Thing of the Week: TOMICA Train Tracks & City

Many of you have asked, over the months, about Archer's car (and train) track(s) and although I've answered in the comments, I wanted to reach all of you with the recommendation of a wonderful toy filled with imaginative prospects. Sure, it's taken over our living room (and household) but I grew up in a home where the living room was for living so I'm fine with pushing furniture into a corner so my kids can rock some make-believe. Even if we sometimes have to perform acrobatics to get to the couch.

Since discovering the world of Tomica last Spring (at FAO in NYC), we've been slowly accumulating pieces for his set. A track here, a gas station there... (You can purchase from their site directly or at your local Toys R Us.)

For today's post I asked Archer what he would recommend to those just getting started with their set collection and after much scrutiny, this is what he chose:

Highway Pursuit

Auto Parking Tower

Gas Station

One can also purchase pieces of road, sidewalk and bridge separately, which I love. Buying a few new pieces of road can change an entire track, and allows Archer the opportunity to expand his world, even off road...

To browse more Tomica products you can go here and here.

Happy engineering!

GGC

Sex, Dancing, Lingerie, Etc (Sponsored + Giveaway)

The following post (and giveaway) is sponsored by Eberjey, home of "the delightful underpinning" aka sexy underthings for lady-people.

"prisoner of love" teddy

I've been skirting the issue of postpartum sexuality only because I've had little to say on the subject until recently. I've spent the last six months feeling terrible about my body and the way I look and admitting that, here, or even to myself, makes me feel shallow and ashamed. Because I'm supposed to love my body! I'm supposed to celebrate these dangerous curves, for I am a fertile power-goddess!

Sabrina Shelf Bra Chemise ("Come hither" look sold separately)

Except, yeah, not that easy. Because, sure "it's what's on the inside the counts" but what's happening on my outside isn't exactly inviting to my insides, hello. (Sad but true.) Adjusting to life after baby, physically, and in the case of this post, sexually is a difficult thing to discuss. Because sex is supposed to be sexy and yet, the postpartum bod isn't exactly a "sexual plaything". Especially when nursing. And healing. (And I'm still SUPER uncomfortable in my lower abdomen, thanks to a super sensitive and itchy C-scar. Blergh.)

Cat's Meow Cami

Anyway, because today's post features some of the sexiest underwear I've ever seen (and am currently wearing because lace assists me in my mission for a reclaimed sexual self) I thought I'd write about some of the ways I've reclaimed my body (and sexuality) these last few weeks... And let me just say, this has been a process. It was a process after my first two pregnancies, of course, but not like this and I don't know if it's the lack of sleep, or fear of pregnancy, but I've spent the majority of the last six months rejecting all things sex and sexy and sexual and sexy sex sex.

I'm only JUST starting to reclaim my drive. Which is a relief because sex is HUGELY important not just to my marriage but to ME. Even if (these days) sex sounds like more of a pain in the ass than a pleasure in the... yeah.

I realized this about a month ago when I was moping around feeling like a complete disaster, feeling sorry for myself and my still pregnant-looking stomach and my maternity leggings and whining to Hal about something obnoxious and "how can you even stand to look at me! How could you possibly WANT this body? It's a trainwreck! I'm a trainwreck and oh god... "

And then BAM, I realized the time had come for me to get a grip. I had wasted far too much time feeling bad about feeling bad about the way I looked, felt. I was constantly apologizing for my lack of sex drive, for not getting dressed some days, for feeling like a grotesque blob of blah blah blahbness.

Apologizing was getting me absolutely nowhere. So? I decided to do things that would make me feel sexy instead of sorry. Those things were/are...

1. Start Shopping: A common misconception (and I had it, too) is to wait until you're back to fighting shape to rock some sexy. I was WRONG. There isn't a time in your life you'll need to go shopping MORE than in the weeks and months after giving birth. Remember the fourth, fifth and sixth trimesters! They deserve a flattering wardrobe as well. Or at least, a few flattering pieces that aren't made of sweatpants.

2. Flirt frequently: I'm sure many of you will disagree with me, here, because everything is considered "cheating" these days but one of the keys to keeping my mariage healthy and exciting is feeling sparky with other people. Men, women, it doesn't even matter. It can be a huge ego boost to know that you still got it. Whether that means, eye contact across a crowded grocery store or a hug that lasts a little longer than usual. Conversing with people about things that aren't baby related, even for a moment, can work some serious magic on the mojo.

