It’s time to pack up the pilgrim people and move onto The Main Event.
Cue the carolers:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NtDbBd8yh9U
Christmas time is here! And with it comes decorations, carols, cookies, presents, fires, presents, hustle and bustle, hanging stockings by the chimney with care, the Vienna Boys Choir, greeting cards, presents, sugarplums, and invitations!
To parties!
I opened the mailbox today and to my delight, there was something there other than a catalog, a subscription renewal notice, or a utility bill. Addressed to me and My Man in beautiful cursive print, I opened the envelope and pulled out a gorgeous embossed invitation. It’s for a Christmas party later this month, hosted by [Mr.] and [Mrs.] [Last Name], at their home. How festive!
Except for the fact that I have NO IDEA who these people are. I called My Man assuming that the host was a work colleague of his. He didn’t have even a vague recollection of ever meeting these people. He had exactly no idea who the [Redacted Last Names’] are either.
No, this wasn’t a group email or a mass mail Evite sent electronically from a friend of a friend or a friend-in-law. Nope, this was a stamped and printed invitation with our name and handwritten address on it. When the [Last Names] were sitting down writing out the guestlist for their intimate Christmas party, they put us on it.
I immediately Googled their names, individually and as a couple and came up with nothing helpful. Then I turned to Google Image Search. This is what they came up with. These men all share the name of the party host:
Nope, don’t know any of them. Yowza.
So I ask, should we go to the party? We can’t decide if it would be ruder to go (show up, eat their food, drink their wine, and have them wonder who that strange couple is)– Or is it ruder not to go (and have them really feel the void of not having us at the party)?
What would you do?
And this time of year begs the question, what would (the baby) Jesus do?
The internet is all abuzz with Thanksgiving culinary masterpieces, so it is only fair that I join in on the fun and share this recipe.
They are called Pumpkin Gooey Butter Cakes and they make pumpkin pie feel like the third sister-wife of the dessert table. I figured many of you would be planning your Turkey Day menus in the next 24 hours, so I urge you to include these in your spread. Would I lead you astray on a day with this much at stake? Certainly not.
You can tell by the title that this recipe is clearly a Paula Deen creation. Only she would title a recipe “Gooey Butter Cakes.” Thanksgiving is her bailiwick. No contest.
Usually I have a nose for the more nutritionally balanced recipes, but this is a well-worth-it exception. And if you want to make yourself feel better about the two sticks of butter in this recipe, remember that pumpkin is a vegetable. Or is it a fruit? Either way.
Pumpkin Gooey Butter Cakes
Ingredients
Cake:
- 1 box yellow cake mix
- 1 egg
- 8 tablespoons butter, melted
Filling:
- 1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, softened
- 1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree (NOT pumpkin pie filling)
- 3 eggs
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
- 8 tablespoons butter, melted
- 1 (16-ounce) box powdered sugar – equivalent to 3 3/4 cups (reserve a 3 Tbsp for dusting)
- 1 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1 teaspoon nutmeg
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
Combine the bag of cake mix, egg, and butter and mix well with an electric mixer. Pat the mixture into the bottom of a lightly greased 13 by 9-inch baking pan.
To make the filling: In a large bowl, beat the cream cheese and pumpkin until smooth. Add the eggs, vanilla, and butter, and beat together. Next, add the powdered sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and mix well. Spread pumpkin mixture over cake batter and bake for 40 to 50 minutes. Check on them after about 35 minutes so you make sure not to overbake them. The center should be a little gooey. Let the pan cool completely before you cut the squares. You could even pop the cooled pan in the fridge before cutting them to get extra clean cuts. Dust them with powdered sugar to make them extra pretty before serving them.
Please, please trust me on this one. Tear up that stale pumpkin pie recipe and enjoy this variation. Just put on your heals and your naughtiest of aprons
Gobble. Gobble.
Helping the Cause or Hurting the Cause?
In today’s edition of helping the cause or hurting the cause, I present these signs:
I saw this last week on the side of an abandoned building in back roads of Somewhere, South Carolina. I made politely asked my Handsome Driver to turn around so we could get a closer look.
