Impulse purchases; or, why single girlfriends are awesome.

I’m an old married boring lady. But that doesn’t mean I have to be friends with boring people. One of my favorite friends, Marella, lovingly allows me to be live vicariously though her single-girl antics. I love getting together with her for happy hour so she can re-tell her stories of excitement and single-gal intrigue.

Marella is 100% Awesome

I can’t express to you how much I love Marella. She’s from Jersey, she doesn’t take crap from anyone, and she is about as cute as a button. She accompanied me on a trip to South Florida in 2009 that was a disaster of epic proportions, but fed me $20 margaritas at a horrible Ft. Lauderdale beach bar and nursed me back into happiness. If you are in search of Marella, you can bet on finder her at The Ritz in Jax Beach. (The Ritz as in the cracker, not as in ‘I’ll have a glass of your finest Pinot and the duck ragout.’)

One night, a night that involved one too many Pome-tinis at a local watering hole, Marella told me about her friend’s website hawking “Car Pets.” A Car Pet is basically just a piece of shag carpet with two large eyes and pipe-cleaner eyebrows glued to it. You’re supposed to lovingly adhere this “Car Pet” to the dash of your ride, so as to never be alone on your long journeys. Or to have someone to swear to when a jerk in an H2 cuts you off in traffic.

I didn’t remember this “Car Pet” conversation until, five days later, a lovely little box arrived at my doorstep. Apparently, I had ordered one on my Blackberry that night with Marella. Schuyler, I must admit, was not impressed with my ‘purchase.’ I couldn’t bring myself to actually put it in my car, but I found a much more appropriate place for it.

Jammin' on the speaker...

My “Car Pet” now happily resides in my office. He’s my co-pilot in all of my daily tasks, and loving backs me up in all my decisions as his Ramona-eyes stare encouragingly at me all day.

Unfortunately, he must have misconstrued all this eye contact as something more, as he got be a box of chocolates for Valentine’s day.
 

Be Mine?


Whoa, Car Pet, I think we need to take this relationship down a notch. What would HR think? I can’t have an inter-office relationship. It’s just not professional…

---
Want a “Car Pet”? Sha-zam!

Shaggy Chic

There is a very good reason I haven’t blogged since December. This reason is very personal, and I have been internally conflicted for nearly two months. You see, I made a very emotional and life changing decision in December, one that I will have to live with for many, many months.


I am in the throes of growing out my pixie cut. And it is terrible. It’s worse than watching The Notebook while listening to Nickelback and being force-fed Zima. WORSE THAN ZIMA.

Don’t remember Zima? Welcome to my high school years:

So many bad decisions started with a Zima.

First, I want to clear a few things up. I knowingly asked for this super-short haircut. I gave my lovely stylist Mandy a portfolio of pictures of Carrie Mulligan and said, “Make me her.” In fact, after the first 16 inches were cut off, I went back five weeks later for my trim and said MANDY! MAKE IT SHORTER! And she did. And then I demanded she take another half an inch off. And then I threw away all my brushes and curling irons and fancy conditioners, and instead invested in some hair wax and a bottle of 2-in1 shampoo/conditioner.

Like all new relationships, it was glorious. I loved showing off my Pixie to friends and family, even though everyone just told me I looked like my mom. Really? I don’t see the resemblance…

I have tiny hair and big cheeks...

Me too!

It took three minutes to get ready in the morning, and I was able to banish my arch-nemesis: the blow-dryer.

But the weeks turned into months, and now it’s been 8 months since my first cut. It is time to break up with my pixie. The truth is… my husband is not to wild about the shortness of my hair. And while I tend to still have a big crush on my hairdo, it’s EXPENSIVE to keep up. My hair grows faster than a Nebraska dandelion (I usually had an inch and a half cut off a MONTH. Hair is only supposed to grow half an inch a month, but not mine. I have bionic, over-achieving hair.) So $48/month for a haircut was really starting to take a toll on my beer money.

How do you grow out a Pixie gracefully? Dr. Google just references Cynthia Nixon a la Sex and the City which, shudder. Is this what I have to live for, Dr. Google? I don’t know if I can suffer the awfulness that is Miranda circa Season 2.