3. Start a Pornterest: I realize that porn is controversial around these parts for reasons I completely respect. However. I find sexually explicit materials medicinal in nature, revitalizing to a somewhat lost (meandering?) sex drive. Think Pinterest (Pinmedownterest?) for sex. Great excerpts from erotic books, links to favorite websites, etc. Put them all in a secret place and visit them regularly. With something that vibrates.

4. Make Bathtime so much Fun: Remember when baths were for adults? Yeah. I recently stocked up on lotions and potions and oils aplenty so that I could devote an hour or two a week to just... stewing in a warm pool of water full of luxurious things. It's hard not to feel hot with rose petals sticking to your thighs.

5. Dance, Dance = Revolution: The first time I felt "hot" in months was on a dance floor in Austin and it wasn't (just) because I was sweating profusely in my denim jumpsuit. Something about moving one's body among other moving bodies just does it for me. And not even in a sexual way. I realized, regardless of the way I looked, felt, I still had the moves, you know? I mean, I can MOONWALK, you guys! How could I not feel comfortable in this (slightly sagging) skin? In the words of the poet, Madonna, music makes the people come together. I say turn up the music and rock those moves.

Post-bath.

In a new pair of underwear.

Cleo Bralet and undies = yes please

What are some of your common cures for a the postpartum blahs? What recharges your batts, sparks your fire? I'll choose one commenter at random (via random.org) to win a bra and panty set of your choosing c/o Eberjey. (I'll announce the winner on Monday, April 2nd.) For those looking to do a little shop-shop in the meantime you can use the code GIRLSGONECHILD15 to get 15% off at the eberjey.com register now through April 15th. FYI, They have super cute kids clothes, too.

***

UPDATED: Congrats to commenter lucky 13 "Mama D" for winning the bra and panties set! And thanks to all for your candid comments, ideas, advice. I so loved reading these comments. (Very helpful and needed.) You're awesome.

GGC

Eat Well: WWW's Eggcellent Adventure

The following post was written by my mom, WWW. Thanks mom!

My first post with GGC, almost two years ago, was about eggs. (Wow! I can’t believe it’s been almost two years!) With Easter and Passover just around the corner, it seemed a good time to continue the conversation about this sumptuous symbol of spring holidays.

In my previous post, I talked a great deal about finding eggs that are humanely and sustainably raised. To briefly reiterate, look for PASTURE fed eggs if you want to ensure that you are getting the best eggs—organic, cage free, and even free range labeling means nothing. Eggs are a bargain at any price. And besides the ethical reasons, buying eggs from happy chickens makes all the difference in taste and nutrition, worth every penny of the $2-3 dollar extra that you pay per dozen. Always check up on the farm that produces your eggs. Higher price is not a guarantee of humane practices.

Eggs are probably our most versatile food because of the very specific chemistry of egg protein. You can boil them, fry them, scramble or poach them. You can whip the whites to make meringues or soufflés or use the yolks to make rich and creamy sauces. Eggs turn ice cream into gelato and pudding into mousse. Combining them with milk creates creams and custards.

Cooking with eggs requires a few tricks of the trade. Egg protein is very sensitive to heat; too much heat and you can get a hard rubbery mass or a curdled cream. Eggs should never be boiled or cooked on high heat at all according to Harold McGee, foremost authority on the science of cooking. So how do we cook hard-boiled eggs for the holidays? Don’t boil them! Follow these instructions and you will end up with perfect hard-cooked eggs.

Tips for hard-un-boiled eggs

1. Start with eggs that are 1-2 weeks old if you want to be able to peel them cleanly. (Fresh egg whites stick to the inner shell and tear when you peel.) If you buy your eggs now, they will be ready by Passover and Easter.

2. Gently lower eggs into a large pot of water. (I use a slotted spoon for this so the eggs don’t break.)
3. Quickly bring the pot JUST to a boil.
4. Cover the pot, turn off the heat, and let the eggs sit for 10-12 minutes (if you boil an extra egg, you can test it for doneness.)
5. Chill eggs quickly in ice water to prevent the yolk surface from turning green.
6. To shell eggs cleanly, crack egg all over and start peeling from the wide end, carefully pulling the membrane and shell.

Tip: And if you're decorating eggs for Easter, never boil them in an iron or aluminum pot or the color won’t stick.

