Don't mind if I do...

I got my mojo back!

For the last few days, I've been moping around in a funk, not really wanting to do anything. I look at the projects ahead of me and think, "meh" and go back to moping. This kind of funk is normal for most people, I think, when you are in a state of transition. I can't really do anything productive here at the condo, and the new house isn't finished yet, so I'm stuck. I feel like I'm at loose ends for the next two weeks until we move, and then the real work can start. 

Hence, the moping. 

But today, I got up and decided today would be different. After the morning potties, the dogs went in their respective crates and I got on the mini trampoline for a workout. I ran so much with my Wii Fit that I unlocked a whole new running game, which is awesome. After my killer workout (ha!), I decided I wanted a tasty lunch, so I drove up the road to a little cafe and had beef stroganoff while I read a book. And then, I did one of my favorite things. I went to the grocery store and just bought everything that looked tasty. 

I don't do that very often because it can get expensive. (Case in point: I spent $60 today on four bags of groceries that will make maybe two meals.) But, when I do it, it always turns out really well. As we speak, I have a little cake baking in the oven, and I can't wait to frost it when it cools. I found a brand of frosting I didn't even think was manufactured any more. Yay! I bought three kinds of bread, two kinds of cheese, two bottles of red wine, hummus, sliced ham, cornmeal and some apples. I got coffee, tea, milk, sugar and eggs. 

The best part of the day came when I checked out - the adorable little checkout dude carded me! Yay! You see, I'm going to be 29 this year and that seems a lot older than I think I should be, so I'm happy to show my identification any- and everywhere. I even thanked him. 

Tonight, Tony and I are going to have a picnic at the new house, sitting on the floor in one of the rooms, drinking wine, eating apples and bread and cheese and just enjoying the place. Our first meal there will be my favorite, because I honestly believe nothing in the world tastes better than crusty bread, expensive cheese and cheap red wine. I think that combination of foods will be my last meal, if I am lucky enough to know when the end is nigh and to get to sneak in one more nosh. Just to be safe, I try to eat a meal of bread and cheese and wine at least once every two weeks, so I'm never too far from it if I kick the bucket unexpectedly.  

I'm not sure why this day restored my mojo, but I think the combination of exercise, good stroganoff and whimsy shopping had a soothing effect. I may not be able to cook up a huge meal the way I want, but that doesn't mean I have to resign myself to another night of takeout or icky frozen dinners for two. I'm talking to you, Steamfresh. 

I even got enough ingredients to make breakfast for dinner tomorrow night. Breakfast foods eaten for dinner make up my second-favorite meal. Juicy sausages, over-easy eggs, crunchy, buttery toast and fresh cornmeal pancakes drizzled with syrup are infinitely more tasty when eaten at night. For one, I'm not cooking in a just-woken-up haze and for two, it just feels forbidden, like staying in your jammies all day or blowing off the housework to read a really good book. 

I think that's half the charm of all my favorite meals - they are unconventional. While I enjoy a steak or a burger like anyone, the meals I love and choose to eat over and over are a little less predictable. I love a milkshake for lunch on a hot summer day. Just a shake, nothing else - back in the days before we had air conditioning, my mom used to drive Levi and I to the Diary Queen on really hot days for a milkshake lunch. 

I can't resist a dinner of chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked, accompanied by a glass of milk with one ice cube. (The one ice cube keeps the milk extra cold.) 

Hot, buttered toast, any time of the day, is a fantastic meal. (And a remarkable restorative. After every big fight in my family - and there were many - my mom would always make us chocolate milk and buttered toast. I can remember sitting on the countertop in my mom's kitchen, eating toast and drinking milk with Nestle Quik powder in it.) 

And buckwheat pancakes with jam are great for lunch in the summer. I remember making hay on my grandfather's farm when I was five or six and coming into the house to eat lunch with my grandmother. She usually made soup or sandwiches for us, but my favorite days were when she would make buckwheat pancakes for us. She always made them the size of the pan - which I thought was miraculous - and we got to have her homemade preserves on top, along with a big glass of milk. There is no better lunch for an overheated and itchy five-year-old, I'm convinced. 

So, every chance I get, I whip up an unconventional meal to enjoy. I'll eat them by myself, but they are usually better with a co-conspirator. Someone else to giggle with as you break egg yolks and scoop them up with toast at 7 p.m. or sip chocolate malted milkshakes in the summer heat. 

Tonight, it's Tony - he'll be savoring his favorite Emmenthaler cheese while I try some new spanish cheese I found in the ridiculously expensive cheese section of Biggs. I can't wait. 

I could eat a buffet off my own pants.

I made a critical fashion error last night. I left the house looking like a homeless person. I should have known better. Every time I roll the dice and say, "Screw it, I'm just running down here and no one will see me," I end up seeing 42 people I know and at least one person with whom I've applied for a job. Every single time I went home from college and did this, I'd see the people I hated most from high school and would spend the rest of my break carefully coiffing and spit-shining myself so the rumor wouldn't start that I was a crack addict. 

Now, I didn't go full homeless last night - I had showered, my hair was sort of combed and earlier in the day, I'd put on a little makeup, most of which I had napped off by then - but I was definitely rocking some serious homeless-chic clothing. (And, let's be honest, my hair wasn't THAT combed.)

Here's how it happened. Tony took a half-day off yesterday and we were just hanging out. We took a walk downtown, had a gyro, took a nap. About 7:30, we decided to go see the new house. I just walked out the door in what I was wearing - a snappy ensemble of my scrubby jeans and a pirate shirt that used to be Tony's, but shrank too much in the wash for him to wear. It is still huge on me, though. Oh, and my FitFlops. Nothing matched, nothing fit, certainly nothing looked good. 

I figured we'd just walk out the door, get in the car, drive to the house and come home. I should have known better. 

The minute we walked out the door, it was obvious we weren't going anywhere soon. There were fire trucks, ambulances and strangely, an SPCA truck parked in front of our condo parking lot. Seems that a hawk had attacked a person on the street, leaving them both injured and in need of rescue. (I wish I could make this stuff up. I actually watched the hawk be transported off the scene in a cat-carrier.) While we were waiting to get out of the lot, we met two new neighbors and saw some of the people from our building. They, of course, were all wearing cute workout ensembles with shorts that fit and shirts free of bad screen-printing. 

Once we were on the road, I looked in my visor mirror to discover, to my horror, that none of my makeup had survived the nap and my hair looked like I'd slept on it after electrocuting myself. Great. 

At the new house, at least, I could dash from the car into the house and no one would see me, right? Wrong. Everyone was out in their front yards, watching as we drove s-l-o-w-l-y by, allowing them all to have a good, close look at my hair and makeup. Super. At least they couldn't see that I had to cuff my pants because they were too long to wear with the aforementioned FitFlops. 

Since the neighbors all knew now that we were moving from a shelter downtown, I threw caution to the wind and suggested we stop for ice cream. We don't know anyone, really, in Northern Kentucky, so how bad could it be?

Bad. 

At the ice cream shop, we had to wait in line 15 minutes, while cars on the highway slowed down to point and stare at my pirate shirt and crazy hair. Then, when we sat down to eat our cones, everyone got real chatty. I guess they'd never seen a homeless person up close and wanted to see how lucid I was. (Not very, since I came out in THAT outfit.) One guy wanted to know all about my Mini Cooper and another couple was trying to sell us landscaping and custom drapery. WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO SELL ANYTHING TO A WOMAN DRESSED LIKE ME? And Tony wasn't really any better - his shirt had holes in it from the dog chewing it. We looked insane. 

To make matters even worse, while I was talking to the custom-drapery couple, I dripped ice cream all over my jeans, leaving splatters of Chocolate Lovers Trash (I dumpster-dive even at the ice cream shop) up and down my leg. We got back in the car and I sunk low in the passenger seat to avoid more embarrassment.

But God was not on my side. When we got back to the condo, we had to take Beau, our Bouvier, out for his nightly pee. Normally, and I mean 99% of the time, we wouldn't see anyone else out there. Not last night! Oh, no. Three of our neighbors came home all at the same time, two from work and one from a jog, to see me standing the backyard, screaming at my dog, in my ice-cream stained scrubby clothes. 

Oh, the indignity. It's a good thing we are moving because I just can't handle the pity I see in their eyes. 

So funny I forgot to laugh...

Tony turned to me last night and said, "Can I tell you a joke?"

"No."

This wasn't because I was being mean or because I hate jokes. Anyone who knows me knows that I love to laugh and hear jokes, tell funny stories, etc. It's because Tony actually CAN'T tell a joke. He tries, God bless him, but he can't. I think it is because his brain is always focused on 23 things at the same time. The minute he opens his mouth to start the joke, he's well past the punch line and bathing in my raucous laughter and wild applause in his head. 

Therefore, most of his joke-telling goes something like this:

"So this guy walks into a bar and says....umm. Wait, I'll remember it."

It doesn't help, either, that I've heard most of his jokes before (not from him, but from others - his joke sources, whoever they are, are kind of tired). I can finish the punch line for him, but I hate to crush his spirit. He tries so hard. 

Tony is much funnier when he's not trying to be. For instance, in a moment that will forever go down in our family holiday lore, one Thanksgiving we were playing Scene It, that DVD trivia game. Mom, her boyfriend Jack, my brother Levi, Tony and I were grouped around the TV, perspiring furiously. See, in my family, we are all in competition to see who is smarter and more trivia-savvy. Trivial Pursuit is a full-contact sport for us. Scene It is a little different, because it is all about movies, but we still try to be the smartest person in the room, no matter what. Jack, being a sports fanatic, is also fairly competitive and has watched a good many movies in his life, giving him a serious advantage of experience and memory. (Mom has stress-induced amnesia - the minute she needs to remember something, she forgets it.)