See, even she looks lost. Help me, bad haircut, find my way back home again.

Here is me, mid-mullet:

Goofing off for ztphoto.com

I’m getting the mullet going pretty good in the back, and I’m hoping tonight I will be able to convince my husband to trim it. I know my hair is going to look terrible no matter if I have a professional trim it, or if I do it myself. So I might as well save a few dollars, and let the husband attempt to trim it.

He cuts his own hair, and does a pretty good job.

Wait… uh oh, I think we have the same hair:

I have yet to achieve the perfect sad-face Schuyler smile...

Ahem... Day 5

Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.


I know ya’ll thought I dropped the ball on this. And I did. However, I’ve made a point in my life recently to follow through more, to keep my house more tidy, my office more organized, and even try to iron my clothes instead of throwing them back in the dryer. I’m attempting to domesticate myself.

Usually I live in a type of slow-motion avalanche. I open my mail between the mailbox and our house, and then leave it in piles on the table next to the door. My bedside table is a collection of water glasses, and most of the drawers in my house are junk drawers. It drives me nuts, but only recently I’ve decided to retrain myself. Time to be an adult.

I blame my mother for this. She is perhaps the neatest, most tidy human on the planet right now. I grew up in a house that didn’t know the meaning of dust. She vacuumed every day. I didn’t even bother making my bed, because even when I did she would re-make it so it had perfect corners and fluffed pillows. I always just figured the water glass next to my bed would make its way be to the kitchen, that laundry came out of the dryer wrinkle-free, and the cruel reality of dusty baseboards never seemed to occur to me.

Mom, can you come live with me? I’ll even buy you a box of Franzia.

But back on track:

Day 5- Something you hope to do in your life.

I’ve thought about this question a lot lately. Quarter-life crisis or something. Kids? Travel? Own my own company?

That all seems so predictable. Don’t get me wrong, it sounds awesome, too. But I don’t know if that’s my hope above all hopes. Sure, I love kiddos. And I’d love to see India, and New Zealand, and Alaska, and Chile. But I think there has got to be something more, something that truly speaks to who I am.

And I think I know what that is. I hope, in my life, to write and publish a book. A book that someone not related to me will buy. It doesn’t have to be a best seller, or go into a second edition, or anything that lofty.

I just would like to write a book. And have it be good enough that a few people might read it.

Unfortunately, all my spare time is now filled with trying to get a handle on the avalanche of my domestication. However, once I’ve mastered organization (or hire a maid) I will start writing my book. I have a story in my head that I plan to tell. And I can’t wait.

Thanksgiving at the Animal House

There's no denying it, I live in a menagerie. But I'm very thankful for my furry family, and here are some pictures from this gorgeous November afternoon in Florida.

 Sir De La Cruz, guardian of the porch, player of the leaves.

 He pretty much spends every day laying here, eating lizards and rolling around.

 Franklin-Stein Cook, the White Nightmare, Eater of Anything Chewable.

 She knows she's the favorite.

Holiday Libation.

 

A Tid Bit for Now

The Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen authors (poets included) who've influenced you and that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes.

I’m doing this because I’ve been slammed lately and have not had time to post. I’ll resume regular posting next week after I’ve completed two big projects at work. Need further excuses? Did I mention I’ve had to travel to DC, New York, and Philadelphia all within the last two weeks? I am exhausted! (And spoiled.)

1. Willa Cather. Not just because she’s Nebraska’s most celebrated author, but because reading her when I was in Junior High truly opened the door to my love of literature. And One of Ours really is one of the most beautiful and heartbreaking books I’ve ever read.

2. Mark Twain. It may sound cliché, but he’s an all-time favorite. My father read Huckleberry Finn in its entirety to me out loud, and it remains one of my best childhood memories.

3. Barbara Kingsolver. I’ve read all of her books, I devour them. She captures a woman’s voice perfectly.

4. Mary Shelley. Frankenstein is such a terrific and terrifying read. The fact that the woman who wrote it was a political radical, a widowed mother—it’s amazing for the early nineteenth century.