Now the question is…what to do with all of those leftover eggs!? I love to eat hard-cooked eggs just plain. Of course you can devil them or make egg salad, both great ways to use them. You can make Niçoise or Cobb salads. In the middle of brainstorming for this post, I suddenly had a memory of my grandmother sharing with me, 35 years ago, her recipe for curried eggs. I dug through my recipes and sure enough there it was, hidden away and forgotten, an Anglo version of an Indian curry (my grandmother was from Yorkshire). You make a béchamel sauce (white sauce), add some curry and sautéd onion, some eggs, and voila!

This was traditionally served on toast “points.” It turns out that there is a history associated with “Hindu eggs” or “Curried eggs” in England but in no way do these recipes resemble true Indian curry. And today, with our more sophisticated tastes and exposure to great Indian food, we know what curry tastes like. Our stores are now stocked with the necessary ingredients and we don’t have to fudge like our grandparents and great-grandparents did. Frankly, the thought of eating eggs in white sauce doesn’t sound appealing to me at all. But finding this recipe made me smile as I thought about my beloved grandmother who lovingly shared with me all of her favorite recipes. It also inspired me to make a real curry with hard-cooked eggs. I made the “cream” for this curry out of pureed raw cashews, my new favorite thickener. You can substitute with yogurt but the cashews add a delicious sweetness and added protein to the dish. This sauce is delicious over vegetables, also.

Egg Curry

¼ cup cooking oil

½ t cumin seeds

½ t black mustard seeds

2 onions, sliced

1 jalapeño or Anaheim chile, chopped

1 T grated fresh ginger

3 garlic cloves, grated

3-4 vine ripened tomatoes pureed in a blender (2 cups) (or 2 cups canned pureed tomatoes)

2 teaspoons garam masala

2 teaspoons coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

¾ cups water

½ cup RAW cashews

¼ cup yogurt (optional)

6 hard cooked and peeled eggs

A little lemon juice to taste

cilantro leaves for garnish

Heat oil in large pan. Add cumin and mustard seeds and cook until they sizzle and pop.

Add onion and cook until soft and brown.

Add chile and cook another couple of minutes. Add tomato puree and cook on medium high, stirring until the water has evaporated and the oil starts to separate from the paste.

Add the spices and cook a couple more minutes.

Puree the cashews with ½ cup water until it forms a smooth, thick paste. Add to curry. Add more water if needed or yogurt.

Peel hard cook eggs, cut in half, and put into curry, covering them with the sauce. Gently heat through. Serve over rice with cilantro garnish.

Note: I like the garam masala flavor with the cashew cream but you can replace it with curry powder or turmeric if you want. If you want to make this into a vegan dish, add sautéd cauliflower in place of the eggs and don’t add the yogurt. Enjoy!

Love,

WWW

113/100, 114/100

First Aid Kit is one of my most favorite bands ever-ever and they recently put out a new record and it's called The Lion's Roar and (no surprise) it's mind-blowing and soul-crushing and perfect. I'm posting two videos today, one off their new record and one from an earlier release because both songs carry with them an equal weight of wonderful and I haven't posted a double feature in a while. Enjoy!

113. You're Not Coming Home Tonight by: First Aid Kit

114. Emmylou by: First Aid Kit

(For those who love them as much as I do, they're about to go on tour. See here for details.)

GGC

Liner Notes 3/26

I'm so used to posting every day that I feel like I'm showing up to class, five days late, and now I'm typing this a mile a minute because I have to leave to go to the dentist in an hour. A dentist that had to "check its archives" to find and retrieve my name and dental history. That's how long it's been since I was dentisted. It's funny because as much as I see myself as this person who thrives on chaos and impulsiveness, I freak out when my routine is compromised and these last few weeks it has been. Changes are afoot at this Circle K and I'm still trying to figure out how to cram everything into the phone booth. (We watched Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure with the kids Friday night and it was most triumphant, air guitar solo.)

Anyway. Back to schedule! The oh-so riveting schedule! When I was pregnant with the Bo and Revi, everyone told me that the key to surviving the first few months (years?) of life with twins was to nail down a schedule. You NEED a schedule. So for the last six months it has gone something like this: sitter arrives at 7am, when I'm in bed feeding the girls their bottles. (When they wake in the middle of the night I bring them into bed with me/us. We have a futon in the office where Hal spends a lot of time these days.) So the sitter arrives, I hop out of bed and help kids get ready for school, slave over the stove cooking breakfast. (No, I don't), pack their lunches, and off to school we go...