Tony, on the other hand, knows nothing about pop culture and isn't afraid to admit that. I don't know if it is because he grew up in a series of second-world countries (I'll be sure to tell you when the divorce papers arrive for that one, but the truth is the truth - Cyprus, Singapore and Saudi Arabia aren't exactly bastions of pop trivia knowledge) without access to western culture, or because he's crammed his brain so full of poorly-told jokes, but he really doesn't know. And don't try to tell me he's been busy educating himself about more important things. Right now, he's blowing up aliens on his X-box. If I want someone to think I'm witty with all my pop-culture references, I'm better off talking to the dogs. And forget any detailed conversations about celebrity scandal. Any conversation about Jennifer Aniston has to start with "you know, that girl who was in 'Friends' and was married to Brad Pitt - the guy who is now married to Angelina Jolie and has six kids? No, not the one with black hair, the other one." It is exhausting. 

So, here we are, screaming at the TV, giving our best, while Tony sits back and offers up absolutely ludicrous answers. At one point, a word clue came up, one of those where the words on the screen have the same meaning as a famous movie title and you have to figure it out. This clue was "Removed by a Breeze" or something similar. The answer was "Gone with the Wind." IT WAS NOT A CHALLENGING QUESTION.

Tony's answer was "Skydiver 4."

What the train of thought leading to this answer was, I'll never know. Notwithstanding the fact that there is NO SUCH MOVIE as "Skydiver 4," why would my dear husband skip the first three movies in this obviously hugely popular imaginary franchise and land at the fourth installment as the obvious answer? I still can't figure that out. 

But we laughed for about an hour, and still laugh about it. And to this day, whenever I don't know an answer in Scene It or life, I guess "Skydiver 4."

The only thing worse than watching Tony struggle through a joke is hanging out with him after we see a stand-up comedian. Tony and I both really enjoy stand-up. I secretly fantasize about a career in stand-up some day (I know, it will never happen, but a girl can dream) and Tony just likes to laugh. But when we are done watching, it starts. He thinks that everything that comes of out his mouth is just as funny as what we just watched. And it's painful. I'll ask him a simple question, like, "Hey babe, what do you want for dinner?" and he'll respond "DEEZ NUTS!" and laugh hysterically. It would be endearing if it weren't so damn irritating. 

Three hours later, we'll be headed for bed and he'll still be at it. "Do you have clean pants for work tomorrow" "DEEZ NUTS" "What time do you need to get up in the morning?" "DEEZ NUTS" and so on. It is enough to make me take a vow of silence. 

Now Tony gets a little touchy when these blogs are about him, so when he asks, let's all just pinky swear we'll answer "DEEZ NUTS!" Thanks. 

Getting...weak...need...bread

Dieting stinks. No, that's not strong enough language. Dieting, especially dieting that involves cutting out all your favorite foods, is worse than having your toenails removed while someone stabs needles into your tear ducts. Yeah, that's about it.

If you can't tell, I've been dieting. FOR A WHOLE WEEK! I'm nearly unconscious with hunger, frustration and crankiness. I don't care what Fitness magazine says, there is no way to cut bad fats, starchy carbs, dairy and sugar from your diet and still have any reason to live. Unless, I guess, you are stronger than I.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I love food. I love talking about food, reading about food, shopping for food, cooking food and my personal favorite, eating food. Until about a year ago, I was okay doing this and still fitting in to my clothes. I wasn't a super model, but I was a reasonable size 4-6. Then, I did a couple of things wrong. I started some medication that lists weight gain as a side effect. And I started spending a lot of time in my car, eating fast food. Some days, I'd have fast food two or three meals. And not grilled chicken sandwiches, either, which I believe are for people who like to punish themselves. I'm more a fan of the high-octane stuff - burgers, fries, chocolate shakes, etc. For one month, I basically lived on chocolate malted milkshakes, the ultimate in portable food. You don't even have to chew!

At then end of about eight months of that routine, I'd put on 20 pounds. Add that to the five or so I gained when I moved in with Tony and started eating something other than Lean Cuisines and Diet Coke for dinner, and I was staring at a number I'd never before seen on the scale. And more depressing, a closet full of clothes I couldn't wear. And if I have room in my heart for a love besides food, it is fashion. And, to add injury to insult, have you ever tried to wear stilettos for 16 hours carrying 25 extra pounds? Not comfortable. I started growing a bunion, for God's sake. I was so fat, I had old lady feet.

And I don't want to hear any equivocating from people about how fat they are compared to me. This isn't a competition, folks, and it isn't about you. It's about me, my tubby butt and my ever-climbing blood sugar numbers. Oh, and my shrinking self-esteem. It is really hard to feel hot with a new muffin top. Or fat rolls. Or walking around in your fat jeans every day. Or, God forbid, buying even fatter jeans so you don't have to walk around in your fat jammies.

So, sick of flab, sick of rolls and really sick of self-recrimination (which only makes you eat more, I find), I decided to get a trainer. For three months, I saw him, working out somewhat diligently three days a week and spending the other four days so sore I could barely walk or shampoo my own hair. (This is where having an assistant with a loose concept of personal space comes in handy - just have her wash your hair. Save your arm strength for lifting the fork.) I lunged, squatted, curled, pressed and grunted through every workout. Sweat ran from my forehead and puddled in my sports bra. Breakfasts heaved from my stomach and into the toilet bowl during killer cardio sessions. I cried several times from the strain and my own frustration at my body not being able to do the things it used to do with ease. I even held off weighing myself (something I used to do every day, if just to torture myself) so I could see massive improvement and stay motivated.

When weigh-in day came, I had gained two pounds.

Spare me chatter about muscle weighing more than fat, etc. I'm not an East German power-lifter. I don't put on muscle that fast. The only thing I put on that fast is fat. I won't detail the horrible things I said to myself on the way home from the gym that day, but suffice it say it was negative. I said things to myself I wouldn't say to someone I really hated. And isn't that sad - I'm a great, smart, funny, interesting and still pretty attractive person, but the number on the scale can negate all of that. It reduces me to a single accomplishment.

So, if the training wasn't working, it must be my diet. Sigh. I hate going on diets. I am a stubborn person who really hates being told what to do, even by myself, and diets play on that part of my personality. But, it had to be done. My weight had pretty much stabilized at an astoundingly high number, but I really wanted to lose some weight. Especially if Tony and I were planning on getting pregnant. It is always easier to stay in good shape when you are pregnant if you are in good shape to begin with. So, a diet it was.

Tony first suggested this protein-shake plan, where you drink five shakes a day and take some fiber supplements and that's that. We ordered all the hideously expensive shakes and supplements and cleared our cupboards of any real food. (We are packing to move anyhow, so it served two purposes to box it all up.) I even packed the salt and pepper. We wouldn't need any of it - this diet lasts 28 days and you only eat 4 solid meals the whole time, so we could go out for those meals. We started the plan on a Wednesday morning, weighing in, measuring each other and taking truly brutal "before" pictures. We were going to do this! We were going to lose 20 pounds in a month! We were going to be hot, sexy beach-people by May 14th!

We lasted three days before ordering Chinese.

The shakes tasted terrible. I don't eat artificial sweeteners because I can't stand the taste, and the low-carb, sugar-free protein powders were packed with them. I honestly think they were made with artificially sweetened dehydrated alfalfa mixed with the powdered carcasses of thos bugs Survivorman eats on his show. (That guy eats some seriously awful stuff, but he's always talking about how it is packed with protein, just like those shakes.) Whatever it was, it tasted awful. And when we had to add the ground flaxseed, it got even worse - it was chewy and awful. The only way I could choke it down was to use a straw and stick the it as far back into my mouth as I could without gagging. I basically constructed a feeding tube for myself. If I could have rigged it up to never touch the inside of my mouth, I would have. The one highlight of the day was the tablespoon of all-natural unsweetened peanut butter we got in our last shake. By the end of the second day, I was sobbing. At the end of the third day, Tony was sobbing.

When I called the company that manufactures the diet stuff, I told them I was pregnant and couldn't do the diet anymore. I didn't have the heart to tell them their product tasted like dead things. Powdered dead things.

Without the structure of the five shakes a day, we had a few options. We could just go back to our old way of eating, try to work something out on our own, or we had another diet plan that I had ordered - at one-tenth the cost of the original one - that involved one drink a day and two meals without starchy carbs, high-fat food, dairy or added sugars. We tried that.

So far, it has been okay. I get hungry all the time and I crave bread and cheese (my two favorite foods) like crazy, but so far, I haven't had to insert a feeding tube or order Chinese. Last night, we had a moment and devoured a pan of brownies, but the damage on the scale was negligible for me. Tony even still lost a pound. We've lost between five and six pounds each, which is great. The biggest issue is being cranky from being hungry. That, coupled with the new puppy, has given us some fodder for our counseling session tonight, I'm sure.

I'm not sure how long we'll keep on this plan, but I'd really like to see a number on the scale closer to the one I saw a year ago. And I'd REALLY like to not have to buy a new fat summer wardrobe. I'm a fifth of the way there already, so I guess I can keep this up for five or six more weeks. Not eating carbs doesn't even bother me that much.

Oh, who am I kidding? I want a grilled cheese sandwich and a brownie sundae, stat!

Alert Level Orange

This new puppy is refocusing my definition of readiness. This morning, instead of crawling out of bed into my bathrobe (or, more specifically, Tony's bathrobe), I leaped from my warm sheets into an outfit suitable for taking puppies to the parking lot. A not fashionable, but functional ensemble of warm-up pants and bulky sweatshirt to combat the Ohio April morning chill. Sure enough, as Tony was leaving, we had to make our third potty exit of the day. Thank God it wasn't raining this time.

When we got back in the house, I took advantage of the 30 minutes or so I had until the next potty run to dash through a quick shower. First, though, I had to coax a roiling mass of dog flesh into the bathroom with me. (Sarge and Beauregard have been "playing" with a rope toy. Sarge steals it, Beau chases him, there is much snarling from Sarge, it's ugly. And you better not be standing in the way of either of them. Sarge can't bowl you over, but Beau sure can. I can't wait until he weighs 120 pounds. This is going to be awesome!) Once the dogs were safely shut in the bathroom with me, I showered with one eye open, to the soothing sounds of thrashing and snarling outside the steamy shower door. Seriously, I thought I was at the spa. But, I figure even if Beau pees in there, at least it is on tile instead of hardwood or slate.

