If golden eggs conjure up thoughts of Willy Wonka or that cool hint in the fourth Harry Potter book (you know…) than you’re not far off. Except this egg is better because it equals a 50 minute massage, a 20 minute teeth whitening, a microdermabrasion, a choice of wax service and a make up lesson — all complimentary. That’s way better than a lifetime supply of chocolate.

Or the scary mermaids in Harry Potter.

Regardless, with Easter on the way Facelogic Spa in Highland Park wanted to grant the fun of the childhood egg hunt to their clients along with a chance to relax and refresh for the spring season. Between March 20th and March 30th, Facelogic Spa in Highland Park is handing out Easter eggs to all who come into the spa. You don’t even have to buy anything; although it would be a test of true Lent restraint to walk into a spa and not treat yourself. All eggs come with a spa surprise but only one lucky winner will snag that ‘golden’ spa egg.

They will be “egg-specially” lucky. Ha!

Facelogic is “egg-specially” generous (sorry, I can’t stop) and offering all other egg recipients the chance to win individual prizes such as a microdermabrasion, a custom airbush tan, a wax service and certificates with discounted products and services.

They will also spotlight an Easter Basket table with steep discounts on items to fill your loved one’s Easter basket like jewelry, Illume Candles, Emi-Jay hair accessories and Farm House Fresh skincare and gifts.

Let the egg hunt begin!

{photo via}

“Is it something at the school again?”

It was. Again.

Highland Park High School evacuated at 11 a.m. today due to a threatening note. This is the fourth time the school has been evacuated in the past few months, although no legitimate threat been found.

A letter from the district says: 

Dear HPISD Parents & Staff,

Highland Park High School dismissed students at 11 a.m. today after a threatening note was found on campus.

Parents whose students need transportation may pick up their children at the multipurpose facility across from Highlander Stadium.

HPISD leaders will continue to work with police to investigate the threat. Last month, three similar notes were found at HPHS.

Parents, please talk with your children about how seriously any threats, written or otherwise, are taken on campus.

We will continue to keep you informed.

UPDATE:

Highland Park High School is officially on lockdown after .22-caliber bullet shells were found in the boy’s bathroom. Head to the Dallas Morning News for the full story and the automated message sent to HPHS parents at 10.49 a.m.

Maybe the threats will stop now that school is no longer simply being let out for the day. If this is a prank, like so many Dallasites are beginning to believe, it’s one that will have serious repercussions.

UPDATE:

Highland Park High School students have now been released for the day.

Parents received this letter from the district:

Dear HPISD Parents & Staff,

Highland Park High School is dismissing students from school today after a box of .22-caliber shells was found in a box in a boys restroom. Lockdown has been lifted and police will be assisting with security and traffic flow. In order to ensure an orderly release, students will be released by grade level. 

Parents may pick up students, and any students without transportation will stay in their classroom with their teacher until they can be picked up.

We want to thank parents, students and faculty for their cooperation and understanding. Safety is always our top priority.

HPISD will continue to update parents, students and staff through its emergency text-message system, email, and posts on the district website. 

The Greenville Avenue parade has gotten, in the words of Mayor Rawlings, “a little raucous.”

[Raucous: making or constituting a disturbingly harsh and loud noise: "raucous youths".]

I wouldn’t go that far, but it sounds about right. Mark Cuban is taking his role as parade savor (he donated $40,00 dollars last year to cover the costs) one step further with his company AXS-TV partnering and sponsoring the event. Their goal is to be more selective with float applicants, to cut out any sexually-oriented business, and to generally keep drunk parade goers off of the floats.

What do you think of the new and possibly improved St. Patrick’s Day Parade? We’d love to hear some of your memories from this beloved Dallas event.

Source

So come out and support this great cause by walking, running or skipping the 5k or the One Mile Fun Run. Registration starts at 7:00am followed by the two races with everything finishing up around 9:00am when awards and goodies will be given out. This year they will be  raffling off some great prizes from Dry Bar, Raising Cane’s, Bandito’s and Uptown Country and more! Check out the SMU calendar for more information about registration and scheduling.

