My Man has expensive taste in tennis rackets, like I have expensive taste in wine glasses and footwear.
Because he is both a bargain hunter and a risk taker, he decided to order his fancy racket from the internet. He found some site advertising the desired racket for $100 less than retail and ordered it. What a deal! A month later the racket arrived in what looked like a child’s art project of cardboard, duct tape and Chinese newsprint, but sure enough, it was the racket he hoped for. Despite the questionable wrapping, the racket was certifiably legit.
A few months later my little athlete wanted to order a backup racket, in case he gets intense and breaks a string mid-match. The site he ordered the first racket from was down, so he found another site, offering the same racket for less than retail. I said he was pressing his luck to trust cyberspace sellers again, but he ordered it nonetheless.
Within days it arrived in pristine FedEx packaging. Thrilled to get another great deal on a fancy racket, he proudly took it to the tennis shop to get it strung. The tennis pro took one look at it and declared the racket a fake! A fraud! A knockoff! A Prado not a Prada. A Channel not a Chanel. Unfortunately and surprising to no one, his counterfeit purchase left no paper trail and as expected, the vendor’s website was no longer in existence.
I told My Man he got served. We high-fived because it’s required when someone makes a hilarious pun.
As a last resort, he decided to tell the credit card company about being dumb enough to order something from a shady site on the worldwide web hoodwinked by the tennis racket seller. So he took up the counterfeit issue with American Express and that very day the credit card company issued him a full refund. No questions asked.
That my friends, is customer service.
So to thank American Express for their good deed, I have come up with a few new slogans for them:
American Express You got played? We’ll get you paid.
American Express When it was too good to be true.
American Express We got your back when you get jacked.
American Express When they sell you a phony, we’ll refund your mon-ey.
American Express We’ll make um shake when they sell you a fake.
And one more for the road…
American Express Your wife may say “I told you so,” but we won’t.
Last weekend we headed up to Nashville to visit one of My Man’s very best friends in the whole world, Andrew. Andrew and his wife Towles lived in Atlanta until a pretty sweet job offer lured their growing family to Nashville (hopefully temporarily). They were both in our wedding and are just flat out some of my very favorite people. We miss them a lot.
We had a ball in one of my favorite cities, but the best part was just knowing how happy My Man and his friend were to be together. Something that continues to bring me joy is the relationship My Oneandonly has with his friends. He has an overflowing handful of legitimately fun friends who do typical guy things like compete and talk about sports and share appreciation of adult beverages—but they take their friendships much further. They are committed to each other, they ask hard questions and want to know what’s really going on in each other’s lives. My man has friendships that go long and deep. It warms my heart.
Loving his friend’s wives, which I do(!), is a superduperbonus. And when one of your besties marries one of your man’s, well that’s a superduperdoublebounus…
So single ladies, I have one more requirement to add to your list of must haves for your future mate: Make sure he has some deep relationships with quality friends. It speaks volumes to his character.
That ranks higher on the future husband wish list than athleticism and musical talent. And just below good looks and rock hard abs.
I selected option D. My Man has All of the Above.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to prioritize.
I am one of many Americans who loves a good before & after. Home improvements, dramatic weight loss, makeovers, de-cluttered hoarder garages–I love them all.
So here are the promised before & afters from last week’s emo haircut.
Before:
After:
Dang.
As expected, I still like the before better.
Wait. Let me track down an even more recent before picture. Oh, here it is:
Look at me! I was a total mess before. Missing teeth, unsightly acne, chin hair and a unibrow.
The new look is much, much better. Man, what a great haircut.
I had myself a good hard cry last night.
Over a bad haircut.
I have NEVER cried over a haircut but I just couldn’t help it. The hair cutter took it all away. It is so stinking short that it hardly fits in a ponytail. Think Jennifer Aniston in the early 90s but shorter. And exactly—literally word for word—what I told her I didn’t want my hair to look like.
I hated it when I got it cut, but I managed to not think about it. Then things got ugly when I was confronted with the bathroom mirror whilst brushing my teeth. Tears. Ugly cry. My puffy red cry face made the haircut look worse. So I cried some more.
I admit that I have judged you girls who’ve cried over something as trivial as a bad haircut. Now I am one of you. Blah blah blah, it will grow back. Blah blah blah, its only hair. Blah blah blah, earthquake in Haiti. Anyone who has been in this situation knows that those well intentioned sentiments don’t really help mid cry.
For some real sympathy I called my sister who was recently injured by the eyebrow waxer (and cried about it). I’ve been there before too—you look like you’re wearing bright red eye shadow for about two weeks until the scabs heal. She consoled me and recommended some vitamins that make hair grow faster. That’s what I am talking about—sympathy and concrete advice. We laughed about how silly it is to cry about something as vain and insignificant as hair and eyebrows, andthenIcriedalittlemore.