Yikes.
I thought it was called the Good News…? This feels a lot more like a threat.
I ask you this: Are you motivated by threat of punishment or promise of reward?
They may want to rethink their strategy. Perhaps a more loving message? Something about Joy? Forgiveness? Grace?
If it is the afterlife they are set on, I suggest a more Heaven (rather than Hell) centered approach. Consider a sign about how Heaven is a magical place full of laughter and ice cream and everyone you’ve ever loved—where its always the weekend and where we’ll all be able to fly, eat bottomless bowls of cereal and sing in perfect pitched harmony. I know that would make me much more likely to buy whatever it is they are selling.
As the saying goes, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
I’m back from a week-long stay at the beach! This vacation has been a looooong time coming. Last year at this time, My Man and I were all packed up and enroute to the coast when I got the sad call that my grandmother Mema had passed away. We immediately turned around and came back home to be with my family.
We thought that surely we would be able to get a refund for our untouched rental house. But the owners would hear none of it.
After a dramatic letter-writing campaign that all but included sending Mema’s obituary and funeral program to those heartless sticklers at the vacation rental company, they finally let us reschedule our vacation for the following year-as long as we were able to come exactly the same week. Never in my life have I had anything planned this far in advance.
So a year of anticipation later, we were beachside.
That is what the South Carolina beach looks like the first week of November. No people and no children! Judge away at the darkness of that last sentence, but there is something sublimely peaceful about the beach during the school year.
Our friends Ron and Martha came for Part I of the trip. We ate and drank well and in large quantity, biked, bocced, beached, Baileyed and played Spades into the wee hours. Fun was had by all. Ron and Martha experienced the best of the beach weather-and when they left the sun went with them.
It was cold, rainy and windy Tuesday through Thursday, so we filled our time with card games, novels, magazines and a new season of Friday Night Lights. Like hobo’s who rummage through trashcans and smoke discarded cigarette butts to get their nicotine fix, My Oneandonly and I were able to overcome the obstacle of a busted 1982 VHS player and find the nearest Wal-Mart to buy one of those magic cords that rigamajigs the computer to the TV. Streaming Netflix on-demand? DontmindifIdo. Tim Riggins and I reunited and my support for the Dillon Panthers is renewed.
Exhale.
On the coldest days, we pretended we were at a ski lodge, drinking hot tea and using the beach house’s big bathtub as if it were a slope-side hot-tub. [No pictures] [Bowchicka BowWow]. So what if I am paler than I was before I left for the beach-Vacation is Vacation! And we are really good at vacation.
Last time we got back from a week at the beach, we took the proper precautions to make re-entry as painless as possible.
Even helmets couldn’t protect us from what was waiting for us at home this time around. Coming back from vacation in April with spring weather ahead is one thing, but coming back to 6pm darkness and winter looming is quite another.
Winter hit Atlanta last week and the heat in our drafty house works like crap isn’t exactly energy efficient. And while we were away, basement dwelling Chuck sent us an email to inform us that we had a water situation on our hands. Because of a major leak, our water had to be turned off to minimize possible damage. The situation is not yet remedied and we are still waterless.
I’m using handi wipes to wash my hands, sleeping in a hooded sweatshirt and socks, rationing the remaining Brita pitcher supply, and dry brushing my teeth. And I saw a bug. It’s kind of like we’re camping. Only no Brownie patches will be awarded for the hardships I have endured. The smell of pumpkin baked goods, my DVRed Sister Wives interview with Natalie Morales, the nearing “appropriate” time to crank up the Christmas carols, and fond vacation memories are the only things keeping my campfire burning.
Back to the billable hour.
My last workout video review was of The Tracy Anderson Method DVD. I first read about it on Gwyneth’s Paltrow’s blog, GOOP, where she raved about her personal success with “the method.” Not one to second guess Gwyneth, I ordered the unusually expensive DVD, did the workout and reviewed it on the blog. I have done the workout a total of ONCE since that post because it was torture in that slow boring 7th period Latin kind of way. I stared at the DVD timer and felt every minute. I might consider selling it to you if the price is right.