***We now return to this blog after our regularly-unscheduled potty break, preceded by Beau starting to pee on the floor, after which I grabbed him, ran outside in the cold and waited 10 minutes for him to...do nothing. My toes are going to freeze off.***

I sprang from the shower, moisturized in record time, jammed my legs into some jeans, pulled on a tank and a hoodie and reported back to puppy-patrol. Out in the kitchen, I stuffed dog-treats of various sizes and states of decomposition into my jeans pockets (God knows how long my pants are going to smell like Beefy Grill Bites. I'm expecting neighborhood dogs to chase me long into my 30's.) I put plastic bags and house keys in my sweatshirt pockets because there is nothing worse than trying to grab all that when you are simultaneously hoisting a 25-pound pile of limp dog into your arms and trying to open a door, with another, smaller, infinitely more savage dog attached to your leg, desperately trying to dash out the door the first time you look the other way. And I keep my flipflops on constantly, just in case we have a pee-mergency.

In my one-dog days, I used to lounge around the house, balancing the checkbook and writing in my robe until about 10, at which point I'd take a leisurely shower and spend about 30 minutes on my hair and makeup. Those were the days. Now, I'm lucky to get my wet hair pinned back before I have to dash outside in the cold. Forget makeup. Today I'm counting on doing it when Tony gets home from work at noon, since he has a half-day vacation.

This is, I think, preparing me for motherhood. Everyone keeps saying that, so I guess I'll believe them. I don't think I've ever appreciated diapers more than in the past three days. If only the doggy could wear them, it would be so much easier. I could just change him whenever he squats on my fireplace hearth or hardwood floors.

But for now, I'm going to try to sneak in a few loads of laundry, get feeling back to my icicle toes and dig broken bits of puppy treat out of my pockets. Don't want my washer smelling like Beefy Grill Bites.

Puppies. Pee. Poop.

Okay, I'm typing quickly today, trying to watch the dog with one eye and the computer screen with another. You see, we got a new puppy this weekend and today is the first day I'm home alone with him. It is a little like having a toddler, but with less warning when they decide to defecate explosively all over your precious hardwood flooring.

Tony and I already had one dog, an eight-pound Yorkshire Terrier we got the same day we got married a year and a half ago. Sargent York is a beautiful, well-trained dog. He's a little high-strung, but that's a small price to pay for never having to chase him around with paper towels and a bottle of Lysol, screaming "NO NO BAD DOG!" Of course, we had a few issues when he was first home, but now he uses his puppy pads religiously, also saving us from having to go outside in the freezing cold, rain or blistering heat, all of which are surprising common in Cincinnati. Also, because we live on the third floor of a condominium building, a potty break is a bit more time-consuming than in a house where you just open the door and toss them in the backyard. Here, you have to grab them or get them to go out in the hall on their own, then get them on the elevator, then off the elevator, then out the back door into the parking lot. We have one tiny strip of mulched flowerbeds at the back of the parking lot, which is quickly becoming a mulched bed of doggie do from the neighbors who don't clean up after their dogs. (People, take a bag with you. It is not that hard.)

Anyhow, Sarge has been trained to his pads since the middle of the first week we had him. Rarely, he'll mistake the bathmat for a puppy pad and take a rogue tinkie, but beyond that, he's good.

Enter Beauregard, our new 11-week-old Bouvier des Flanders puppy. I picked him up from the airport on Friday afternoon, and I should have just sent him back then. He'd messed, understandably, in his kennel. It was the worst smell I've ever smelled in my life. I had to drive home with all the windows and the sunroof open in my Mini Cooper. Thank God it was sunny. I made a call on the way home to Tony:

ME: "YOU HAVE TO LEAVE WORK NOW!!!"
Tony: "Why, babe? Is the dog hurt?"
Me: "SOMEONE HAS TO GIVE THIS THING A SHOWER AND IT ISN'T GOING TO BE ME!"
T: "Okay, babe, stop screaming. I'll see if I can leave."
Me: "IF YOU DON'T LEAVE, I'M BRINGING HIM TO YOUR OFFICE AND LEAVING HIM IN THE PARKING LOT!!!! HE SMELLS LIKE THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN DEAD FOR A WEEK!"

Tony was remarkable all weekend, giving Beau not one, but two showers, the next on Saturday when we dared leave for more than 10 minutes and he had an accident in his kennel again, and cleaning up two accidents on the floor. (The dog is having digestive issues, which I understand because he just left his pack and travelled halfway across the country in a plane, which is not a natural form of transportation for a Bouvier.)

Every time we took him out, we had to pick him up and carry him out the door. Did I mention he weighs 25 pounds and his head comes to our knees when he's standing still? He's...large. So, we haul him outside, where he does a pretty good job of pottying. And manages to stay near without the leash.

Friday night, he slept in his kennel, but we didn't sleep much because he was whining a lot. Saturday night, he had to go out at 2, which was not that big a deal until he came back in and Sarge lost his mind, barking ferociously at this "intruder." I think the entire condo complex probably appreciated that. Last night, he slept for seven hours straight, which was wonderful. Tony took him out twice this morning, once before and once during breakfast. When Tony left, I mistakenly thought we were okay on the potty front. Tony called 10 minutes after he left to check in.

"We're good, babe. He's been playing with Sarge and is doing really well. I think we are going to be okay until NO BEAU NO NO NO NO! HE'S POOPING IN THE FIREPLACE, ALL OVER THE SLATE HEARTH!!! NO NO NO!!!"

Ten minutes of scrubbing, self-recrimination and crying later, we'd cleaned up. After that, he didn't leave my sight. I got in the shower, locking him in the bathroom with me and sticking my head out the door every 20 seconds to see if he was pooping. We were clear. I got dressed, fixed my makeup and hair, never letting him out of my site.

I loaded some laundry up, calling him to me every time he wandered away. Then I made my critical error. I went in the bedroom for 30 seconds to put on my watch and wedding ring. By the time I came out, he'd peed all over the hardwood. Time for the Lysol and the self-abuse.

We went outside right after that, but he had done all his business. When we came in, I got on IM to talk to Tony.

Me: THIS DOG JUST PEED ON THE FLOOR. I'M GETTING RID OF HIM.
Tony: Babe, it will be fine, just give him two weeks and he'll be all trained.
Me: IN TWO WEEKS, THIS HOUSE WON'T BE WORTH LIVING IN!
Tony: Oh, that's right - two people at work are interested in buying the place - I sent the link.
Me: BE SURE TO TELL THEM THAT IT WILL BE SOAKED IN PEE AND POOP BY THE TIME THEY GET IT!
Tony: Babe, it will be fine. Stop.
Me: WELL, YOU BETTER MAKE SOME ******* MONEY. IF YOU CAN'T BE HERE SCRUBBING **** and ****** OFF THE FLOOR WITH ME, YOU BETTER EARN A LOT.

And so on. He has the patience of a saint. And he knows he's got the better end of the deal, getting to run off to work while my day is broken by potty breaks, Lysol and shame.

See, the problem is, I take every potty accident as a commentary on my ability as a doggie-mom. Beauregard poops or pees on the house, it is my fault. I should be more vigilant, more on it than I am. The truth is, he's a puppy with serious stomach issues in a new house. None of it is anyone's fault. All I can do is take him out once an hour, in the pouring rain (no joke - it rained yesterday and is supposed to rain for the next four days) and see if he needs to go. Anything beyond that is just accidental.

Speaking of which, time to go out. Where are those galoshes?

Let me give you my card....

I ordered business cards today. I guess, though, since I'm not in business for myself or anyone else anymore, they are considered "Calling Cards." How very elegantly antique of me. A breeze through the Crane Stationary site shows that I'm very on-trend with my non-business cards. 

A snippet from Crane's propaganda (and no, I didn't buy my cards from them. I'm a House Wife, not a Vanderbilt. Although, I did buy Tony personalized stationary from Crane for his birthday two years ago. I spent nearly $400 on cards and envelopes and he's used it exactly twice.) - Steeped in the ultra-formal Victorian code of social etiquette, calling cards have made a fashionable resurgence in our fast-paced 21st-century lives. They are the perfect personal introduction for those occasions when a business card is too business-like.

The hardest part of the process of creating my Calling Cards (I say that in my head with a snotty accent and I suggest you do, too. Makes it much more...important sounding.) was deciding what information to include. Obviously, my name and phone number. But do I put my home address? Who will be receiving these? I got them mostly for situations when people need my contact information and spelling it all out for them seems too tedious. You try spelling Coutsoftides to a salesperson you just met for the first time 10 minutes earlier. Then try spelling it three more times, because that's about how long it takes for people to get it right. For instance, when I was furniture shopping for the new house, I needed to give salespeople all sorts of information for purchases, credit applications and delivery scheduling. A personal card would have made that so much easier. As it is, I did hand out some old business cards from my days in the cosmetics biz, along with the sheepish explanation that "I don't do that anymore," which really made me sound more like a former exotic dancer or prostitute than successful business owner, but that's all on me. 

According to the Crane site (and these people seem to know their stuff), calling cards are also useful for job hunters who don't want to use the cards from their current or previous position. Hopefully I won't be job searching anytime soon, but it never hurts to be prepared. They are also good, it says, for recent college grads who don't have a job that comes with business cards (Hello, Starbucks!) or retirees who are no longer in the workplace or are working part-time to just keep busy (Hello, Starbucks!) They don't mention housewives, but I bet we make up a certain percentage of the population who purchases calling cards - how could we not? We make up a certain percentage of the population who buys everything else in the world.  

What Crane does mention is how helpful these cards are on the dating scene, which I find interesting. I've been out of the dating/mating loop about three years now and was only ever intermittently part of it (you can't get married three times in six years and have dated all that much) but I can't decide if giving someone a card would be more or less dorky than writing your number on their palm or a damp cocktail napkin. I love cards, so I think that would be fabulous, but that raises another question - when all you have room to carry is lipstick and cab fare, where do you put the cards? I can foresee a whole new accessory segment popping up around glittery cocktail card holders. OOOH, you could even re-brand calling cards as "cocktail cards" specifically for dating. Design them in fashion-forward colors with glitter and foil inks, print lists of turn-ons and turn-offs on the back, only include information that can't be used to stalk you, like a cell phone number or email. I think someone could make a fortune on this. If only the Gossip Girls started carrying cocktail cards...we'd be made. 