Being a president is hard work.  Are any of us really capable or qualified to be president? Having said that, though, the definitions of president sound pretty impressive:  head of state; chief executive; person who presides over an assembly, corporation or group; one who governs a body of people, etc.  What, with all that power, who wouldn’t want to preside?  Who hasn’t thought, just once, “Heck, I could be a better president than that guy!”  

Consider the gauntlet a presidential hopeful must run before being elected or appointed president.  I’m not just talking about being POTUS; I’m talking about being president of the booster club, the company, the charity organization.  To be president of anything you must possess ambition, thick skin and the strong belief that you have something to offer. You need to be convinced of what you stand for and defend it mightily. You must risk offending, upsetting and leapfrogging obstacles in your way. You’re required to be sycophantic and charming and accept being revered and despised. Whatever gains you make by becoming president of something, they are often offset by what you lose as being president of something.

Who takes the fall when a company’s earnings fall below expectations? The president.  Who gets the blame when the philanthropy’s board members resign and donations stop coming in? The president. Who is reviled when unpopular policies are put into place and employees no longer get a 401k match or can wear jeans on Fridays? You guessed it, the president.

Who gets the credit when a company has a record IPO? Not the president who leads the company and hires the specialists who build and sell the products, it’s the board of directors, the analysts, the market makers. Who takes the victory lap when a team wins the national championship? Not the university president who hires the coach and allocates the budget, but the coach and the players.  So, it sounds like as president, you get all of the blame and none of the glory.  Now, remind me again why anyone would want to be president?

In the 223 years since George Washington was elected the first president of the United States, we’ve had only 44 men serve our great country in that role. And among those 44 men who served, there are some whose names we don’t recognize, some whose names we celebrate, and some whose names we’d rather forget. But no matter what our political ideology, education, income or belief system, we should always recognize and respect the office of the president of the United State and the man, or woman, who serves in that role. We ought to respect the role of president of anything, because it is not an easy role to play. You try finding a 17-year-old who wants to give up his Saturday to perform Ali Baba in German . . . You try being president of a sorority leading 85 young women, 64 of whom don’t like each other . . . and why not give a shot to running a business, a military, a social services network and an education system, simultaneously.  No thanks, you say?

Then on this President’s Day, let us renew our respect for leadership even if we do not agree with the leader. Let us sympathize with those in leadership positions who assume significant personal risk and sacrifice because of what they believe in. And let us try to be more compassionate to those who take the risks to take the lead.

Call me Scrooge. The homes on my street in Highland Park are, for the most part, original 1927-ish Tudors that have been updated. Our lots aren’t wide or deep and our street is narrow. So, imagine a scene in which four vehicles are parked on one side of the street, another seven are parked along the other, and residential traffic is trying to pass through. Then let’s add to this little Christmas kaleidoscope, a horse-drawn carriage with people sipping Starbuck’s hot chocolate and sweating their Thanksgiving paunches off. Just for fun throw in a Dan Dipert super bus inching down the street right behind it.  Then, for a really neat visual image, picture me, in white and blue polka dot flannel pajamas and Uggs, taking my anxiety-riddled Golden Retriever out for a tinkle.

My dog doesn’t like horses. Or clip-clopping of hooves in front of her place de toilet or large round wheels and twinkling lights encroaching or mega busses spewing diesel fuel while she’s trying to go numero uno. But I think what she likes even less is an audience during such private matters. So the other night when traffic on our small street was bumper-to-buggy and Finley had to take care of business, all holly bells broke loose.

She escaped from my grip and barked violently at the horses and the sweating Starbuck’s sippers.  Then she started frantically running in circles, barking, frothing at the mouth, ignoring my jammy-clad pleas to come to me. Then, in her mania, she knocked over our massive wheeled trash receptacle  then toppled the recycle bin full of empty wine bottles (left from my husband’s company party Saturday night, I promise). The trash can’s boom and the wine bottles’ shrill dropping and rolling distracted her, and I was able to grab her and drag gently lead her inside.  The looky-looers who wanted to see Christmas lights in fancy Highland Park got more than they bargained for.  Yes, visitors from afar, you got a show this week. We’re not all Big Rich in Highland Park. We wear frumpy PJs, have trash cans and unruly dogs. Merry Christmas.  Ha ha ha.