Couldn’t help it.
I couldn’t let that one bad experience ruin the entire genre of celebrity endorsed workout DVDs, so I’m back with my review of “Body by Bethenny:Unleashing Your Inner Skinnygirl.” Before we begin, let me just say that I love Bethany. She made me laugh on the Real Housewives of New York as the rose among crazy caddy thorns. I followed her to her spin-off, Bethenny Getting Married, where the witty New York business mogul forayed into the world of marriage and motherhood. From that show we learned that she is as deep and honest as she is funny, and far more important than any of those virtues, she was able to bounce back to her pre-pregnancy body in a flash. Her workout video practically jumped into my Amazon cart all by itself.
In the video, Bethenny is led through the workout by her yogi, Kristin McGee “trainer to the stars.” Bethany isn’t the one calling the shots since Kristin is the certified fitness instructor. Kristin is super bendy, but it is nice to see that Bethenny doesn’t do all of the yoga poses perfectly. She offers a real-person modification for some moves and the occasional witty aside. I am not as familiar with yoga, so I think it will be awhile before I can put the video on mute and get down with my own supplemental soundtrack. Even with the volume on, the workout went by pretty fast and I felt like it worked, stretched and lengthened my muscles. My inner skinny girl was unleashing herself.
The workout is 40 minutes and it toned my abs, thighs, glutes, and arms–and after a few times I felt like it had increased my flexibility and balance. The DVD also has a few bonus features: a focused, 10-minute strength-training segment and a 5-minute “Booty Blast.” The moves in the bonus segments were totally generic, but I can see myself doing that portion of the video when I need someone famous telling me what to do.
In the video, Bethany assures us that this is all she does for exercise. Unfortunately, Nancy Drew I noticed full-on gym equipment in her bedroom during an episode of her show. But don’t tell her I told you because I’m hoping she’ll want to be real-life friends one day. Outing each other on the internets is no way to start a friendship.
The verdict: I will definitely include this in my winter weather (indoor) workout rotation. I didn’t sweat—which gets high marks on my ratings scale—but I still felt like I got a solid muscle burning workout.
I wrapped up my homage to Bethenny by cracking open a bottle of Kombucha, a drink she is seen drinking on the show and has mentioned in magazine interviews. Among other virtues, it claims to support digestion, immune system, liver function, anti-aging, invisible powers and x-ray vision. I know my BFF Bethenny is a big fan of it, so I assumed I would be too. I was wrong. Kombucha is made-up mythical drink language for fermented tea that tastes like mold. It smells like rot and has live things floating in it. I got the Cosmic Cranberry variety but I’m guessing that all of the flavors taste the same. It must be an acquired taste. The same way drinking Pine-Sol is an acquired taste.
I’ll stick with the video.
We rent the main floor of a cute little house, and someone else rents the basement floor below us. That someone we will refer to as Chuck to protect his anonymity for the purpose of this blog post. My Man and I actually do call him Chuck anyway so that when we talk about him he won’t know it.
Chuck is a tall and nice looking gentleman banker, about 35 years old. He has his own entrance and parking spot and all I know about him is what I have concluded from his mail which I peruse in our shared mailbox. Judging from his catalogs, he likes mountain bikes and camera equipment. Oh, and he likes video games. He likes to play games with the bass on max, I thought Atlanta was being invaded by terrorists until I realized that Chuck was playing some exploding gun video game downstairs.
Unfortunately, he has the same taste in music that I had when I was 9-bad 80’s music from one-hit-wonder bands (only without the Mariah and Amy Grant). There was that Friday when at around 2pm he put the song “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung on repeat. It was torture the first time. By the third time I was placing an order for these. I guess he was getting even with us for that night when My Man was singularly delighted by Kenny Rogers B-sides at 3am after a big night out.
Chuck has a looooongtime on-again off-again girlfriend. (The frequency of the violent video games and the loud bad music definitely increase when they’re off-again.) She is obsessed with her yappy Chihuahua and she’s not much of a smiler. And she certainly isn’t pretty enough to redeem for the fact that she treats Chuck the way a too cool teenage girl treats her annoying little brother. Usually my man and I just make stuff up about them-stories, conversations, speculations about their comings and goings, you know. But recently things have gotten pretty interesting.