But, back to reality, where high school students don't carry thousand-dollar handbags. (Do you remember what YOU carried in high school? I carried a backpack. My Prada hobo bag simply wasn't big enough for my biology AND American history text books at the same time.) 

Anyhow, after loading up my favorite cheap business-card site, the one that uses business cards as a loss leader for car door magnets, Web sites and pricey third-world adoptions, I had many tough decisions to make. Do I go horizontal or vertical? (It's amazing to me how many times a day I have to answer that question.) Bright colors? Something more elegant? Monogrammed? Do I put a "message" on them? And if so, what would it be? "Actually, I don't have children." "Call me anytime, I'm always available!" "I do lunch..or dinner...or tea...please, just get me out of my house!" Forget the message. 

In the end, I decided on a lovely pink and brown design with a bird on it (my middle name is Starling, after all) and a monogram. I included my full address and phone number, as well as cell phone, email and the web address for this blog. I think that should be enough information to keep anyone going. As a bonus, I got address labels for the new address, too, for only $1.49 extra. The third-world orphans at $25,000 a pop were a bit out of my price range, though. 

As for how I'm going to use them, first I'm going to distribute them to my girlfriends who need to know my new home address and personal (not business) email. Then, who knows? I'll keep them in my purse and fling them wildly at new acquaintances, folks at cocktail parties and networking mixers, my new neighbors, anyone who holds still long enough. All of Northern Kentucky should soon know who I am and where I live. Maybe they'll stop by and eat some of these cupcakes I've been obsessively baking. 

Now if I could just find a suitably glittery card holder, I'd be set. 

Splitting Hairs

The cover of this month's Marie Claire is mocking me. It sits there, on my coffee table, Rachel McAdams staring gleefully up at me, the headline next to her eyes a painful reminder of my own shortcomings. Literally. 

"Your Perfect HAIR," it screams! 

Sob. 

I wish I had perfect hair. I wish I had anything close to that. Instead, I have hair that's the wrong length, wrong color, wrong texture, wrong everything. For the first time in my life, I truly hate my hair. 

It all started almost a year ago. My colorist, who had for years done a fantastic job on my highlights, fried me. She let me cook in my foils until my hair was the color and consistency of straw. Mind you, I didn't mind being that blonde in July. What I minded was that my hair looked unhealthy. I've never had unhealthy-looking hair. Deep conditioning treatments, delicate blow-drying, nothing worked. I had BAD HAIR. 

I guess I should back up a little more so you could understand the complicated relationship I've had with my hair since birth. When I was born, I had thick, black hair. My dad actually said, as I was crowning, "Well, she's not mine!" He was bald, and blond before that. (Sadly, I was his. More on that another time.)

In the hospital, the nurses were already styling my hair. Even though I think she's stretching it a bit, Mom says they were putting barrettes in my hair even then. As I grew, my hair lightened, but got no thinner. By the time I was four, I had long, almost white-blond hair. In kindergarten, my hair reached to my waist. Then, my previously full-time mom had to go back to work after my dad cut of his finger on a table saw, lightning hit our water well and my oldest brother needed braces. (True story.) We had to cut my hair, because I wasn't old enough to care for it and my mom was busy getting herself ready for work. It was traumatic for all parties involved, but the next year, when she was able to quit work again, I started growing it out. All through elementary and middle school, my hair was waist-length and thick. I washed it at night and would wake up in the morning with still-wet hair. I loved it. Outside one brief flirtation with bangs (mistake), it always looked the same - long, healthy and blonde.  

The summer before high school, I decided waist-length hair was too much, so mom and I cut it to my shoulder blades. Then, halfway through freshman year, Mom decided my hair should be curly, so we started getting up early every day to put in two sets of hot rollers. And by me, I mean my mom.  (To this day, I can't put hot rollers in my own hair. The front looks great, and the back looks like a monkey on crack attacked it with a rat-tailed comb and a curling iron.) I spent more hours sweating with those dumb rollers on my head than I care to remember. 

My hair stayed like that until I was a sophomore in college. Like most women, when I am unhappy, I take it out on my hair. I broke up with my high-school sweetheart and started dating a real jerk who happened to like short hair. I was trying to change everything about myself (clinical depression does that to a girl) and I agreed to chop off all my hair. And I mean ALL my hair - it was about two inches long all over my head. And it was not a good haircut. The stylist meant well, but just didn't get it. When I went home for Thanksgiving break, my mother (who didn't know I was cutting it) said some things that aren't really fit for print, but suffice to say she dredged up some old stereotypes about lesbians and women in prison. She really hated that boyfriend.

I eventually dumped the guy and started growing out my hair. I have been at every length since then - shoulder-length, chin length, etc. But I always end up back at armpit-length blonde hair. 

In July, when I got fried, I really didn't want to cut my hair. I spent months trying to get it back in shape, to no avail. In September, I got engaged and immediately started thinking about my hairdo for the wedding in four months. For my previous two weddings, my hair looked pretty much the same - long, curly and half pinned up. It was a look that worked for me. However, I started into the cosmetics biz in November and really bought into the idea that hair has to be short to be professional. (Their saying was "The shorter the hair, the bigger the paycheck.") Plus, my hair was still fried. So I went for the Posh Spice (at the time). I got an asymmetrical bob. I loved it. So did my husband...I thought. The wedding pictures look fabulous, my classic hollywood glamour gown offset by my sleek, shiny 30's style bob and deep, red lipstick. Favorite wedding look, ever. 

Over the course of the next year, I experimented with shorter and shorter hair - from the Posh to the Rihanna to the God-knows what. I learned that my hair - all my hair, even the stuff way in the back - grows straight down toward my eyes, making short hairstyles hard to pull off and explaining why I always like my hair better when I have long bangs. I also learned that I have 43 cowlicks on my head, all in the most unfortunate places - two on the crown of my head, three in my bangs, etc. It is misery to try to train very short, straight, stubborn hair into some semblance of cute when you are fighting that kind of native growth. I have used more hair product in the last year than in my entire life to this point. My hair was always sticky, stiff, crusty or all three at the same time, which is quite a feat. I had to wash it every day, which I hate. And, contrary to popular belief, short hair does NOT take less time to style than long hair. With long hair, I can blow it dry and walk out the door. (Or, God forbid, leave with it wet, knowing the heavy length will pull it straight eventually.) With short hair, I have to comb it carefully while wet, put in product, blow it dry, put in more product, style it, spray the crap out of it with hairspray that feels like shellac and pray all day it doesn't rain. At night, my head sometimes didn't actually touch the pillow because my hair was so spiky. I knew it was time to get a cut when the top of my hair brushed the roof of my car. 

Then I realized that I was starting to look exactly like one of the women I was in business with. Her hair was short, blonde and spiky. My hair ended up short, blonde and spiky. Never one to be a copycat, I decided to let it get a little longer and put some auburn low-lights into my darker blonde spots. So did she. It was becoming a sickness. 

The final chapter of this hair horror came in New York City. Tony took me there the weekend after new year's. My hair had been growing out for about six weeks, which is forever in short hair time. He needed a haircut and so did I, so we decided to splash out and go to a New York salon. I asked for the new Posh Spice - a Tinkerbell-like pixie cut that looked fabulous with her cheekbones and eyes. I ended up looking like the only fat person to ever escape Auschwitz. My face looked puffy and bloated. My hair was less than half an inch long all over my head. If I didn't style it immediately after getting out of the shower, it stuck out from my head in all directions. It was hideous. God bless my husband, he told me the rest of the weekend how sexy it was. I knew he was lying, but tried to believe him. 

Eight weeks later, the truth came out. He hates short hair. For the past 18 months, he'd been supportive of my hair adventures while praying silently at night that I would decide to grow my hair. Meanwhile, I'd taken his "supportiveness" as encouragement and kept going shorter and shorter. So here I was, nearly bald and brunette (I didn't mention that part - as a way to get my copycat friend to stop stealing my haircuts, I'd gone brown, the one place I knew she'd never follow. The latest I heard is that she tried to go totally red and ended up florescent orange. Snicker.) I hated my hair, my husband hated my hair and my mom REALLY hated my hair. We have a running joke how long it will take her to mention my hair and my weight when we get together. Her current record was set when she shouted across a parking lot at me before we'd even said hello, "My God, your hair is short!" It took her about half an hour to mention that I needed to get to the gym. Moms. 

So, out of options and desperately wanting my husband to find me attractive, I got hair extensions. The stylist was nervous at first because my hair was SO short, but she convinced herself and me that it could be done. Five hours and three bottles of tequila later, we were done. I had a crazy half-bob in the front with a stacked short cut in the back. Having underestimated exactly how much hair I had, she had to resort to using leftover hair from other clients and cutting, cutting, cutting them to the right length. I hated it from the beginning. 

What they don't really emphasize to you when you put your deposit down for hair extensions is that they are other people's hair. Does that seem gross to you? Because it does to me. Most of the hair comes from temples in India where young women go to get their heads shaved as a form of sacrifice to some deity or another. This is virgin hair, never colored, permed or anything. But it comes from India, a country not known for western-style hygiene in its remote villages and is swept up off the floor of Indian temples where people walk all day. If that doesn't give you the jibblies, I don't know what will. I didn't really process that until I had the hair fused to my own and it was TOUCHING MY FACE. 

They also don't tell you that your head will itch so badly you will want to take your scalp off with the extensions. And that you can't wash your hair as often as you'd like. And that the texture of the hair extensions will be completely different from your natural hair texture. And that your natural hair will be fused together in lumps with the extensions attached to it. And did I mention the itching?

I lasted two weeks with the extensions before I had them removed. It was the longest two weeks of my life. I walked around, feeling self-conscious, thinking that everyone could see the little fusing bits where they were attached and would know that I had fake hair, smacking wildly at my head to try to get rid of the itching spots. I even had bleeding scabs at one point, either from the products I had to use or the scratching, I'm not sure which. It took three weeks after the extensions came out for my scalp to recover. 

