is out of the bag about my miscarriage and I’m feeling rather exposed, but oddly prolific, I thought I’d share yet another piece of this week’s journey.  Gentlemen, we’re going to cover some of the nitty-gritties of a Dilation and Curettage (D&C), so if you’d like to stop reading now, there will be no hard feelings.

I’m sure I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who likes hospitals–except maybe doctors or nurses, though I personally think people who choose to spend their time around sickness and blood are in a (strange yet commendable) class of their own. I, however, HATE hospitals; and as my parents and Hubs can attest to, the minute I set foot into one, I become the worst version of myself. So, needless to say, I was less than thrilled to find that I would be spending almost an entire day dressed in a backless gown, laying on a gurney this past Friday.

In a desperate attempt to keep my evil hospital alter-ego (who I will call “The Niffer” for purposes of this post) away, I decided to look nice for my hospital visit.  By 9:30 a.m., my hair was perfectly coifed, my makeup was fresh and I had my Tory Burch flats on as Hubs and I headed out the door for the hospital.  If I was going to have to go through with this D&C, I was going to go through it in style.

I felt my body tense the minute Hubs parked the car in the hospital parking lot.  And despite how sweetly the 80-year-old volunteer receptionist (who I will call Thelma) greeted us as we walked in the door, I knew instantaneously that (usually) mild-mannered Jenn had been replaced by The Niffer.

“What are you here for, sweetie?” Thelma asked.

“A D&C,” The Niffer snarled, her fangs glowing in the florescent light.

Thelma shot The Niffer a sympathetic look, handed her some paperwork and told her to “sit down, someone would be with her shortly.”

Here’s the thing I don’t understand about hospitals in the digital age.  No matter how high tech the equipment is, the computer systems seem to have a problem sharing data between floors.  This means, you have to show up three hours early to any procedure you need to have done. You’ll be asked 5-15 minutes of questions each hour (depending on how intense the procedure you’re about to undergo is) and then spend the next 45-55 minutes of each hour sitting in your skivvies thinking about what’s about to be done to your body.

The paperwork Thelma handed me asked the same questions I had already answered for the “early check-in” nurse who called me the day before my procedure; and the HR lady who came to retrieve Hubs and I from the waiting room asked me those same questions for a third time.

By the time the HR lady called Thelma back to escort me to the nurses’ station upstairs, The Niffer was hot-to-trot and not in the mood to make small talk.  Unfortunately, my perky nurse Michelle, who greeted me on the second floor, was.  She ushered Hubs and I into a room with four hospital beds, pulled the privacy curtain around my bed, asked me to take off my clothes and put on my hospital gown and said she’d be back to (you guessed it) ask me some questions in a minute.

“I believe you can ask me the questions before I change into my gown,” The Niffer barked at Nurse Michelle before she had a chance to escape.  “I see no reason to change right now.  In fact, I see no reason to be here this early at all.  My procedure is not until 1 p.m.”

Apparently, along with her RN degree, Nurse Michelle had a PhD in Niffer-handling and shot The Niffer a disarming smile, while quietly saying “I’m sorry you have to be here so early and have to answer so many of the same questions (How did she know?) Our computers can’t seem to cooperate with one another. (Was Michelle also a mind reader?) If you go ahead and change now, I can prep you for your procedure and if the doctor can perform it earlier, you’ll be ready.”

This reasoning seemed to satisfy The Niffer. Earlier prep could mean earlier procedure, which could mean earlier hospital exit. The Niffer changed into the gown, but left on her undergarments and Tory Burch shoes (e.g.- kept her dignity).  She also chose to sit on the edge of the bed rather than lie down.  After all, she was not an invalid.

When Nurse Michelle returned, she did, in fact, ask the same questions I’d already been asked FOUR times now, took my blood pressure and then disappeared for (you guessed it) 55 minutes.  During this time, The Niffer informed Hubs of her Golden Rule of hospital procedures.

“I always get a present after I have surgery,” The Niffer said in her most princess-like tone of voice.

“Is that so?” Hubs asked, unamused.