And next year, I really hope my neighbors decide to forgo the extravagant light displays so the horse-drawn carriages clip-clop elsewhere. And if not, well, I hear the light are really great in Plano.

photo courtesy of dmagazine.com

The Heavens smiled upon Dallas the day that the Los Angeles-based Drybar finally landed on Oak Lawn Avenue. The salon has been receiving rave reviews from Vanity Fair, People and The New York Times (just to name a few) since it first swept through California like wildfire. It’s easy to see why: it’s literally “Girl Heaven”*.

The impeccably designed white and yellow salon geared solely towards blow-outs is chic and feminine. Guests are ushered to a station complete with iPhone charger, purse hook and a front row seat to the movie playing throughout the salon (always something approved of in “Girl Heaven” such as Mean Girls or Moulin Rouge). After being offered complimentary wine or champagne, guests are encouraged to “pick your poison”: a menu of Cosmopolitans, Mai Tais, Straight Ups, Manhattans and Southern Comforts (hairstyles, not cocktails) are all available for only $35.

I went to the Drybar for the first time last weekend (after receiving many shocks and awes that I had not yet made a trip) and I will forever be looking for excuses to go back to that intoxicating place. I chose a Manhattan (sleek and smooth) so I could pretend I was a super-stylish SOHO hipster (you know the kind), if only for the night. My stylist was adorable, my hair looked fabulous, the magazines taught me a lot about sculpting my abs and it all happened so quickly and effortlessly that I wasn’t ready to leave when my hair was finished. I wanted to stay in this little corner of “Girl Heaven” for just a moment longer.

The Drybar makes booking appointments incredibly simple. You can reserve your spot online or use the Drybar app for your iPhone or iPad. We’ve got Halloween and holidays coming up ladies, no bad hair days allowed.

*Girl Heaven: a final place of rest for 20 somethings where there are separate stations that cater to all nail-polish, food and hair dreams. The Dry Bar (a free version) fulfills any hair desires in “Girl Heaven”. Free Sprinkles Cupcakes (all red velvet) would be located next to it.

photo courtesy of dailycandy.com

In terms of a hair cut, I’m perfectly willing to go to Supercuts. But when it comes to the color of my hair, the stakes are higher. Let’s face it, hair can make or break you, so having faith in the people tin foiling it up is immensely important. Three years ago, I was new to Dallas and completely clueless on where to get my locks lightened. An insightful friend highly recommended osgood-o’neil salon and I’ve never turned back. I literally refuse to go anywhere else.

photo courtesy of jonesbaker.com

The salon, which has received several accolades for decor and colorists, is an experience every Dallasite should be lucky enough to have. Even men, there are lots of males in there every time I go. Receptionists and colorists look like they’ve stepped out of the glossy pages of an edgy magazine. Brick walls, beautifully stylized stations, chandeliers and couches create an atmosphere the Kardashians would approve of. It’s an upscale experience with an upscale price, but it’s worth every penny. I’ve been receiving compliments on my hair color for the past four years now. osgood-o’neil is particularly good with blondes, creating a naturally lightened look that gives me that uber-blonde look I had always dreamed of without making me look like one of Hef’s girls next door. Make sure you get their glaze treatment, one of the techniques that makes the color blend together naturally.

photo courtesy of osgoodoneil.com

Getting your hair colored at osgood-o’neil is like a day at the spa. So book your appointment now, grab your favorite magazine, lay back in the massage chairs and enjoy the luxury of having someone else shampoo and condition your hair (one of my favorite things in the world). To snag a phrase from Parks and Rec., “treat yo self!”