So here I am, stuck with growing my hair out the natural way, the long way, the frustrating way. I did finally get some highlights because I was not meant to be a brunette, but other than that, it is short hair for me. In a year or so, it will be grown out, thanks to a relatively fast hair metabolism. But in the meantime, I have to go on hating it and praying every day to wake up with long, luxurious hair. You know, the kind I used to have. 

Oh, and that Marie Claire with "Your Perfect HAIR" - not one picture of a pixie, a bob or a crop. Only women long, flowing, healthy super-model waves. 

Bitches. 

Errands...blech

Today was one of those shopping days I hate. I set out from the house with a list a mile long, each item requiring a stop at a different store. And it was raining. That cold, drizzly rain that doesn't really require an umbrella, but seriously messes with your hair and makeup along the way. 

And it didn't help that every purchase today was an anxiety-inducing one. First was a return. I'm not sure what it is about returning things I've bought, but I always get a little anxious, even if I have the receipt, proof of purchase, the items, photos of myself purchasing the items for return, etc. Once I open the door to the car, the thoughts start. What if they won't take them back? What if the price has changed and they only give me half of what I paid for it three days ago? What if they accuse me of shoplifting and then trying to return it? I could end up arrested! 

But I sweated it out and Bed, Bath and Beyond gave me full retail value for my duplicate shower curtain without any hassle. (Side note - when two people are plowing through a store decorating a guest suite, be sure to check the cart for duplicate items. No one needs two of the exact same $45 shower curtain, trust me. I'm still not entirely sure I need ONE $45 shower curtain, but Mom remains convinced.) Out into the rain again and around the block to Joseph-Beth Booksellers. I was hoping to find a fabulous, cute, stylish, sleek purse calendar. Instead, I left with three bargain books - one for Tony (trying to encourage this reading habit of his), one cookbook on grilling (I have a cookbook addiction) and one book about the environment that I've heard a lot about and is one of those books that you feel like you SHOULD read, just to know what the pundits are talking about. A cocktail party chatter book that I'll probably never read, but at least it only cost $7.99. Joseph-Beth always does that to me. I walk in with one thing in mind and 45 minutes later, I'm shelling out a hundred bucks on books I don't need and might not even want. Today I feel lucky that I just spent $35. I assiduously avoided the home-improvement and gardening sections, which are extremely dangerous to me right now. 

I'm convinced that as soon as I move in, I'll magically find time for 200 different gardening, home-improvement and craft projects that I've found, filed and mentally prioritized in the month that I've been off work. I have a hobby sickness, too. Now that I have time for one hobby, I want 50. I want to sew, embroider, decoupage, cook, bake, paint, throw lavish dinner parties, refinish furniture, wallpaper, scrapbook, write, garden (both vegetable and flower), learn archery and make my own hair products with items I dig from the aforementioned garden. And that's just this summer. Winter comes and I'll probably want to can, pickle, knit, tan leather, make my own baby food, chop wood, whittle wood, throw lavish holiday parties, make my own wine, brew my own beer, cook crystal meth in the basement bathroom and roast coffee beans.

So, I have to avoid the section of a book store that promises to teach me any of that stuff, because once you've purchased the how-to book, the pressure to produce fabulous products becomes intense. I was watching Martha Stewart's new show the other day and she featured Mod Podge, which is this glue made specifically for decoupage. Now, I've have been known to decoupage and have never used this product. I immediately phoned my mother and told her about it and how shocked I was that I'd never heard of or used it before. Her response? "Well, you were just dabbling before." Like now that I had a whole room in which to decoupage, I'd suddenly go pro, start one of those traveling decoupage teams, and compete in international decoupage competitions. 

Because I couldn't find the intended purchase at Joseph-Beth (the purse calendar), I had to soldier on to one of those office-supply superstores. You know, the ones that always smell like spilled toner and electricity?

Is there any more anxiety-inducing small purchase than that of a purse calendar? You are spending at most $10 but it is a serious commitment. I have made hundred-dollar shoe commitments that lasted much less time (for instance, my last wedding ceremony, which was seven and a half minutes and required fantastic $75 ankle boots that no one even saw under my dress). But something about that calendar is so....weighty. You know that you are going to pull that calendar out of your purse for the next 12 to 24 months, displaying it for the world to see as you write in hair, nail, dentist, doctor and therapist appointments. It is an outward expression of your internal organization (or lack thereof) and whatever adorns the cover may be the only understanding anyone has of your likes, dislikes, hobbies, etc. Sure, this month you may be all about baby kittens playing with balls of string, but what if six months down the road you become a dog lover? Or, buy an iguana? You don't want Izzy to feel slighted every time you whip out your calendar to plan your day or schedule the cable guy. 

Also, it becomes extremely important to foresee the level of planning detail your life is going to require. In November, I was given a very generous gift from one of my girlfriends in the cosmetics business and my husband. They went together to purchase me one of those super-fabulous, totally detailed Franklin Covey systems with calendar, goal-setting, address, financial and weight-loss tabs inside a binder that weighs more than my dog. It was fantastic at the time because I was running my own business. However, for a House Wife with no dependents and a very loose schedule, it is a bit overkill. Whole weeks of goal-setting would go by, goals unset and unmet. My expenses barely took up two lines on the fabulous month-end sheet they provide. So when I quit the biz, I set that calendar aside, knowing that someday I might need two 5  x 7  pages to organize each day again. For the last five weeks, I've pretty much been just winging it. I hold my appointments in my head and just remember where I'm supposed to be every day. 

Last week, I missed three appointments. 

Therefore, today I went shopping for the a new, smaller, more reasonable calendar. After 2o hard minutes of browsing, I went with a little 24-month calendar with each month spread across two pages. No weeks, no days, just months. Why 24 months? Because with the stranglehold the calendar cartel has on supply stores, April 2009 just isn't the time to shop for a 2009 calendar, and the only way I could get the months of April through December THIS YEAR was to buy 75% more calendar than I wanted. The two consolations were that it only cost $9 and didn't immediately rip the straps off my cute little purse the minute it hit the bottom of the bag.

My usual first pleasure with getting a new calendar is to fill in all the appointments I have in the future, giving myself a sense of satisfaction that I am, in fact, busy. Once fortified with my fast food lunch (there has to be some pleasure in errand-running), I cracked open the calendar and began writing. Thirty seconds later, I was finished. I couldn't even fill it up if I wrote in silly and unnecessary things, like when I was ovulating or birthdays of all my third cousins. Whole swathes of days were blindingly blank. It became terribly obvious to me that I am, in fact, not busy. 

I guess blogging at 12:45 in the afternoon should have made that fact apparent, or that I pad my to-do list every day by writing in "dinner" or that my last shopping stop today was to buy an embroidery kit (God help me, the hobbies have started), but it was still a bit shocking to see it in the proverbial black and white. I don't even have any dentist appointments to write in. I'm barely relevant! 

Obviously, I need to get on the phone. I have some lunches to book. 

A lunch of one's own

I just finished doing one of my favorite House Wife things - cooking myself lunch. Most days, I just eat a sandwich or a microwave meal, so I don't have to deal with dishes or worry about cleanup, but once a week or so, I actually cook myself something. It could be as complicated as macaroni and cheese from scratch, with a roux and lots of freshly shredded cheese, or as simple as today's lunch - Velveeta Shells and Cheese with some diced tomatoes mixed in. (Sense a theme? I love mac and cheese and Tony doesn't, so if I'm going to cook it, I have to at lunch time.)

You see, for me, cooking lunch is so delightful because it is the ultimate selfish act. When I cook dinner for us or for company, I spend a lot of time thinking about what Tony or my guests will want, what they can or cannot eat, whether or not they are on a diet, how fancy their palettes are, etc. Once I had a girlfriend over for dinner who was a vegetarian and I spent hours researching recipes for a vegetarian-friendly southwestern corn chowder to go with my favorite roasted red pepper and manchego cheese sandwiches, because my usual prepared variety had chicken broth in it. And that was when I was working full-time. Now, I'd probably plan far enough in advance to grow the corn myself.

There is never a night in our house when I just throw open the door of the fridge and figure out what we'll eat in that moment. I plan menus at least a week in advance, so I'll have all the ingredients, Tony will have leftovers on the appropriate weekday for lunch and I can possibly create more meals out of the leftover components or ingredients. Spontaneity in my kitchen only happens out of desperation, when I haven't planned or shopped enough and there is a night when I don't have a specific recipe in mind. This usually means spaghetti or hot ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner.

But when I get ready for lunch at home, it is a whole different story. I open the cupboards and browse, I poke into the far reaches of the freezer to see what is hiding and I often spend a long time contemplating my options before beginning to cook. This is part of the fun of being home - I can choose whatever I like, without consulting anyone. My cravings are boss. For instance, I bought this box of mac and cheese two weeks ago on sale, because I like to have some quick and easy options in the house for nights when my schedule gets all screwed up. Today, I woke up craving some serious carbs and I'm always in the mood for cheese - just ask my cholesterol levels - so when I saw it languishing on the dining room table, I pounced. (If you want to know why my dry goods are hanging out on the table, I'll give you the simple explanation. We are moving and I don't have room for everything after I put half our worldly goods in the storage unit in the basement. The extra groceries are now squatting on any unoccupied real estate they can find. I am waiting for Mrs. Butterworth to set up tents and portable toilets in my living room.)

Once I started the water boiling, I thought it might be nice to add some diced tomatoes to the mix, so I dug around in a cupboard until I found a can. I was right, it is delicious. Ten minutes of cooking was never so satisfying. What would feel like a cop-out meal for dinner become a decadent lunch for one. The best part is that I didn't even have to worry about saving half for anyone else. I can eat as much as I want and enjoy every guilt-free bite.

I'm just sad that today is Friday and I won't be able to have lunch alone again until Monday. Ham and swiss with lots of mayo and some potato chips on whole-grain bread sounds fabulous.

Who is this masked man?

I'm sitting in bed right now, breaking one of my cardinal rules and typing on the computer. I'm a firm believer that bedrooms are for sleeping and that other thing and that's all. I've never been the type of person to haul televisions and computers into my bedroom for entertainment or, god forbid, work. But tonight I was willing to make an exception. Because tonight, my husband is reading a book.