The other night I was watching some DVRed reality show. Likely Sister Wives (guilty) or Giuliana & Bill. I think the reason I like reality TV is because it’s like listening in on other people’s conversations. All of the sudden I heard loud conversation coming from Chuck’s basement. I quickly turned off the TV to tune into the reality drama taking place downstairs between Chuck and his girlfriend. For about an hour I sat with my ear to the basement door soaking it all in. It was better than any reality television I have seen in a while.
The fight between Chuck and his girlfriend that night was absolutely epic. In one evening, they managed to cover every single base on the fighting spectrum:
Money
Sex
Commitment
Children
The Future
Chuck was making a surprising amount of sense. His girlfriend, on the other hand, is crazy. Here are some highlights from the girlfriend. I censored her dreadful language. Remember that these were all spoken somewhere between a scream and a yell:
- “So then what? We’ll just wait till you’re ready to get married. Pathetic.”
- “Damn it, Chuck. You are 30 effin 5. Don’t you think its time to get your s*it together and buy your own home! What are you effin waiting for”
- “So I assume you think we can have kids when I’m 40. By then your sperm will have dried up.”
- “No one is ever actually ready to get married. You just eff-ing do it.”
- “So you want our kids to grow up without a parent at home? You expect me to actually work when we have kids. By then you sure as hell better earn enough so I don’t have to.”
- “You lying piece of s*it. You don’t go driving around with a real estate agent unless you are actually going to buy a house you pansy.”
- “My friends think I am an idiot for waiting around for you. They tell me I could do so much better.”
- “You don’t know how lucky you are to have me. You don’t deserve me.”
- “Which one of your jackass friends is putting this s*it in your head? Your friends are pathetic.”
Verbatim. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. After a solid hour of drama, she slammed the door and her car reversed out of our shared driveway. I am really hoping he comes to his senses and ditches the zero.
Chuck. Break up with her. She treats you like crap. She emasculates you, bashes your friends, and constantly reminds you that she could do soooo much better. You can do better.
So Bravo and A&E, consider this a pitch letter for future programming. The show would be called Relationship Interventions. Friends, roommates, (or first-floor tenants) tape secret footage of relationships gone wrong. Then they intervene before it’s too late.
It’s not too late.
Team Chuck.
Braves vs. Phillies
My Roommate happens to be a huge Braves fan. He love love loves the Braves, but his fandom isn’t happy-go-lucky crackerjack eating, chipper enthusiasm for the team. We went to a Braves game this week and left in the 5th inning when the other team hit a grand slam. He’s not a fair-weather fan, it’s just that the bad weather cuts him to the core–it hurts him deep. He was raised in Atlanta as a Braves fan and a baseball player so it is in his blood. His deep love for the sport and the team means that he paces, talks to the television, and shakes his head in disagreement when the other team has men on base. Last night he quickly turned off the TV when our pitcher intentionally walked someone and the Giants got a run—and started furiously cleaning the kitchen counters. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard “our whole season comes down to this pitch,” “that error was our season” or “there goes our season,” I would be able to quit my day job and live a life of leisure. Until I got married and witnessed this love/hate relationship with a sports team firsthand, I didn’t understand how you can be so emotionally entangled with an outcome you have absolutely no control over. I still don’t totally understand it, but I definitely find that I too have come to care more about our home team than I ever thought I would. I have overheard myself say “we” referring to the Braves. I know ESPN is channel 846. And I admit to checking game scores on my blackberry on rare occasion. Brian McCann is my Brave. The tomahawk chop fires me up.
- B-Mac. Hearts.
The Braves are down one game in a five game series with the San Francisco Giants. My Man is not at all optimistic about our team’s chances to make it any further in the post-season, but he holds onto hope nonetheless. (Read: we are the underdog). Furthermore, it’s Bobby Cox’s last season, our best two players are hurt, and our current roster is a ragtag crew of many a career minor leaguer. Who can’t get behind that story? It works on me every time. Go Braves.