I’ll post some before and after pictures once I get my act together (read: get fresh highlights, tame the brows, put on makeup and a cute outfit to make to make the best of the situation).
Well, the Good Lord sure knows how to humble me. I am grateful he took away my hair, not an arm…or my legs.
So I think Ill put what’s left of my hair in a stubby ponytail and take these legs for a walk.
Perspective, it’s all about perspective.
It’s that time of year again—the stores have all extended their hours, the city is all a buzz with preparations, and there is a palpable excitement in the air. The sun shines a little brighter, people smile a little bigger, strangers give me high-fives on the street, and I get no red lights.
That’s right, it’s my birthday week month season.
Technically my birthday isn’t until Sunday, August 1st, but my sister was in town from Nashville so we kicked off the festivities early with a family celebration last night.
The birthday meal, by request:
While I was quite sure what I wanted for my birthday dinner, the only direction I gave for dessert was something with strawberries. This is the masterpiece made with love by my mom and my sister.
It was divine. Seconds were had by all. Thirds were had by the Birthday Girl. You can find the recipe here.
What’s that? You say you need gift ideas? I’m pretty sure our wedding registry is still active at Bloomingdales and Williams-Sonoma. And a gift card always fits.
Today is the end of the 5-7 day window where standard shipping rates apply–so I’ll let you get to it.
I may have a case of self diagnosis-osis, but one thing I am sure of is my chronic case of motion sickness. Extreme nausea is inevitable when I travel on curvy roads, in taxi cabs, backety-backs of station wagons and in cars with bad smells. I would rather drink a whole bottle of nasty green NyQuil than go deep sea fishing with you. But thanks for the invite. That was so thoughtful! What kind of ungrateful child seriously contemplated suicide on a luxurious sailing trip around the British Virgin Islands? This one.
(Apologies-I got a little carried away putting an X on things that induce nausea. )
I have tried all of the o.t.c. meds with no success. Although taking Dramamine may relieve motion sickness, the side effects make me feel like an unstable self-medicating has-been child actor who mixed up her am and pm “prescriptions.”
Worse than nausea, to be sure.
Because I didn’t want to arrive at our destination feeling like a Lohan, I decided to do take the homeopathic route this go round. So on the way to the Carolina mountains last weekend I did a little product test–
Sea Bands. The box says that they work for motion sickness, sea sickness and morning sickness. A lifetime investment, really.
Through some sort of voodoo witchcraft called “acupressure” they press on a secret vein and effectively make you not want to end it right now when you are on curvy roads (or at sea or with child).
Price: $9ish. Worth it.
Side Effects: None. Other than a few side eyes when I walked into Zaxby’s with intense wristbands, but no long term damage.
Style Points: Zero. Just be sure your ensemble compliments the sensible gray band.
The verdict: Two enthusiastic thumbs up. No nausea!
We left Friday after work and 2.75 hours and a Zac Attack later we arrived in the North Carolina mountains. Our friends, who were fortunate enough to begin their weekend on Wednesday, guaranteed that they would stay up late with us to make the night drive worth our while. They kept their word.
Here is some of the gang roasting s’mores over the outdoor fire pit late into the night. Always pack an Eagle Scout on mountain vacations. You never know what might come up.
Sorry for the dark picture—my camera settings are much too much for me to figure out under the influence of wine and darkness.
We slept late on Saturday morning. Like college Sunday late. It is amazing what our bodies are capable of with black-out curtains and without construction going on outside (I’m talking to you next door neighbors!).
Waking up here was really nice.
We had a ball and thoroughly enjoyed lots of laughing, swimming, hot tubing, amazing meals, a muddy hike through the wilderness and top-notch conversations. Fun was had by all.
The moral of the story: Invite us to your vacation home. We do the mountains just as well as we do the beach–and we are really good guests. We get along easily with all kinds. We promise to laugh at your jokes and give you compliments.
Tim Riggins—Friday Night Lights
What is it about those good looking bad boys who don’t give a damn that make us girls go weak in the knees? All I’m sayin is that I could have made him happier than Lyla Garrity ever could. He is one of a dozen reasons why you ladies will love watching Friday Night Lights even if you have no interest in football.
Wolfie—9 by Design
Who the hell is Justin Bieber and why are 13 year old girls fainting and screaming over this one trick pony with thick bangs? So listen up! This is a public service announcement aimed at the 9-16 age bracket: Wolfie Novogratz is your cure for Bieber Fever. He is super cool for a 13 year old, probably due in-part to the influence of his amazing parents, he has better hair than Bieber, and I know he would beat Bieber in any athletic event from one-on-one hoops to a thumb war. Find him, pre-teens. He lives in New York.
Jason—Bethenny Getting Married
OK, I know he is taken (so am I thankyouverymuch). He is on the list because of the way he loves Bethenny. Man, he loves her well and we all know that she can be a live wire, to put it mildly. I love her too. I have to admit that I got misty eyed watching the rehearsal dinner episode last week. I am so happy for them.