Anyone who knows me knows that my favorite way to pass the time is by reading. Magazines, newspapers, books, electronics manuals, milk cartons - I read them all. If I'm sitting still for more than a few seconds, I feel like I need to be reading something. Chalk it up to the fact that my mother is a librarian if you will, but she only got that job because we spent so much time at the local library that they finally hired her. We are a family of readers. When I was growing up, Mom always made sure there was a pile of books next to our beds, by the couch, at the kitchen table, etc. We didn't have cable or anything like it and we didn't have any video game systems or games for our computer (Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing doesn't count) so reading was the only indoor leisure activity we had.

As an adult, I've gone through phases of reading more and less. The more I work, the less I read and vice versa. I always hated being really engulfed in school work because I couldn't do any recreational reading. Graduate school was especially tough because I was working full time and going to school and it was all I could do to finish my assigned reading, much less keep up with who Kate Hudson was dating or catch the latest Jodi Picoult release. I celebrated graduation as much for the freedom to choose what I read as the degree I had.

I've always used reading as an escape, as well. Reading about places was the closest I got to them as a poor farm kid growing up, and allowed me to have intelligent conversations when I was older. I may not have been to the south of France until I was in my twenties, but I could tell you all about it from the time I was 12 or 13. It was almost as good in person as it was in my head. I have a vivid imagination, inspired by years of reading and allowing my brain to create all the people and places I read about. And writing, of course, was a natural progression of my love of words.

None of my significant others have been big readers, though. I guess that's the old opposites attract thing, or it's just an symptom of my generation's reliance on electronics for communication, entertainment, education, etc. I've had boyfriends who enjoyed reading, but none as much as I. And Tony has never been a reader. He always tosses magazine articles or books at me that he's interested in and asks for the "executive summary." He even tried that with the articles our marriage counselor gave us two weeks ago. (No such luck. In fact, neither of us read it, which made the next session a little awkward.)

However, on his trip to Atlanta this week, he found a book he is really enjoying and has been reading pretty much non-stop since. He actually ditched a phone call with me in order to read, which is the only acceptable reason to ditch a phone call in my mind. And tonight after dinner, we didn't turn the TV on at all. Instead, he read his book and I plowed through several magazines that had arrived while I was gone. It was heaven - silent, peaceful and restful. No blaring TV, no loud music. The dog was even quiet. He wasn't reading anything, but he was napping quietly.

Even now, after having read for a few hours earlier, he's sitting happily beside me, reading while I type and wait for the laundry to finish up so I can put it in the dryer. (Something about Tony needing to wear pants tomorrow. Silly office dress codes.)

I asked him why the sudden change - who was this intellectual who took over my husband's body and suddenly became such a fan of reading? His response was the same as everyone I've ever met who said they didn't like reading and suddenly couldn't put a book down - he finally found a book he liked.

The problem is that most people never read for pleasure. They read for school or work, they read because it is expected of them, but they never explore the wide world of writing that exists. Someone may hate reading Ayn Rand for school and therefore think all authors write like Rand. Nothing could be further from the truth. For every Jane Austen, there is a Michael Crichton. For every Walt Whitman, there is an e. e. cummings. People of all ages, backgrounds, styles and interests write books every day. The problem is that most people are never exposed to them.

It makes me sad that so many people go through life thinking they hate to read because they've never connected with an author or subject matter. For me, reading is like trying on clothes. Not everything fits or works with my personal style. I get into the library and start shopping. I'll pull a lot of books off the shelf and read the dust jacket. If that catches me, I'll take it home and try reading a few chapters. If I'm still hooked, I'll keep reading. But if the dust jacket doesn't compel me, I'll put it back. And sometimes, I'll get it all the way home and start reading and realize this particular book just doesn't fit. So, I return it to the library on my next trip and try something else. When I find an author I like, I'll usually read all his or her work, just like with clothing designers. And when I find an author I dislike, I know to avoid him in the future.

And that highlights another problem so many people have with books. They can be expensive. Tony is a book buyer. The book he is reading now he bought at the airport. He likes to own books, to have a library to browse at home. I, on the other hand, like to borrow books. I want to read so much that it would bankrupt me to buy everything I read and I tend to never re-read a book - how can you, with so many other books to read? Instead, I borrow my books from the library, for free, and get to read as much as I want. However, I will admit to being spoiled from the days of living with my librarian mom. It was nice to have my own personal book-selector in the house. She would bring home piles of books and I'd just pick the ones I liked and ignore the rest. It got to the point where she would know pretty accurately who I would like to read and who I wouldn't. She still emails and calls all the time with authors and book names she thinks I'd like. It's a pretty awesome advantage to have in the library.

I'm tired now and I'd like to go to sleep, but I've gotta say that looking at my husband in the light of the table lamp, slowly turning the pages of his novel, is a pretty sexy thing. Maybe I'll stay up a little longer.

Actually, We don't have children

I just spent the last three days with my mother, power-shopping like we always do. The difference this time is that we were power-shopping for a house, not our feet. Okay, so I MAY have purchased three new pairs of shoes in the process, but they were totally necessary and I found them on sale and I have a problem. I have way too many shoes and I keep buying more. And I know that makes me a tired cliche of womanhood and I hate the fact that I support all those snide, eye-rolling men who talk about their wives' shoe collections like they don't spend just as much on golf clubs they use twice a year, but I just freaking love shoes and I'm done feeling bad about it. (Did I mention one pair only cost $8.98? Super steal!)

Anyhow, as Mom and I were charging from store to store (and I mean that physically and in a monetary sense), I ran into something that I hadn't yet in my time as a House Wife. I guess it is because I've been hanging out with people who know me and know that I don't work outside the home, but no one in the past five weeks has really asked me what I do for a living. However, that question is such a huge part of our casual conversation in this country that it was bound to happen. Anyone I was with more than two minutes - from furniture salespeople to the lady giving me a pedicure at the spa - asked me, "So what do you do?" or "Where do you work?" or, my personal favorite because it was the middle of the week and what would a woman of working age like me be doing running around shopping, "Are you a teacher on spring break?" 

My mom seemed much more uncomfortable with this than I was. I would just reply, "Nothing." or "I stay at home" or "Oh my God no, I'm not a teacher, don't curse me with that fate!" You know, casual answers. Better than "Nunya," which is how I respond to my husband when he asks what I've been doing all day. (For those of you not familiar with my personal vocabulary, "nunya" is short for "none of your damn business.")

After that, the explanations and questions would start. When I say "I stay at home," people would immediately assume that I have children and begin to ask about that. How old are they, how can you stand being around children all day, etc. I would then have to clarify that Tony and I don't actually have children, but we are trying and hopefully we'll have some soon. This causes confusion because people think that I'm staying home to practice being a stay-at-home-mom, which is probably unnecessary, even if I do try to push my dog around in a stroller, feed him from a bottle and change his diapers. He hates that. 

But that's when Mom would jump in. She'd hurriedly add that I'd only been staying home a month and that I'd worked full-time before that. Most people probably thought I'd lost my job - I know I would assume that in this economy. I, on the other hand, don't feel as though I need to clarify. I stay home. I don't work outside the home. I am not employed. Period. If anyone wonders anything beyond that, they can ask for details. I might answer. Or not. That's my prerogative.  

And I truly understand the confusion. Six months ago, I wouldn't have understood either. I would have asked the same questions everyone else does. What could you possibly do all day? Don't you get bored? Don't you get lonely?

So, on the four-hour drive home, when you have nothing to do but drool on yourself because the roads are so boring and endless, I thought about it. Here's what I found:

I have LOTS to do all day. In fact, most days I don't get my to-do list done. Now, I'm not flying around the house like the Tasmanian devil, but I do keep busy. Anyone who has a house knows that there is always laundry, cleaning and house stuff to do. And then there are the financial things I handle, which are busier than usual right now because it is tax season and we are finishing buying the house, but I pay the bills every week and balance the checkbook almost every morning no matter what time of year it is. Right now, I'm also starting to pack for our move in five weeks and make a million phone calls a day about moving issues. (This move feels like the invasion of Normandy sometimes. Just the other day I reserved an amphibious transport vehicle for the National Guard members I hired to help me stage a hostile takeover of the lot next to my new house. What can I say? I need more yard. ) I cook dinner every day, so in the afternoon I usually start some sort of food prep - chopping and whatnot. I go to lunch with a girlfriend a couple times a week. I work out. 

The difference between now and when I was working is that all of these things actually get done and they get done well. Before, I would pry myself out of bed at five to balance the checkbook, pay bills, throw food in the slow cooker, etc. I would kill myself on Sundays trying to get the tidying up finished and the laundry done so my assistant could fold it for me. And it never got put away. All my husbands shirts went to the dry cleaner at $2 a pop, because I didn't have time to iron. Etc. Etc. And forget having any fun or leisurely lunches. I was always working at lunch. When I quit my business, one of my girlfriends actually said, "I get my friend back!" Tell me that didn't make me want to cry. 

Do I get bored? Sometimes. Housework can be monotonous, but I try to break it up with larger projects or writing. And it is no more boring than when I was working in a cubicle all day, trapped on someone else's schedule, doing paperwork or filing or surfing the 'net. And with my business, I got bored with doing presentations and going around trying to drum up new business. I got REALLY tired of being in the car eight to 10 hours a day, that's for sure. I didn't get secretary spread, I got beauty consultant spread. Ick. My tushie is going to take months to recover. 

And as far as being lonely, at least for now, I have more people wanting to see me than I have time to see people. I always have lunch dates and people who need my help with things, from buying a car to getting ready for a yard sale. I just loan myself out for these things in order to stave off any loneliness or isolation. I've really only had one lonely day and that was because I was home sick for a week and hadn't really seen anyone or gotten out of the house. Other than that, I've been very social, much more so than when I was working. Then, I didn't have time to be social. One weekend last month, my husband and I had date night AND we saw two different groups of friends, one for dinner and another for bowling. That was more socializing than we'd done in practically a year, all in two days. And if I were more on the ball and better at getting things together, we could probably go out a few nights a week with people for double dates and group things. We have more friends than we realized we had. 