-Téa Olbrecht in The Tiger’s Wife

Everyone has a 9/11 story. Mine begins in November 1990 when I moved to New York City fresh out of college. I knew my future was there in the form of independence, career and, the damnedest of all things that ensures and derails your future at the same time, love.  We were freshman-in-college sweethearts who had lost touch for years but, somehow, ended up in New York at the same time. His office was in the World Financial Center, mine was in the Flat Iron district. His subway stop, which soon became our subway stop, was Cortlandt Street, World Trade Center. The World Trade Center was our one-stop for facilitating the business of life.  Our first joint checking account was opened at Chase Bank, 1 WTC. Our dry cleaners, our book store, the Lerner NY store where I bought work clothes for my $16,000- a-year PR job – it was right there in the WTC mall.

Every morning, we shared a subway ride to work. We kissed goodbye at the Cortlandt Street stop, and I would take a recently emptied, warm seat to read The New York Post until my stop came up. He would trek through the WTC mall, up the escalators, across the bridge over West Street that connected the World Trade Center to the World Financial Center and start his day with my scent on his jacket. Many days I would meet him for lunch or drinks at Moran’s and would take the subway downtown, exit Cortlandt Street, trek through the WTC mall, hike up the escalators, cross the bridge, and be welcomed by his new-love glow amid the sweeping space of the World Financial Center. Young love in New York, surrounded the smartest people in the world, the home of “people who have arrived.”  It was a magical time for us.

Practicality, money and a few misadventures in renting inspired the move back to Texas, where we were both raised. We left New York, ready to start anew, on a rainy day in August 1993 driving a rented Hertz truck and getting lost in New Jersey 30 minutes into the drive to Dallas.

Maturity, wisdom, babies, jobs, relocations, bigger mortgages, alcohol, immaturity, adultery, desperation, decisions.  Divorce.

In November 1999, I returned to New York to be a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding. My husband had told me two weeks earlier that he was leaving me. Us. My friend spent a pre-wedding-week day with me to comfort and console me.  She was witness to my romance nine years earlier and knew the way best friends just know, that it wasn’t going to last forever.

We awoke early on a crisp, clear November morning and arrived at the World Trade Center by 9, just in time to be among the first in line for the trip to the Top of The World, the observation deck atop WTC 2. Up we went, silently.  We stayed on the observation deck for three years; or, rather, three years of my life condensed into three hours.  She walked me through, from The Top of The World, where my life in New York started, ended, and where it would be resurrected. My first apartment, the illegal sublet on 58th and 5th; the Hell’s Kitchen bar where we were regulars and where I expected a proposal of marriage every Saturday night; Alphabet City where he got drunk and thrown out of a bar called “King Tut’s Wa-Wa Hut;” Brooklyn Heights where we set up our first home together; our place on 75th and Broadway where we first discovered the bitter taste of disillusionment. That day in November was so clear she and I could even see all the way to Coney Island, where he and I ate Nathan’s hot dogs on a day we played hooky from work.

From The Top of The World, I brokenheartedly retraced my steps. And plotted new ones. My friend noted where we stood, at that minute on the 107th floor of the tallest building in New York, that it wasn’t his New York, it wasn’t our New York, it was my New York because I was in it at that moment and he wasn’t.  And I could, at that time, reclaim it. We left the observation deck with tear-stained cheeks and trekked through the mall and boarded the subway at Cortlandt Street to catch an uptown train towards the future.

September 11, 2001 I watched with horror, as everyone did the barbaric assault on the World Trade Centers. I watched as the towers filled with the people that I thought, as a 20-something just starting out, were the smartest people in the world, burned and collapsed into a plume of ash and dust. I watched as the West Street bridge, our bridge, my bridge, cratered. I knew that our Chase Bank, our bookstore, our Cortlandt Street, my Cortlandt Street, was gone. And with it, many lives, many ghosts, our ghosts, my ghosts.

The story of 9/11 belongs to everyone. Americans’ collective psyche was forever changed that day. I hardly watched live 9/11 coverage because I didn’t want those devastating images reeling through my young children’s minds.  And because it was entirely too painful for me to watch.   My ex proposed to his now-wife on September 10, 2001. The joy of their beginning coincided with, and was interrupted by, the violent destruction of the setting for ours.  So as the 10th anniversary of 9/11 approaches, I share a chapter that belongs only to me of a story that belongs to everyone.