“Yes. Ask my parents,” The Niffer instructed.

Knowing that now was not the time to defy The Niffer, Hubs dutifully texted my parents to ask if, in fact, I “always got a present” after surgery.  My mother replied with this message: “Yes. She does. Stuffed animals used to suffice, but I think this is going to require something larger. Sorry, Russ.”

About that time, Nurse Michelle came back in to start my IV.  She then left for 30 more minutes until Nurse Assistant Jonathan came in to take me down to the first floor for more procedure prep.  Jonathan told Hubs that he could not go down to the first floor with me (which I’m sure was somewhat of a relief for him as his sweet wife had left the building hours ago). The hospital would call him when my procedure was over and I was in recovery.

At this point, The Niffer was also asked to take off her undergarments and shoes.  She agreed to do away with the undergarments, but decided the shoes posed no surgical threat and fought like it was Custer’s Last Stand to keep them on.  In all my outfit planning, I had failed to account for one thing: There is no metal allowed in surgery, and my Tory Burches have a gleaming metal buckle on the top of them.

The Niffer cursed silently (even she doesn’t use profanity out loud in public) and took them off, watching her last piece of dignity be placed in the plastic “Patient Belongings” bag.

Now, here is where the second worst part of the D&C happens.  You are laying on your hospital bed, undergarment and designer shoeless, and you are being wheeled past all the people at the hospital who seem immensely more attractive than they really are because your virtual nakedness and the needle stuck in your forearm make you feel the least attractive you’ve ever felt in your life.

Unfortunately for me, Nurse Assistant Jonathan decided he wanted to get chatty with the hot blonde medical saleswoman and Dr. McDreamy Jr. who were waiting for our elevator.  I figured I had two options: Fake sleep (probably not the best choice, since I’d made eye contact with both blondie and McDreamy Jr. just a minute ago) or become intensely interested in the imaginary fuzz on my hospital gown.

Once off the elevator and imaginary fuzzless, I was taken to another room to meet with my surgery nurse and anesthesiologist.  Surgery Nurse Melissa was (of course) cute and blonde too and had we met under different circumstances (e.g- were she not about to become well acquainted with my private parts), I think we would have been friends.  The Niffer chose to be nice to her as well as to the anesthesiologist.  After all, he had drugs.

I don’t remember anything after talking with Surgery Nurse Melissa and the anesthesiologist (that dude must have been GOOD).  The next thing I knew, I was waking up in Recovery Room Number One, with Recovery Nurse Jane smiling at me, welcoming me back to the world.

Since The Niffer knew that being nice to Recovery Nurse Jane was her ticket to Recovery Room Two and ultimately to leaving the hospital (and because she was also still a little groggy), she got along swimmingly with Nurse Jane and was transferred upstairs after only 20 minutes in Recovery Room One (they had initially told me I’d be there for an hour after I woke up).

Hubs returned to me in Recovery Room Two and with him came a new nurse, Nurse Nancy.  For whatever reason, The Niffer did not like Nurse Nancy, so when Nurse Nancy told The Niffer that she would be in Recovery Room Two for the next hour, The Niffer went postal.

“AN HOUR? I was released from Recovery Room One after only 20 minutes, and see no reason to stay in Recovery Room Two for a full hour.  Can you give me a reason why I have to stay here for an hour?”

“Well, your doctor said you needed to stay for an hour, and I can lose my job if I disobey his orders,” Nurse Nancy sputtered (clearly she had not taken any Niffer-handling classes in college).

“Can I speak to my doctor? I have his office number and will be happy to call him.  I see no reason to stay here for a full hour,” The Niffer was NOT kidding around.

Fortunately, Nurse Nancy got the memo.  She took The Niffer’s vitals, gave her some water, juice, crackers and pain medication and left the room.  When she returned 15 minutes later, she said “I spoke to the doctor and you can leave now.”

At this point, I believe The Niffer did a victory dance.  I, however, was too busy enduring the worst part of a D&C: The cramping.  Think stomach flu, gas like you just ate a bowl of chili and a diet soda and menstrual cramps and then multiply that pain times ten.  As I said earlier, however, Nurse Nancy had given me pain medication and I can assure you that Vicodin is a powerful drug that kicks in quickly.