I have a handful of hours (9-2) where I can work, catch up on emails, get errands done, exercise, update GGC, and even though five hours seems like a lot of time, it's not. Especially when there are giggling babies one room over. I know working from home is a total blessing and "best of both worlds" like scenario. However, there are some days when it feels "worst of both worlds" as in... I never feel like I can focus on work because I feel guilty not being with my babies. And then, when Tamara goes home and I'm with my kids, I feel guilty that I can't put the finishing touches on work. It's hard not to feel like I'm half-assing everything especially, today, when I'm feeling completely behind on life, barely dressed with a calendar full of appointments I shouldn't have made. And then there's Spring Break next week, which further complicates matters. Do I take a week off? Can I take a week off? Should I just not post something today? Is it weird to write a post about not posting? How about a post about not posting about posting?

How about we move on to baby news, because there are lots of babies in my house and every day they are growing inches and feet.

Bo and Revi have officially switched places and now it's Revi who wants to be carried everywhere in the pack while Bo is happy hanging out wherever, so long as there are faces nearby. It's an unbelievable turn of events that I find myself hard to believe but it's true and this is happening and Thursday, when the girls go in for their six-month appointments I will get to the bottom of this mystery, I will. In the meantime, this is what I see when I look down. (Hi, Revi.)

solid foods, what what?

I went to San Francisco for a day this week and on my way to the airport last Tuesday I had a full on panic attack in the back of windowless cab with a broken air-conditioner. It was the first time I had to call a cab from a cab. It was also the first time I had to call a cab from a cab in tears because "I can't breathe in here and will surely die." When the second cab picked me up from the first cab, it ALSO didn't have roll-down windows (Bell cab, NEVER AGAIN) but I was already late so I hopped in and prayed. And of course, to match the day's theme, my airplane window seat was windowless. It was almost poetic so again, I sat there, read my book and repeated various mantras while chanting.

a room with no view

My stay in San Francisco was brief but really wonderful. Federated Media (my ad network) invited me to speak as a representative of "the independent web" so basically this was the lineup:

-Big Gun at Google.

-Big Gun at Facebook

-Big Gun at Twitter

-Big Gun at Microsoft

-Guy who started Instragram

-Guy who started LinkedIn

-God

-Me

I'm not even kidding. It was my first time (ever) putting together a power point presentation in a room full of people (geniuses) whose children were named Powerpoint and Presentation. I'm pretty sure I was thrown in the mix for comic relief because here is how the day looked:

-Fancy presentation presented by fancy genius.

-Fancy presentation presented by fancy genius

-Fancy presentation presented by fancy genius algorithm genius

-Fancy presentation with 3D graphic algorithm graph world domination PHD universe.

-Fancy presentation with laser display, fireworks, holograms and Matt Damon talking on a screen about saving the world, presented by fancy genius/friend of Matt Damon.

-Me showing pictures of my kids.

I was there to share my story and talk a little about branded content, how I make my living ... but because it was my first presentation and I only had ten minutes and I was slightly nervous to be on a stage speaking to geniuses who knew how to spell algorithm, I opened my mouth and forgot how to close it. As in, I went SO far over my ten minute max, I had to be escorted off the stage. Because the producers of the conference who were jumping up and down in front of me saying "TIME IS UP!" were invisible? So were the flashing red lights. And the timer that said "00:00!!!!!!!"

Oh well. At least I went up there and gave it my amateur all, right? At least I did that.

with Rosa Terrazas and Helen Jane of FM

Back home, because everything happens at once, we shot our first episode of Child Style at my house, in the girls' nursery, an all day affair that went off without a hitch, which, with twins in the house and a zillion people in and out of the house, was a pleasant surprise, I think, for all of us. In the house. (The producers thought it would be cool to shoot episode one in my space before we explore our fourteen other locations. Ack! So pumped!) I'm in love with the production team and think the show is going to be something really special. Still no word on when the series will go live on HGTV.com. I'll keep you posted.

This morning, when I dropped Fable at preschool she cried for the first time in months. She screamed like I was leaving her forever which has never happened before.

"It's because I keep leaving," I explained to her teacher. I keep going on little trips and my kids aren't used to it.

Neither am I, caught in this weird limbo every time I go out, leave, do something work related that requires travel and/or the odd late night...