The National
Tuesday we went to go see The National at the Fox. This was the second time I have seen them in concert, but this time they were the headliner and playing a more intimate arena. Their music somehow manages to walk the line between melancholy and energy—and the lead singer’s distinctive deep voice is pretty powerful. The show closed with the group unplugging their instruments and inviting the crowd to sing the song “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks” acappella. Here it is for you listening pleasure. Clearly not the official video but that’s how YouTube works.
Waiting for Superman
On Wednesday, I saw a screening of the highly buzzed about documentary hosted by KIPP, a network of charter schools featured in the film. I left feeling sad and inspired and challenged to do something about the crisis that is public education in America. And I’m going to do something about it.
See it. I’ll go with you.
Our family certainly loved our pets but we didn’t let the pets run the show around the house. We took good care of them, but our dog knew she was a dog. Our cocker spaniel, Jingle Bell (RIP), was not on a regular walking schedule and she didn’t eat organic dog food. Of course, she got groomed and cuddled and made regular trips to the vet, but never slept inside or wore seasonal sweaters. We also had two cats over the years, the dearly departed Skeeter and CowCat. All the animals in our family had it pretty good, and they even made the Christmas cards every now and then.
Late into the Skeeter years, another cat from the other side of the tracks was making itself very comfortable in our driveway. Now this wasn’t a sweet, lost housecat, this was a wild mangy voodoo wilderness cat with the intention of corrupting or killing our Skeeter. We called the cat Lucifer and did our best to protect Skeeter from Lucifer’s demonic antics. Lucifer hissed and growled and cast spells and hated children. It was rumored that he was seen eating a snake. Unfortunately Lucifer’s unnerving presence triggered the onset of Skeeter’s persistent anxiety attacks, hair loss and bout with bulimia. We tried to tame and train Lucifer, but it was useless. Eventually, we made a family decision that Lucifer had to go.
First we tried to capture Lucifer and take him to the humane society. Boldface lie. We never had any intention of taking him to the humane society. We were going to just release him in another neighborhood somewhere far far away-or on interstate I75. I once used Lucifer as a barging tool to convince my parents to let me go to a concert in Birmingham. “But mom, please let me go. I promise I will capture Lucifer and leave him in the woods in Alabama.” We set a series booby-traps with strings and boxes. We tried everything to cage that hellcat, but no success. We even tried to con it into submission using the sweet here-kitty-kitty voice but he wasn’t falling for it. Since we couldn’t catch it, we conspired to kill it. Would antifreeze covered cat food end the madness?
Drastic times. Drastic measures.
Had you for a second, didn’t I? DON’T WORRY, PETA-we didn’t go that far.
But we thought about it.
In the end, we called Critter Catchers and a manly woman with a mullet and a backwoods southern accent happily took care of the situation.
I dare you to find someone who loves their job more than the proud members of the Animal Control Unit.
The End.
I stopped by my parents’ house on Sunday 1. because I love them (hi mom!) and 2. because my mom said, “we have tons of delicious leftovers for yall from the party—fruit, brownies, muffins, extra…” by the time she finished the sentence I was already in their driveway. It seems that I have a college boy mentality when it comes to free food. Thankfully the promise of an open bar doesn’t lure me places as quickly as it once did. Progress?
Anyway, while I was at my parents’ house stocking up like a storm was coming, I took a peek in my childhood bedroom to check things out. Every time I am there I notice that they have taken one more step towards completely depersonalizing it. First it was taking down my artfully framed classic Rolling Stone Magazine covers, and then it was replacing the carpet due to a pre-prom self-tanning incident that got a little out of hand. On Sunday I noticed that there were no glow in the dark stars on the ceiling—my planetarium had been given a fresh coat of white paint. And tucked in the corner of my closet I found stacks and stacks of CDs and nearly a dozen CaseLogics (remember those?) that used to sit by the stereo (also gone) on the chest across from the bed. On my way out, I grabbed two small cases full of old CDs—mostly mixes from the mid to late 90s. Surely an auditory walk down memory lane would keep the memories alive that my parents, in all of their empty nesting glory, are working to squelch.