The cramping stopped in no time (thank you, Lord) and do you know what the first thing I had the presence of mind to ask for was? My Tory Burch shoes.  I put them on before I took off my hospital gown or put on anything else.  Dignity? Check!

Shortly after putting my clothes back on, Nurse Assistant Jonathan returned with a wheelchair to escort Hubs and I out of the hospital.  As the automatic doors to the facility opened, I felt The Niffer leave me (probably to go harass Thelma at the registration desk again).  A ray of sunshine caught the metal buckle of my Tory Burches. Nothing about Friday felt normal, but as I looked at my shoes, this thought crossed my mind: “I’m so glad I chose the Tory Burches with the gold, not the silver buckle”; and I knew that the old Jenn was still there and regardless of how long it might take, she was going to be just fine.

PS- I’m lobbying for a Burberry Scarf…Hubs still does not seem amused.

*Hey Style Geekers: This post is a bit of a deviation from my normal posts, but it’s what’s going on in my life right now, and I think it’s an important message for me to share.*

I went to a private Christian college, devoid of sororities or fraternities.  Since the communication department (my home for all four years) was small, clubs like the Public Relations Student Society of America (PRSSA) struggled to thrive; and I personally never had much interest in student government.  Consequently, when my peers list the organizations they belonged to in college or my brother laughs about his days as a frat boy, I have nothing to add to the conversation.  No professional affiliations to list on my resume. No memberships besides the gym.

All of that changed this week, when I became one of the newest inductees into a group that approximately one in six women have the misfortune of joining: The Miscarriage Club.

I found out I was pregnant two and a half months ago, after three different urine drenched sticks manifested an unmistakable plus sign, double blue line and the word “Pregnant.”  My emotions at the time were those of shock (we had only really been trying for one month…Hello, Fertile Myrtles), elation (after all, we were trying) and that undeniable “Oh Crap” feeling in the pit of my stomach that stemmed from wondering if Hubs and I were really ready to be parents (and probably from a little bit of pregnancy-induced gas).

Our friends and family were thrilled for us, saying things like: “You’re gonna be such an adorable pregnant lady” or “You’ll have the cutest baby!”  (As a woman, you know the first statement is a lie, but one that all girlfriends must tell each other so as to ease the pain of the impending bodily changes. As a couple, you pray that the latter statement is true because as much as they tell you you’ll fall in love with your child no matter what his or her physical features are, you also know deep down that you’ll recognize if he or she comes out looking like a treasure troll.)

I went to my seven-week appointment giddily anticipating coming home with the ultrasound pictures that all of my friends have hanging on their refrigerator and was disappointed to learn upon arrival that my doctor does not do ultrasounds on the first visit.  But as a newly pregnant, slightly anxious woman, I begged and pleaded with him to do one; and he (surprisingly) obliged.  After what seemed like 15 minutes of playing around in my uterus (if you’ve ever been pregnant, you know what I mean), he showed me a circular object on the screen and said, “Well, I can’t see the fetus, but that’s the gestational sack right there.  Don’t freak out. It’s probably just too early for us to see the baby.”

Once again, if you’ve ever been pregnant, you know that the phrases “I can’t see the baby”  and “Don’t freak out” do not go together; and I left the doctor’s office with my mom on speed dial, tears in my eyes and my car headed straight for the nearest phlebotomist to have them check the HCG levels in my blood. To my (slight) relief, the doctor called about 24 hours later to tell me that all of my blood work indicated that there was, in fact, a baby in there and he felt we should proceed as if everything was normal with my pregnancy.  My next ultrasound–set for 10 and 1/2 weeks (this past Tuesday)– would tell us more, but he (once again) saw “no reason to freak out.”