Part of me is like, "OH GOD! I can't leave my children! I can't leave my babies when they're so small and who will carry them around in the Ergo and ohhhhh..." And the other part of me is doing The Roger Rabbit followed by The Jessica followed by an encore presentation of The Running Man. Because freedom is tasty and I want to eat it all!

... Until I get a stomach ache, of course. And then, BOO, FREEDOM! BOOOOO!

But a crying child screaming, "Mommy, don't leave me!" is a horrible thing. And knowing that her sudden separation anxiety was caused by me and my new quest for career excellence made me feel terrible and sad and angry at myself. Because ultimately I want to be a stay at home mother AND a working one. I want to present shitty Power Point presentations and attend dinners and meetings and travel but I also want to put my children to bed every night, take them to school every morning, be here.

Fifteen minutes after I reluctantly left Fable's school, I got a text from Fable's teacher telling me she cried for a minute and then was fine.

Same here. All of that. Exactly.

GGC

112/100

Thank you all for your words and shares, wisdom and support re: yesterday's post. I'm so incredibly proud to be part of this sisterhood, this humanhood. (In the words of commenter, Pamela, "feminism isn't just about woman-love but HUMAN-love." WORD.)

And with that, a lovely song for all you lovely humans. Let's dance and be merry, yes? Strong and sure and merry.

112: Half Moon Street By: Pete and the Pirates

GGC

on (finally) accepting feminism

When I was little I wanted to be a boy. I bought a skateboard and went out onto the culdesac, where the neighborhood boys were building vert ramps and asked if I could join. They said no. I went back every day with my skateboard and every day they said no. They said no until one day they took my skateboard from me. They stole it and never gave it back.

Instead of being angry at them, I was angry at me. And for most of my life, I dealt with similar situations in the exact same way.

It was my fault. Always my fault. Because I was a girl.

Because I wore the wrong thing or said the wrong thing or led him to believe the wrong thing... It was my fault I didn't know how to say no. It was all me.

Girls suck, I thought. Girls are nothing but trouble. I suck, I thought. I am nothing but trouble. I can't trace back where these thoughts came from, only that I had them. That I resented myself and my peers for being female even with my "girls kick ass" tee-shirts and the bubble-lettered "boys suck" I wrote a thousand times on my binder inserts.

But I liked boys. I liked them so much I watched them skateboard. I watched them build the ramp I wasn't allowed to touch. If you can't join them watch them. If you can't join them, become their groupies. If you can't join them, let them touch you. Pretend like you're sleeping when they sneak into your body.

When you're young, you want to be liked. When you're young and you're a girl you want to be liked and everyone else wants to be liked and pretty soon there is a war to see who is most liked and pretty soon everybody loses. Everyone's a loser. I was a loser, too.

Because, "show me your tits" when you're young and don't know any better, seems like a compliment.

The only boss I ever really had pulled up my shirt on my first day of work. I was twenty-one and he was an old man and I stood there and let it happen. Laughed it off. Ha ha ha, you are so funny with your hands and my tits in them.

I can't even type that without feeling like I want to hide. And in the year I spent working for him, every day was much the same, some days worse than others. Some days much worse. Until finally, one day I walked out. We were in the middle of a conference call with the door locked and porn on the big screen TV in his office, something that routinely happened without me saying a word. I had convinced myself it didn't bother me, it shouldn't bother me because, hey, I liked porn. At home. Alone. Not with him. At work. In a room that was locked with a man and his nose thick with capillaries. He disgusted me and I disgusted me and when he wouldn't unlock the door to let me out I broke.

Finally.

I spent the next two years in a shrink's office. Wrote a novel about a prostitute who gets to kill her pimp. A prostitute. Because that was how I saw myself.

That was the only way I could be confrontational: through writing.

It wasn't my fault. That's what I learned in therapy. That it wasn't my fault. But I didn't believe any of it until I had daughters of my own. Until I had a girl in my arms, female, did I suddenly, for the first time in my life, feel the need to defend myself. To show them so that I could show her that I was worth it and we were worth it and everybody was worth it.

Until I had daughters, I was angry with myself women. I was afraid of myself women. Women were the enemy with their judgement and their beauty and their bodies. I didn't want to be one of them. I didn't want to be like the other girls. I heard the boys throw around words like "tease" and "drama." I didn't want to be a tease and I certainly didn't want to make drama. It was easier to laugh it off. Act strong. Let the boys steal my skateboard. Curse myself for trying to ride one in the first place.