I think what most women think when they hear that I am a House Wife is that I must be missing a big piece of my identity. That is certainly what I always thought when I was working and I'd talk to someone who stayed at home. My whole identity my adult life was tied to what I did and how important my job title sounded. I concentrated so much on my career that I often didn't have hobbies or a great social life or outside interests. That's just how I've always been - laser-focused on the next big goal, the next big accomplishment. Do it, move on. Do it, move on. I was a reporter, then I owned a business, then I was in PR, then business management, then non-profit work, then owning a business again. I was very successful at all of those, but I wasn't much else. I have to think I couldn't have been very interesting. 

Now that I have time to think about who I am and what I want, it is amazing how many things I've always wanted to do that I never  have. For instance, I've always wanted to write, but I've never given myself the time to think about it enough to write anything worthwhile. When I was reporting professionally, I had to write about what I was assigned and articles about township trustee meetings are hardly a creative outlet. I love to cook and try out new recipes, but when you work all day and night, there is never a minute to shop for ingredients, let alone cook them. And so on. My identity is becoming more who I am and less and less about what I do. 

And I think more about other people in those terms now. It is less about what they do and more about who they are. Most people who aren't working in their dream job would probably appreciate this. Even if you ARE working your dream job, you are more than just what you do in the office. So, I think asking "What do you do?" only scratches the surface of a person. I'm trying to decide what question I'll ask people instead. "What is your favorite color?" "How do you like your steak done?" "How do you spend your weekends?" So many options......

If they say these questions are too personal, I'll just tell them I'm looking for ideas. After all, I'm just a bored, lonely housewife. 

Does that come with an ice maker?

Well, you all read about my mattress-buying adventures yesterday. Today was appliance day. Tony and I awoke today fully motivated to go out and spend another $3000 or so on more stuff for the new house and decided that instead of buying a pony, which is what I wanted, we'd get a fridge.

Like all things Coutsoftides, this couldn't be simple. Several weeks ago, we'd decided that we wanted a refrigerator that was all fridge and an upright freezer for the garage, instead of the crazy vertical freezer of death we have now. I don't know who invented the side-by-side freezer, but they had neither children nor frozen pizza. So, we did some comparison shopping online and discovered that freezerless fridges, as they are called, are a special order item at nearly every appliance store and we would need to give ourselves plenty of lead time on purchasing one.

So we waited a month.

Fast-forward to today. We sprang from bed at about 8-ish, full of enthusiasm for another day of shopping. Today's breakfast was a Burger King eat in the car affair, to save time and calories. Then, it was off to the Home Depot, which opens at 6 a.m. even on a Sunday. First we browsed the lawn mowers, disagreeing viciously on whether we were going to purchase an electric push mower or a giant diesel-engine lawn tractor for our half-acre lot. Tony can't even mow due to heinous grass allergies, so I'm not sure why he even gets a vote. Unable to resolve that battle without our marriage counselor, we headed into light fixtures to check out ceiling fans. We need three immediately for the house, or else we will stumble around in the half-light in three of the most important rooms - the sunroom, the bonus room and the master bedroom. None of these rooms have any lights at all at this point, which I think is hilarious given the fact that other rooms have in excess of 20,000 watts of recessed lighting each, but we don't want to live in permanent twilight, so we need to find these fans.

Let me just tell you that shopping for ceiling fans is an exercise in looking really really stupid. You stand on the floor, gazing into the air with your mouth open, pointing and grunting at fans set 30 feet up in the air in the industrial warehouse space of Home Depot.

We found nothing we liked. Well, I actually found several I liked, and Tony found several he liked, but we found nothing upon which we could agree. Shocking, I know. How my incredibly cultured, European husband could have the taste of a set director for pornographic movies in the 70's, I don't know. It baffles me. If it has fake stone, orange upholstery, shag carpet or a disco ball, he's into it. So, we'll have to pick up the ceiling fan debate at a future date. Oh, and then find someone qualified to install them, because that sure ain't us. Anything more complicated than hanging a picture (and sometimes that) requires calling in professionals.

When we finally made it to appliances, I was astounded at how small the selection on the floor appeared. Maybe I haven't been in an appliance store in a while. Maybe when I was in one before, I was much smaller. But I remember them having MORE APPLIANCES! I don't want to make a $3,000 decision based on three floor models and a picture in a catalog. The reason I came to the store instead of buying online was so that I could touch and feel the appliances, see all the features, push the buttons, stuff a cat inside and see if it fits, etc.

Add to that the fact that I couldn't find anyone to help us, and I was getting a little tense. My solution in these situations is to send Tony to find someone. He wanders five feet from me, looks in both directions and returns to tell me that there is no one working and that maybe we should just go to the next place on our list. My solution at that point is to start loudly complaining about how I'm going to just go spend my money at a competitor's store and see if anyone is desperate enough for my cash to come help. Today, Randy showed up.

Now, Randy wasn't a regular appliance guy. He's a kitchen and bath guy. But he was willing to help us figure out how to spend our appliance budget. We browsed the ridiculously small selection in the store and when none of those were even the same BRAND as the one I wanted, we got out the catalog. Great. However, we managed to find the exorbitantly priced washer and dryer I wanted (Hey - Ladies Home Journal said they were the best!) and charged them right up. It has gotten to the point where I just know going in that I'm going to choose the most expensive option for whatever decision I'm making and I should just accept it.

However, Home Depot did not carry the type of fridge I wanted, so we had to head elsewhere. Our options were to go to the mall and head to Sears or stay the hell away from the mall and go to Best Buy. I think you know which way we went.

Sitting outside Best Buy waiting for them to open was like a scene from "Night of the Living Dead." People of all ages and geek levels staggered from their cars into the bright sunlight to group up around the door and shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, pawing through the weekly circular and gnawing on body parts. I have no idea if there was some great sale going on or if Sunday morning is just the time everyone likes to go to Best Buy, but it was eerie. When the doors finally did open, we waited for the dust to clear before exiting the car and heading inside.

Here the dedicated appliance guy was working and had full knowledge of the type of fridge and freezer we wanted, was willing to price-match anyone AND gave us 18 months same as cash. I'm still considering marrying him, even if he was 74 years old and a little weird. At the very least, I was willing to kiss him for saving us some money on the whole process. Which, by the way, only took about 15 minutes. What astounds me is how Tony and I can spend such incredible amounts of money so quickly. What used to take me weeks to earn can slide out of my checking account in seconds, without even a second thought. And when you make purchases like this, you don't even have anything to show for it, besides a receipt and maybe a computer printout, which makes it even worse. If I were to buy thousands of dollars of shoes, for instance, I would leave the store laden with purchases, feeling victorious and not a little bit flush. When you can stuff the evidence of your excess in your purse, it just isn't the same.

At noon on the dot, we were back in the car and headed home, blissful at having checked a few more things off the epic to-do list we have for the new house and having added two more deliveries to the day after we close. Full-scale military invasions have had fewer moving parts than my move-in day. I have appliances, furniture, mattresses, closet people, handymen, electronics people, cable guys and moving trucks all arriving, depositing their goods and then leaving on the same day. I envision the day ending with my mattress in the garage, my freezer in the bedroom and my washer and dryer on the lawn. Which would only be appropriate, as we are moving to Kentucky. I've even considered inviting my mom to come, because if there were ever a woman prepared to launch a military invasion, it is Fairy Starling. She'll be in the front yard with her ubiquitous clipboard and stopwatch (the same ones she used to take on family vacations to make sure we were properly enriched) cracking a bullwhip and calling out insults to the delivery men. I plan to videotape it and sell it as the sequel to "Ben-Hur."

But I have six weeks to M-Day and undoubtedly need to go spend more money.

Mattress Shopping OR Laying Down in Front of Strangers While Your Clothing Bunches Awkwardly

Tony and I went mattress shopping today. We set out hopefully this morning with a $1500 budget and thoughts of plush, clean king-size sleep in our future. We stumbled home at five o'clock, exhausted, rumpled and $3400 poorer. I expect many of the thousands of Americans who bought new mattresses last year felt the same when they were finished. For a process all about getting a better night's sleep, it certainly is draining. 

I've purchased many mattresses over the years, the embarrassing result of always giving the mattress up in the divorce. Once it was the result of generosity on my part - he paid for it, I should leave it behind. The other time it was because I was trying to move out before he got home from work and at that point, I was just screaming "LEAVE IT, IT'S NOT IMPORTANT!" at the moving guys. None of the mattresses have been the providers of those dreamy, long nights of sleep you always see in movies, where a woman rolls over in a beam of sunshine with her eyeliner intact and her hair perfect. Most of mine resulted in painful tossing and turning all night and waking up to a blaring alarm with eyeliner smeared like a bad Alice Cooper impersonator and hair sticking up like those lizards who flip up a neck ruff to scare off predators. Needless to say, I was never in love with a mattress, probably the other reason I was willing to let them go along with the ex. 

When I first moved in with Tony, he had a mattress that had been very generously given to him by friends. I'm serious. Without them, he'd have been sleeping on the floor in the studio apartment we were sharing. The hygiene concerns alone with that scenario were terrifying. But there was a reason they were so willing to part with this particular mattress. It had been manufactured in 1922. Sleeping on it felt like sleeping on a pillowcase jammed full of old stuffed animals and sawdust. A distinct dent had formed in the middle of it, creating a canyon into which both Tony and I slowly rolled during the night. Every night I went to sleep praying that he got there first. He outweighs me by around 100 pounds and if I rolled first, I had to give up any hope of getting up during the night to pee, get a drink or breathe. And because he owned no other furniture, Tony had stained the bed with six month's worth of dinners, cups of tea and for some reason, about a gallon of ketchup. I maintained a strict don't ask, don't tell policy when it came to stains on the mattress. To know was to vomit. 

We graduated from that mattress to the one we sleep on now approximately 35 seconds after I moved in, when I received my tax return and spent the whole thing on a new queen-size bed. (Did I mention the other one was a full? And that my husband is not diminutive? Holy tiny bed, Batman.) That mattress has been serviceable the past two and a half years, but it still leaves sore spots on my hips and Tony's back. And this is even after following a religious flip and rotate schedule that inevitably peels one of my fingernails back to the cuticle and sparks some sort of hideous fight with our dignity, marriage and other furniture as collateral damage. We are growing to hate it. 