Now, I work for a website.  Technology pays my bills and powers this blog; but let me tell you that the Internet–in all of its informational glory–is a scary place for a pregnant woman.  In the three weeks between my first and second ultrasound, I Googled every possible problem associated with phrases like “can’t see baby at seven week ultrasound,” “gestational sack, but no baby” or “signs of a miscarriage.”  After doing my research, I came to the conclusion that I had a 50-50 chance of being pregnant or having what is medically known as a blighted ovum.

This past Tuesday, Hubs and I went to my second ultrasound appointment.  As soon as the perinatologist, who is apparently only called in this early if your doctor suspects problems with your pregnancy (this should have been my first clue that my doctor was not taking his own advice about “not freaking out”), walked into the room, I informed him (blurted out?) that my OBGYN couldn’t see the baby at seven weeks, so Hubs and I were prepared for the worst.

For the record, the term “prepared for the worst” is a lie, because even if you are not shocked by bad news, you can never be “prepared” for the emotions you will feel after you actually receive said news.  Between his look of intense concentration and the concentric circles the ultrasound equipment was making on my stomach, I knew almost immediately that the perinatologist couldn’t find a baby either.  Eventually, he turned to Hubs and I, showed us a small mass on the screen and said “This was your baby.  Unfortunately, it looks like the pregnancy only made it to about three or four weeks and due to what was probably chromosomal or genetic abnormalities (the most common cause of a miscarriage), it terminated itself.”

I was then given three options: 1.) Wait for the pregnancy to pass on its own 2.) Take pills to force the pregnancy to pass on its own or 3.) Schedule outpatient surgery to have the pregnancy removed by a doctor.  I elected to go with number three as I have friends who have miscarried “naturally” (which sounds like such an oxymoron) and said it was rather traumatic to see the fetal tissue coming out of your body; and taking pills to speed up that process seemed rather barbaric and kinda like I was aborting my child.

I had the procedure done yesterday and am now home and processing all that has happened this week.  I intend to “verbalize” that processing in upcoming posts because a.) writing is how I deal with my emotions and b.) I have been blessed with women who were courageous enough to share their own miscarriage stories with me, and I want to do the same for others who might need someone to talk to or share with.

Between now and my next post (no guarantees as to when that will be exactly), if you have had a miscarriage or know someone who has, feel free to read/share the following tidbits of advice that you/they may or may not find helpful:

1.) There is nothing shameful about having a miscarriage.  It does not make you any less of a woman and is not an indication of how successful you will be at carrying a child or being a mother in the future.

2.) People handle loss in many different ways.  You may be handling your grief differently than your husband, friends or family–and that is ok.  Allow yourself to feel whatever you feel, whenever you feel it; and don’t put any pressure on yourself to be stronger than you are or put any guilt on yourself because you don’t feel as sad as you think you should.

3.) Let people do nice things for you.  If you’re like me, you’re always the one who brings people meals or sends a card or makes a phone call when something is wrong with them.  Even though it may be difficult for you to let people help you (e.g.- bring you meals or flowers and call you just to check in), let them do it.  This is truly what friends are for.

4.) Communicate your emotions with your husband and try to get him to communicate with you.  Trials either make or break a marriage.  If the two of you are having a difficult time talking with one another about how you feel, I strongly suggest going to see a counselor who can help you sort things out.  I have been to counseling before, and there is nothing shameful about that either.

5.) If you are going through this alone–or feel you are all alone– please feel free to contact me at jenn (at) thestylegeek (dot) com.

The return address said that the package was from Delivering Happiness LLC in Las Vegas, NV.  I stood on my front porch Friday afternoon, studying the packaging and searching for clues about its contents.  At long length, I decided that my staring wasn’t getting me anywhere and I should go inside and open it up.

When I did, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I had received two advanced copies of Zappos CEO Tony Hsieh’s first book Delivering Happiness: A Path to Profits, Passion and Purpose. I had applied for an advanced copy of the book on a whim a few weeks ago, promising to blog about it on June 7th; and apparently the folks at Zappos deemed The Style Geek a worthy recipient.

I’ve been contemplating “happiness” a lot lately.  What does it mean to be happy? What makes me happy? And most important, how can I make others happy?