Anderson Cooper- Anderson Cooper 360
I love a man with a full white head of hair and a young face, who stays up on his current events. Deal with it.
Speculations about his sexuality have no place in this discussion.
Don Draper-Mad Men
He is dapper, masculine, has superb insight into the minds of the consumer, he is mysterious, he is—enough from me, Ill let the pictures do the talking.
So that’s my quick list of fictional television crushes. Who’s on your list?
Phil Dunphy? Dr. Phil? Dr. Oz? Jim Halpert? Pat Sajck? Chris Harrison?—Come to think of it, he is on my list:
Chris Harrison-The Bachelor(ette)
Our Host Chris Harrison has what may be the best job ever. He gets to travel the world on ABC’s dollar and he works for a total of 10 minutes a week, save for the hour-long “Women Tell All” shows, and the therapy sessions with former bachelor couples with dysfunctional relationships. He seems to be great friends with all of the Bachelors and Bachelorettes, and the kind of guy who both women and men can spill their guts to. Under that well tailored Gucci suit hides a treasure of a man: part therapist, part friend, with a secret killer sense of humor. “Gentlemen, Ali, the final rose of the evening…” Now that is talent. I am willing to bet he is the godfather of one or both of Trista and Ryan’s children. And we very well may ask him to be the godfather of our firstborn, when the time comes.
My final rose goes to you, Chris Harrison.
My Man and I see eye to eye on most things. But one area where we don’t quite agree is on the topic of indoor pest control.
If a bug is in the house, I kill it with a mixture of revulsion and delight. No questions asked. This is normal, I say! No I don’t kill bugs in their natural habitat and know from 2nd grade science that they are an integral part of the food chain. But anything else alive, other than select domestic house pets after undergoing a thorough review, is unwelcome in our home.
If there is a bug in our house, My Man’s mission is to save its life (from death by my shoe) and kindly escort it out the door unharmed. He takes his membership to the Nature Conservancy literally. Like a six year old boy, he gets a red cup and a piece of paper and begins talking to the insect. He then ever so gently captures the bug in the cup without so much as injuring one of its tiny legs, and carefully escorts it outside. He probably even names them. Sweet, right? Yeah, great in theory, but eight times out of ten the bug gets away and continues residence in our home. That whole dance used to make me really frustrated. Now I just leave the room and let him have his way.
I recently came across this Bug Vacuum, It sucks a bug in and then releases it without harm. Perhaps this will make his efforts more effective-and entertaining for spectators (i.e. me).
This is the kind of item that one can most likely find in Sky Mall Magazine, the clearing house for single-purpose and ridiculously unnecessary gadgets. Like this:
Ah, hours of entertainment await at SkyMall.com. (Sky Mall is that magazine they urge you to take for free(!) from the seat-back pocket on the airplane). But I digress…
And just to clarify, we do agree on one insect, and that is roaches. Ahem, palmetto bugs. Yes, even my little buglover kills roaches with gusto. If we didn’t see eye to eye on that there would be squabbles. This was him on Sunday night after an unwelcome intruder scurried under our oven. He had a shoe in one hand, a coat hanger for coaxing in the other and the Raid nearby. I couldn’t have been more proud of his efforts. It was like hearing a nun say a four letter word, or seeing a vegetarian eat bacon.
I wasn’t one of those girls who sent out a mass email after our rehearsal dinner to inform friends and colleagues that I have a new email address with my New Last Name. I didn’t change my name on Facebook on the way to the airport for our honeymoon and I didn’t remember to change my voicemail post-nuptial until a friend reminded me to. I have gradually made those changes over the past year, but there was one thing I was holding out on—legally taking My Man’s last name.
Well, a year and something blissful months after saying “I do,” I finally went through the gauntlet of federal bureaucracy at the Social Security office and the DMV and changed my name. It’s official. I am now legally a [Redacted New Last Name].
Holding out on this detail wasn’t an issue of independence, feminism or equality. There was no thought of hyphens or keeping my maiden name, so I don’t know why it’s taken so long. Well, I do. Taking two days out of the work week to navigate through downtown Atlanta, pay for parking, and wait in line at federal buildings just never topped my list. But suddenly it became important to me to do this and make it official. Although parting with my name- my identity for 28 years is a big deal, and I now have a last name that requires me to spell it out when I make reservations and hair appointments, he is totally worth it. I think this marriage is going to work…
I wrapped my new driver’s license with my New Last Name in a little box and I put it under My Man’s pillow for him to find tonight. Surprises? I’m full of um.
Now by heart and by law I am Jennifer [Old Last Name] [New Last Name].
Overnight, my old stationary and monogrammed towels have become collector’s items.
Let the bidding begin.