When you can't say no, sometimes saying yes first is the only defense. Say YES before he asks. Say YES before he assumes. Say YES to everything! You are more fun that way! You are in control that way! No one can burn you or bring you down!

Except yourself.

Which can be worse.

And yet. One of the greatest parts of being alive is learning how to wade through the various pools of retrospection. Time heals but more importantly it allows us the opportunity to forgive, to face . I'm not completely there yet but I'm working on it. I'm working on becoming a better woman. So that I can help my daughters navigate through what can be a confusing and degrading world. So that I can be there for my son when feminism crosses the line into man hate. Because that, in my opinion, is just as bad.

When I was first pregnant, I wanted a boy. I wanted all boys. I wanted Fable to be a boy because I didn't want a daughter. I had already experienced one teenage girl's coming of age. I resented my femininity on too many occasions. My stupid boobs, body.

If I had another son I could still be one of the boys.

With a daughter, I would have to change. I would have to respect myself for her: Fable, story with a moral, who helped pave the way for me to better understand myself, the mother, the woman, the girl... who knew how to help everyone but herself. She was my heart and I knew there was nothing I could do to protect her. All I could do was teach her how to build her own shield.

But first I would have to learn how to build my own.

When I go back through the archives of this blog, it's like a switch flipped. The tone changed. My mother always tells me that Fable brought the sun, dried up all my angst, and she did. But it wasn't until I was pregnant with Bo and Revi that I started to figure it out: myself and why for so many years I sat on my hands. Kept quiet. Let it ride.

Perhaps it was the hormones on overdrive or the exhaustion, but at ten weeks pregnant with what I would soon find out to be daughters, I was able to fearlessly confront someone for cheating me out of something. It was just a man and he was just cutting in front of me in line but I did it. I said something. For the first time in my life I told him NO. I told him no so hard and so loud that an employee had to split us up. It was magical. It was out-of-body. It was me defending myself after twenty-nine years of acquiescence. I was saying NO. With authority. To a man who was trying to take advantage of my smallness. And compared to him, I was small. He told me so with his eyes and his body nudging me back.

"SIR. I was here first."

"So what."

So THIS! BAM!

I had an inner strength. Two inner strengths! Dude might have been bigger than me but I HAD THREE VAGINAS, BITCH! I had four biceps forming in my center. And (duh, self) two of my own.

Bitch.

When Archer was a baby, I wrote about being a masculist. And I was. For him. Because I hated the way men were depicted in beer commercials just as much as I hated that women were always portrayed as these "things" that danced around them in bikinis. I still do. I hate that there are men out there who make terrible choices. I hate that there are boys that will grow up to make them too. I hate that there are women out there who make terrible choices. And girls that will grow up to make them too.

It's a lot of responsibility, being a person; male, female, we all want things from each other. We all demand things from each other. We all cross the line. Cut in line. Brush up against each other in line. To err is human. To want is human. And yet. Sometimes being "human" is not a good enough excuse for pushing or grabbing, groping, hurting. Motherhood may not have turned me into the badass I always wished I was but giving birth to three girls in three years certainly flipped a switch in me. Hard.

And it wasn't until now, in a home surrounded by daughters, in a community composed almost solely of women, strong, sensational women, to own a term that for so many years I refused.

Because contrary to years of personal belief, feminism isn't about man-hate but woman-love. It isn't about demanding a front row seat but a fair and just place in line. Because when we stand up to those who push us down, we stand up for so much more than ourselves. I know that now.

...Finally.

GGC

Thing of the Week: Motivational Prints by Anthony Burrill

Several of you have inquired as to where the posters (seen above, first pictured here) were purchased and they weren't. Archer and I just like to pretend that furniture stores are our living rooms, take off our shoes and make ourselves at home.

Still, the two posters pictured above (on the Blu Dot floor) are on my office "to buy" list when we move into our new place, above desk reminders that kindness, hard work and free thought are pretty high on the list of rules for effective leadership in business and home and at-home business.

WORK HARD & BE NICE print, $99

THINK OF YOUR OWN IDEAS print by Anthony Burrill, $99

And then there's that whole confidence thing, learning to trust our instincts, enabling ourselves to look inward. Because (surely!) the answers are inside us, right? We just have to face the mirror and raise our hands.

Anthony Burrill "You Know More than you think you do" print, $99

Swoon. I love me a print that's wise beyond its frame.

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You can check out Anthony Burrill's full collection of poster prints, here.

GGC