5. Richard Brautigan. Perhaps my most favorite author of all time—I happen to weirdly understand his perspective on America and love.

6. Edgar Allan Poe. Creepy. Brilliant. Poetic. Perfect.

7. Laura Ingalls Wilder. Growing up on the prairie there is nothing more satisfactory than reading the Little House series, identifying with the characters, playing dress up for hours as pioneers, and finding it all very romantic.

8. Bob Hicock. His poetry, while masculine, is so elemental. Every time I read “What Would Freud Say” I spend days revisiting my own poems and wishing them to be more like his.

9. Salman Rushdie. He opened my eyes to magical realism.

10. Kate Chopin. The Awakening is one of my all-time favorite books and one of the first books I read in college that made me want to be an English major.

11. David Sedaris. "The Santa Land Diaries" helped me understand comedic writing. Although some of his stuff isn’t really my bag, I do enjoy most of it.

12. Roald Dahl. Matilda, James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory… all things I cherish from my childhood. That being said I must mention

13. Shel Silverstein. I think I checked out A Light in the Attic and Where the Sidewalk Ends about 20 times from my local library.

14. Margaret Atwood. She's so creepy, and she uses colons more than any other author I know, but I absolutely love her work.

15. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Actually, as much as I love The Great Gatsby and Tender is the Night, I’m equally interested in his tragic personal story.

I'm sure I left off many-- but this is off the cuff. See you next week!

Day 4... and I skipped the weekend.

Sorry- I skipped the weekend. It was my first whole weekend off in a long time, and so I didn't log onto the computer once! It was so nice. Cleaned the house, made dinner, went out with the girls-- perfect fall weekend!

But now, I'm back!

Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Oh man, do I have a flaw. And that flaw?

I like to hold a grudge.

Ok, maybe I don’t like it, so much as, I don’t know how to overcome uncomfortable situations. I’m a pretty agreeable person. I go out of my way for people I care about. So it’s so rare that a situation comes along that calls for forgiveness or a grudge—well, I am sad to admit I’m usually pretty quick to hold a grudge.

Maybe I should have done more bible school on Sundays. Beefed up on my forgiveness.

Some of the grudges that I have to forgive are so old. I still have a hard time being around a particular classmate that made fun of me in the Junior High locker room behind my back. Or my ex-boyfriend’s father who told me I’d never amount to anything.

Or my size 4 jeans that no longer fit. I definitely hold a grudge against those lousy bastards.

But I honestly think that marriage teaches you how to really forgive. Luckily my husband forgives me when I say hurtful things that I don’t mean, and I forgive him when he may be less-than-chivalrous. And that’s how we make it work… through forgiving each other. So Schuyler, thank you for forgiving me for being… well, me. The good, the bad, the ugly, mascara stained crying monster. And Schuyler, I forgive you. It doesn’t matter for what, but I always will.

Day 3: I'm hungry for Indian food

Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
I constantly have to forgive myself for many things. I have to remind myself to cut some slack when needed. Even though I know I’m not perfect, I have to forgive myself for this every day.

It’s exhausting.
However, one thing I really must work on forgiving myself for is moving away from my family in Nebraska. I feel guilty all the time for leaving my parents there. We only see each other twice a year, at the most, and I am deeply aware that I’m the one that moved. It was my choice. I don’t see them because I chose this life in Florida. When I’m homesick, it’s only compounded by the nagging sense that I brought it on myself, that it’s all my fault… and that only makes me feel worse.
I left because Nebraska, while amazing in many ways, does not offer much in the way of diversity, differing opinions, or professional opportunity. I think there is something romantic and stoic about living out on the plains during the brutal winters and scorching summers. There is something breathtaking about the blue skies, clean air, and rolling hills that stretch like echoes over the horizon. But before I can settle in to a life so isolated from the world, I need to discover what I would be isolated from. The busy streets of New York and Chicago, the waves of the ocean, the reggae music on Sunday in St. Augustine, the desert of Arizona, and even just discovering Indian food. My god, Indian food. The most amazing food ever invented. And yet, you can’t even buy powdered curry in my hometown grocery store.
So that is how I justify myself for leaving. Now I just need to learn how to forgive it, too.