So this time, we were determined to not make the same mistakes. We would comparison shop. We would lay on our sides, backs, stomachs and any other body part that got close enough to the bed to vote. We would interrogate the salespeople, read the literature, examine the sliced up mini-mattresses these places always have that show you the guts of a particular mattress, chock full of steel coils, foam, duck down and magic, next to the competitor's, which is constructed solely from toxic waste and airborne asbestos fibers.  We would take notes. We would hit every mattress store in Florence, Kentucky (and there were many - at least 10!) We would find a reasonably-priced block of heaven upon which to rest our weary bones every night. Our marriage would improve, we'd look slimmer and younger. 

We jumped from bed at 7:45, massaged our sore spots, showered and headed out. We started with a trip to the new house for inspiration. Nothing helps you choose a mattress like observing the early-ish morning light in the room where you will sleep. Then it all fell apart. Because of the great time-suck that is getting ready and driving a half-hour to our new property and Tony's tendency to want to walk s-l-o-w-l-y from room to room, examining all the changes from day before, (Was that dust mote floating in the sunshine yesterday? I don't think so!) we ended up hauling into Florence, starving and crabby at 11 a.m. We hadn't eaten and my blood sugar was reaching Incredible Hulk rage levels. (YOU WON'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M HUNGRY!)

 

So we stopped in for a giant breakfast at Cracker Barrel. I don't know about you, but I can never resist a country-fried steak with biscuits, eggs and baked apples. (This is the part where I hope my personal trainer never reads this blog.) Tony, on the other hand, is a sucker for pancakes, arranged in such a disturbing way with over-easy eggs, maple syrup and ketchup that I won't subject you to the details. Suffice it to say that I usually spend breakfast with my eyes averted from Tony's plate, fork and mouth in order to preserve my enjoyment of the pile of deep-fried salt on my own plate. 

After our repast, what we wanted most was a nap, which contrary to what you might think, does not actually help in mattress shopping. We stumbled from store to store, clutching distended bellies and beaching ourselves on the shore of every Serta, Simmons, Sealy and any other S-named mattress we could find. (Side note - why do all mattress companies have such similar names? We almost ended up with one of those crazy Swedish foam things because we could actually remember the name from one store to the next.) 

Once you've sorted out where you are and who is helping you find your Sertimmonly mattress, you must decide how you like it - Do you like firm, soft, medium firm, firm with pillow top, soft support with deluxe pillow top, medium firm with super soft feather pillow top, memory foam, amnesia foam, Swedish foam, latex, non-latex buckwheat shell-filled organic cotton picked by fair-trade laborers in Eastern Mongolia, a sack of bricks with an light topping of foamessence, and on and on and on. It's like being in a Starbucks from hell - they all have funny names and you have NO IDEA what they mean. I think we almost purchased a dirty venti half-caf chai latte mattress at one point. 

Another problem for those of us who share a bed with another human (and possibly animals) - what if you don't like the same level of firmness? And what if you don't sleep the same way? Tony is stomach sleeper and I am a side sleeper, no matter what Tony says about waking up in the night to me sleeping soundly on my back, snoring away. He lies. The solution they offer is the sadistic Sleep Number bed. Don't do it. I once went on a retreat with six other women where we had sleep number beds to share and adjoining rooms in the hotel. The entire night consisted of women swearing over the sound of beds inflating and deflating while we tried to find our elusive "number." I've assigned the number 666 to all Sleep Number beds. 

Barring a sleep number, we had to compromise. So that meant laying on the beds while looking deeply into each other's eyes and repeating, "Can you live with this? I think I can." You know, foreplay for married people. It was hot. 

At the first store, a higher-end furniture store that also sold mattresses, we followed a salesperson around as she stripped lovely 23-pillow arrangements from beds and then laid on them uncomfortably as other shoppers strolled by and examined the occasional chairs to our right. They carried one line of mattresses and we didn't love any of them. We did, however design a lovely sofa that we totally didn't need. And Tony nearly broke the saleswoman's foot with a dowel rod from the fabric display wall. Not the best start to the shopping experience. 

At the next store, a mattress-only shop that carried all the S-lines and the crazy Swedish stuff, we laid on 42 mattresses at the behest of our very firm saleswoman. She was making the decisions, and you were going to like what she chose for you! We laid on pillow tops and memory foams and latex foam and coil mattresses and I think at one point, a straw tick. And then we gave up and bought one. We spent more than twice what we had budgeted on a very comfortable latex bed. I think. Pamela says we made the right decision, and I have faith in her. We stumbled back into the daylight, a little dazed and still wanting that nap. 

Looking back on the day, I'm a little ashamed that we only made it to two stores, did no negotiating, took no notes and bought what I think was the most expensive mattress we laid on. But I'm holding out hope that it will deliver the smear-proof eyeliner and sexy, wavy bed head I'm after. And if not, we can always return it within 90 days and go through the whole process again. 

Stacy and Clinton to the Rescue..sort of.

I've been watching a lot of TLC's "What Not to Wear" in the past month. And when I say a lot, I basically mean every episode that's aired in the past 30 days. Which translates to about a million hours of screen time. (Hey, I was really sick for a week and watched approximately 32 episodes a day between sips of Gatorade and blowing my nose.) 

The end result of this Stacy and Clinton overload is that I've become incredibly critical of my own wardrobe. You see, it's not easy being a fashionable House Wife. Roughly 70% of the time, I'm home with my dog, doing laundry, household projects, talking to friends, writing, etc. The dress code for these activities is pretty relaxed, as you can imagine. In fact, right now, I'm sitting here in my robe, clutching my morning cup of coffee. Mind you, it is 7:30 in the morning, so that is acceptable, but if I didn't have anywhere to go today, I could easily look like this until time to crawl into bed tonight. (I haven't done that yet - even when I was sick I got a shower and got dressed. As a child, I was never allowed to stay in my pajamas after being awake more than five minutes, and the lesson stuck.) 

Plus, I've made a deal with Tony that I will always be showered up, dressed and have my makeup done when he gets home. (I did sell makeup for a living - he got used to seeing me done up.) I understand his intention. He's trying to keep me a part of the clothed and groomed world, and I'm trying to remain attractive to the man who is allowing me this fantastic life, not greet him from the couch, covered in Cheetos and cupcake crumbs, growling like Jabba the Hut. It's a win-win. Now sometimes that might mean that I'm throwing my makeup on at 4:30 in the afternoon. But I honor my commitments. Tony really doesn't care what I'm wearing when he gets home - although he did mention something about a french-maid outfit - so long as I don't start that long, slow slide into wearing nothing but sweatpants. Usually, I wear jeans. 

When I do go out, it's mostly for errands and lunches with girlfriends. Again, not fancy-dress occasions. Usually, I wear jeans. Every once in a while I'll have a meeting with the builder of our house or one of the sub-contractors, but they wear jeans, so I feel overdressed in my party frock. Usually, I wear jeans. Date night is really the only time I get to break out of this, but if we are, say, going bowling or to hang out a friend's house and watch the game, getting really dressed up is out of the question. Usually, I wear jeans. Jeans with heels, but still jeans. 

But here's the hard part - I don't like jeans. Never have. Another part of my childhood indoctrination, where I was taught that jeans were for farming and/or construction work and that ladies just don't wear jeans. (I did both farming and construction work in my youth.) Ladies wear dresses or in dire circumstances, trousers. Nice trousers with a blouse. I was the most dressed-up kid you ever saw in school. Some of the other students actually asked if I was a member of a religion that required wearing skirts. How they came to that conclusion when I was wearing a camouflage mini-skirt I don't know. (My mother had a bit of a quirky side to her clothing choices for me. By the time I reached high school, she thought I should dress exclusively from Hot Topic. I was more of a Lauren Ralph Lauren girl. And the only sophmore in my high school who dressed like a 50-year-old socialite.)  But I enjoyed it. I liked being a little different, feeling like you didn't have to have a special occasion to put on nice clothes. 

Even in college, I dressed up. Well, except for my senior year, when I was in the midst of a deep depression and wore the same pair of bib overalls about three times a week. It was ugly. But we got through it and eventually gave those bibs to the Goodwill. Some other college student in a deep funk can have them. 

I seriously never imagined myself in a situation where jeans would be my day-to-day attire. All my jobs have been professional and required business dress. I have racks of suits and dresses and skirts in my closest. The floor is covered with stilettos, wedges and slingbacks in every color and texture. My professional wardrobe is well-edited, flattering and appropriate, with touches of color and texture and personality. I love my work clothes. 

My casual wardrobe is something else entirely. I own one pair of jeans that kind of fit and that I like to wear. I have a few casual shirts, some sweaters and a few jackets that can work for business or casual. But that's about it. The problem is that when I had money to buy clothes, I always spent on business stuff. I felt like that was the clothing that made me money, so I should spend on it. When it came to my casual stuff, I wore it maybe once a week and it didn't matter if I only had three options. I could rotate. 

Now that my life is 99% casual, I'm in a pickle. Enter Stacy and Clinton. For all their "contributors," they devise work, casual and evening outfits. I analyze those casual outfits like they are the dead sea scrolls. I look at the jackets, the shoes, the accessories. I listen to what kind of jeans they recommend for what kinds of body types. I now know the difference between a low-rise and a mid-rise jean and that my pants should start an inch and a half to two inches below my belly button, and not a fraction lower or higher. I know that a structured jacket can save just about any outfit and that my tops should have texture and visual interest, instead of the plain t-shirts I tend to wear endlessly. I know my accessories should be bolder and more selective and that I should buy two pairs of the jeans I love and have one altered for flats and the other for heels. 

I take all this information in and store it in the shopping part of my brain. And then I go out and buy dresses like the ones Stacy wears on the show every week. Tailored, unique and fabulous, they speak to me like no pair of jeans ever could. And the shoes. Oh, God, the shoes. Who wants comfortable (but classy!) shoes you can grocery shop in when you can have a killer pair of hot-pink stilettos?

I know, I know. It makes no sense. I guess I just refuse to believe that women won't return to a time when dresses were acceptable no matter where you were and jeans were reserved for construction workers and farmers. A girl can dream.