So on this Guilty Pleasure Thursday, I thought I would share some of the tunes I have come across while listening to old mixes this week. It has surely made sitting in Atlanta traffic a lot more enjoyable. If you see a white girl jamming to Nelly like it’s 1999, roll down your window and say hi to me.
And off we go. Parental discretion is advised:
From the “Songs that pump me up to do great things vol. II” Mix
- Slade “Run Runaway”—also the first song I downloaded on Napster
From the “Your Biology Test is Tomorrow, Why are you Making a Mix CD?” Mix
- Scarface “On My Block”
From the “Old School Flavors” Mix
- Paperboy “Ditty”
From the “Don’t Mind if I Do” Mix
- Blackstreet, Mya, Mase & Blinky Blink “Take Me There“
From the “Is this a Permanent Marker?” Mix
- Biz Markie “Just a Friend“
From the “Driving to Nashville” Mix
- B Rock and The Bizz “My Baby Daddy”
From the single-yes, single- with the same title:
- Coolio “C U When U Get There”
From “Bedtime for Bonzo” Mix
- Ennino Morocone “The Mission”
I left those two black CD cases sitting on the front seat of my car overnight two nights in a row. Ten years ago I would have heard glass breaking and my car alarm sounding to wake up the neighborhood. In the days of yore, my children, someone on the underground would have been eating well after a lucrative trip to the pawn shop with those in tow. These days, you couldn’t pay a neerdowell to take a few cases of old CDs. Their loss! Right…? Right?
So we are in the market for a home to call our own. Although we love our rental house, the time has come to stop sharing a closet.
After almost five months of active searching we have had no luck. I have put on my sea bands for countless Sundays spent in the car with our real estate agent. My Man and I have also taken matters into our own hands and spent hours on zillow.com.
We continue to cruise the desirable neighborhoods taking flyers and playing the “guess how much it’s listed for” game. A game that occasionally ends in eye rolling, cursing the homeowner, and accusing them of smoking the crack pipe while overpricing their home. Subsequent dialogue…
Me: “$CrazyAmountofDollar$? For that piece?”
Him: Does it come with a yacht?”
Me: “Does it come with a full-time employee?”
Him: “Oh I know, it comes with a beach house.”
etc.
At this point in the program, I want to politely remind our nation (and particularly home sellers in Atlanta) that WE ARE IN A RECESSION. Price your houses accordingly. Although low-interest rates and excess inventory might make it a buyers market, home prices still seem pretty dang inflated. Unfortunately, the first-time homebuyer’s dollar still doesn’t go too far in this fine city.
My Oneandonly and I have seen dozens of homes in the high and low end of our price range. After all of this searching, we haven’t found a house but we have been able to nail down our list of must and must not haves. Our perfect house will be something like this:
Deal makers:
- an open floor plan where the kitchen flows into the living room
- a yard for a future (hopefully non-shedding) dog
- a quiet street in a walkable neighborhood
- at least 3 bedrooms (so yall can come visit)
- a value. a deal. a big bang for the hard-earned buck.
Deal breakers:
- located on a flood plain
- on a busy street with double yellow lines
- choppy floor plan
- an on-site seller’s agent who talks to My Man throughout the entire home tour, and only talks to me when pointing out the features of the laundry room
- a master bathroom that makes me feel like I would get an STD from taking a bath in the black marble tub (I’m talking to you, house on Martin Court)
- the lot backs up to an interstate or is in hearing distance from one
- mold (You watched the Bachelorette, you know what I’m talking about. Sweet Kirk might have made it to the top three if it hadn’t been for The Mold)
- really low ceilings
Is it possible to have it all? Will we find that first house dream house in the price range? Hopefully.
And when/if we do, Internet, you will be the first to know. I guarantee a slew of before and after pics and I will need your assistance in a tireless letter writing campaign to HGTV-in hopes of getting a divine re-design of my own from one of my select on-air favorites.
In the meantime, we have received 782 pages of reading material from the mother-in-law on the topic. I better hop to it.
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.