I, along with the other members of the SG Book Club, are finishing up reading Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project.  Rubin did copious amounts of research all of the aforementioned questions and came up with four Splendid Truths regarding happiness, the first one being: “One of the best ways to make myself happy is to make other people happy.”  Hsieh’s Delivering Happiness seems to frame that principle in a business-oriented light.

So, this weekend, I took a step back and evaluated myself, my relationships and my career in terms of
“happiness.”

Here’s what I came up with:

For me, happiness means feeling confident and secure in myself and my surroundings.  I’m happiest when I’m surrounded by friends and family or when I’m helping others accomplish their goals or empowering others with self-confidence.

As for how this translates to my job…you’ll just have to stay tuned.  In the next few weeks, I’m going to be revamping The Style Geek a bit.  I’m finally at a place where I’m ready to pursue my career goals–whether that ultimately means success or failure, we shall see.

While I’m working on the changes, I’d love to hear from you: What makes you happy? How does happiness manifest itself in your career and your relationships?

*Photo from Design Flute used under Creative Commons License 2.0

Today has been a great day. I got a lot done at work and around the house. I learned some new “tech” stuff (more about that in a minute) and four Holiday catalogs arrived in the mail!!

In fact, today has been such a good day, and I am in such a great mood that I didn’t even get upset a few minutes ago when hot oil splashed on my shirt–more than likely ruining it. In the grand scheme of things, losing a shirt is not that big of a big deal. (Plus, I bought it at Target for $12, and it’s my own d*mn fault for not wearing an apron while cooking.) So, to congratulate myself on a day well done (and a winning attitude), I’ve poured myself a glass of wine and I’m sitting down to chat with all of you while Husband is working late.

I mentioned above that I learned a few new tech-related things today. More specifically, I met with Michael, a.k.a the social media manager for HP Software. While ingesting some awesome Mediterranean food over lunch, Michael gave me tons of pointers for how to brand myself and my new website, TheStyleGeek.com (shameless plug, I know). For the rest of the afternoon, I mulled over what Michael said and some of the key things he asked me to consider before launching my website: What name am I going to use to brand myself? Who is my target audience? And, most importantly, what is my goal?

All of Michael’s questions made me ask myself this one: Why do I want to have my own website in the first place? Is it money? Fame? Authority? Maybe. But when I really boil it down, I think the reason I want to have my own website–or even just keep writing this blog–is the same reason that anyone else writes for the web: I want to have a voice.

Life moves so fast, and all too often, we (particularly we women) lose ourselves and our identity in the things we do and the people we love. While I’m happy to relinquish it, I’ve felt a part of my identity slowly slipping away since I got married. (I suppose that’s part of the whole “two become one” thing.) I’m sure I’ll feel an even stronger sense of “loss” when I have children.

So, to bring this already long entry full circle, I suppose the reason that I want to blog, launch my own website and send my thoughts out into the world wide web is because at the end of the day, I just want to be heard; and I really can’t thank you all enough for listening!

Until Tomorrow,
Jenn

P.S.- Fall Fashion N to Z from Zee will continue tomorrow…Don’t worry! I haven’t forgotten!

David Letterman fans beware: I’ve always preferred Leno. I think my friend Valery put it best when she asked: “Since when did cheating on your wife become funny?” Well, Valery, I suppose since America’s favorite late-night talk show host did it and confessed to it in an oh-so-witty-way on national television.

I won’t lie, what Letterman did was a brilliant PR move on his (or his “rep’s”) part. In fact, body language expert and Huffington Post blogger Patti Wood said she was “awed by his near perfect example of how to handle a crisis.” Stunning crisis communication tactics aside, I am appalled by what Letterman did and even more so by our nation’s response.

Five point seven million Americans tuned their television to CBS on Thursday night, when Letterman broke the news of his misconduct, and 5.9 million viewers watched his show on Monday night to see if there would be any fall-out or follow-up. What is wrong with our society when we not only pardon, but very literally applaud, a man who has an extramarital affair??

Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. This is the same society that watches My Super Sweet Sixteen, idolizes Lindsey Lohan and pays money to attend Marilyn Manson concerts. Those of you who know me know that I’m just as guilty of idolizing celebrities as anyone, but there comes a point when even the most star-struck of us all can no longer turn our heads when basic morality is being violated. Or, in this case, we can simply turn the channel.

Until Tomorrow,
Jennifer Lynn

P.S.- If you’re looking for a good laugh at another celebutard’s expense, check out Nancy Grace stickin’ it to Jon Gosselin.

First of all, for those of you who think the title of this entry sounds a bit inappropriate…get your minds out of the gutter!

Second of all, what a pleasant surprise to log on tonight and see that my last post received three comments! Many thanks to Ashlie, Mike and Morgan for giving me such a warm, fuzzy feeling!!!

I needed that “warm fuzzy” this evening, as I’m having one of those days when I just don’t feel very “good” at anything. It seems like everyone I know has a “thing”–except for me. Honestly, I’m noticing more and more how talented my friends and family are in one area or another and how positively average I am in, well, pretty much everything.

For instance, my friend Maggie is one of the most intelligent women I know, particularly in the area of education policy. My knowledge of education policy goes as deep as the tidbit of information I just gleaned from Jay Leno’s opening act about how Obama wants to keep schools open later on weeknights and open them up on weekends in order for America’s youth to have a safe (educational) place to go to at any given time.

Or, what about my friend Mary who works at Warner Bros. Records and writes an awesome blog called Mary’s Monday Musicology. Not only do I love the artists she recommends, but I’d love to be able to make my blog look that professional. Wait! Don’t I work in the tech industry? Shouldn’t I at least be good at designing my own blog?! Ugh! This entry just keeps getting more and more depressing!

Maggie and Mary are only two examples of people I know who have their very own “thing.” My friend Beth makes jewelry, my friend Justin is an artist, my mother-in-law cooks, my dad hunts… you get the picture.

So where does all of this leave me? (Other than sounding like a broken record. I know I talk about stuff like this all the time.) To be honest, I’m not sure. I don’t foresee my desire to find something that I’m good at going away any time soon; but I do know that every time I start getting down about not having a “thing,” the Lord puts some type of a reminder in front of me about where my true identity should come from.

Tonight’s reminder came from the book I’m (re) reading, Disciplines of a Godly Woman by Barbara Hughes:

“The woman clothed in strength and dignity will behave in a manner worthy of her honored position. She knows who she is and she carries herself with assurance–not to impress or intimidate anyone but to honor her Creator and Redeemer.”

A great reminder for everyone– whether you have a “thing” or not.

Until Tomorrow,
Jennifer Lynn

I’ve been re-reading some of my entries from the past few days. UGH! Can you say VANILLA!? I know I’m my own worst critic, but seriously, who cares what I think about Seth Godin or The September Issue? I struggle with how personal, political, religious or sarcastic to get in my entries. (Yes, you can be religious and sarcastic at the same time!)

I mean, I’m always honest with you, but that’s because I don’t write about anything that I wouldn’t be comfortable being truthful about. However, I’m thinking I should test my limits in this post. I’m going to give you my (somewhat controversial) opinions on a few things and I’d like you to give me your thoughts. So, let’s play a little game that I like to call “What would you say if…”

What would you say if I told that I think Kanye West is a complete jerk for interrupting Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech at the VMAs (apparently President Obama agrees with me), even if I’m not a fan of Swift’s music. He was just upset that the country-singing white girl beat out the African American pop star. (To be clear, Beyonce’s video was smoking hot and I am not racist, but Kanye was COMPLETELY in the wrong.)

Or, what would you say if I told you that I think Bill O’Reilly is spot on with his political analysis of just about everything, and I would vote for him for president in a heartbeat.

Lastly, what would you say if I told you that I hate the fact that no one in California dresses up for work. There’s a time and place for shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops, but that place is not the office. (Ironically, I think this last statement will enrage more of you than the first two.)

Well, there you go. Now, feel free to let me know whether you like my polite, thoughtful side or my loud, outspoken side better. (Mom, I already know your answer.)

Until Tomorrow,
Jennifer Lynn