But the Bachelorette is On!

“I can’t wait to watch the Duke-UNC game this Saturday!” my Duke alum husband said to me. “It’s in Cameron Stadium, 7pm. Yes!”

“We have dinner with Steve and Rachel that night,” I told him.

“What time?” he asked, panic-stricken.

“I would assume around dinner time,” I answered.

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” he said.

“You have to go.  They’re driving in from the city. We planned it a month ago.”

“YOU planned it a month ago,” he said.  “Who are these people anyway?”

“Rachel is my good friend from college,” I said.  “I told you about this.  I emailed it to you.  And I wrote it on the calendar.”

 “I can’t go,” he repeated.   
                

“Just tape the game,” I said.

“Tape the game?  The Duke-UNC game?  In Cameron?  No.  I can’t do that.  Someone will tell me what happened before I see it.”

“Just don’t read any texts or emails and don’t answer your phone.”

“No.  It’s too risky.  Two years ago I taped the game and Chris texted “duuude.” It came up on my phone and I happened to glance at it and I knew they lost.  I can’t have that happen again.”

“So turn off your phone,” I said.

“No.  I’ll hear it somehow.  It’ll be on the radio or I’ll overhear someone at the restaurant or they’ll fly a plane banner.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I said.  “It’s not even the finals.”

“There are no finals in college basketball,” he said, which I took to, accurately, mean, it never freakin' ends.  “I can’t miss it," he continued.  "J.J. Redick”* is playing really well lately.”

“He’s always playing really well,” I said.

“Maybe I can leave early,” my husband suggested.

“You’d have to leave before dinner was even served to get back before seven,” I said. 

“Maybe dinner will be early.  What time are we meeting them?” 

“I’m not sure, but I can guarantee we won’t be done with dinner by 6:30!  This is ridiculous!  Just tape the game.”

 “Steve will understand,” he said.

“Really?  You really think he’ll understand that you’d rather live vicariously through strangers on the magic talking box in our living room?” 

“They’re not strangers,” he said.  “They’re my team.”

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“Fine.  I’ll go to dinner,” he told me.

“Thank you,” I said.  “As a compromise, I’ll make reservations as early as possible.” 

I think I heard a faint, “This is bullshit,” as he walked away.

That Saturday, we arrived at the restaurant at 5 p.m.  I was really happy, because we rarely get to see Steve and Rachel.  We ordered some wine and appetizers and we were having a nice time.  About twenty-five minutes into it, my husband stood up and said, “Well, I’ve gotta go.”

Rachel and Steve looked shocked. 

“May I speak to you?” I said.

We went over to the entrance.  “What on earth are you doing?” I asked.

“Duke’s on.”

“I know Duke is on.  And you agreed to come to dinner.”

“Right,” he said.  “I came to dinner.  And now I’m going to go watch the game.”

“The game isn’t on for another hour and a half!  Why are you leaving now?”

“There could be traffic,” he said. 
  

“We walked here!”

“I like to watch the pre-game.  And I don’t take chances with Duke-UNC."  

“Do you know how embarrassing this is?” I hollered.

About six months later, we went to dinner with my husband’s friends from Colorado.  The restaurant was really nice.  We had some cocktails and then our food arrived.

I tasted the tomato-bisque.  “Mmm, delicious!”  I said and stood up.  “Well, it’s been lovely.  Gotta go.  Good bye!  Nice to see you again!”  I picked up my purse and headed out.

My husband caught up with me.  “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m leaving.  The Bachelorette finale is on.”  

“You’re kidding,” he answered.

“I know, right? SO exciting!”

‘No, I mean, you’re kidding that you are leaving dinner with friends because of the stupid Bachelorette.” 

“I’m so not kidding,” I said.  “Ali is making her choice tonight.”

“Who?”

“Ali!  The bachelorette!”

“Just tape it,” he said.

“No.  I can’t do that.  Someone will tell me what happened before I see it.”

“Just turn off your phone.”

“No.  It’s too risky.  Last season, I taped The Bachelor finale, and when I got home, Michelle had written “Jake chose Vienna!” on our garage in shaving cream.  I was beside myself.” 

“I’ll cover your eyes when we walk in.”

“No.  I’ll hear it somehow.  I’ll overhear someone or it’ll be on the radio or someone will honk it in Morse code on the way home.”

“You don’t even know Morse code!” 

“Dot dot dash dot.  Dot dot dash.” I told him.

“You’re tragic,” he said.           

“No,” I answered.  “Tragic is when you spend half your life watching a bunch of grown boys try to throw a ball through a ring like circus dogs.”

“Circus dogs can’t throw three pointers!”

“You know what I mean!”

“Come on!” he argued.  "This is totally different! Basketball is about passion!  Triumph!  Beating the odds!  Suspense!”

“So is The Bachelorette.  Talk about beating the odds!  Do you know how hard it is to get on that show?  And the passion!  The suspense!  Don’t you want to know if Ali chooses sensitive Chris and gets to hold his hammer while he builds houses in the hot Cape Cod sun for the rest of her life?  Or will she choose studly Roberto and get to stroke his chest hair and oil his baseball glove** for the rest of her life?  How can you not want to know?”

“We made these plans and you’re not going to flake out like this.”

“YOU made these plans,” I said.  “Who are these people anyway?”

“They came to our wedding!” he said.

“Oh good.  Then they’ll understand the power of love and how important Ali’s choice is tonight.”

“They will not understand.”

“She probably wants to watch it, too,” I said.

“Most people do not want to watch that idiotic show,” he said.

            “Tick-tock,” I said.  “I gotta hit it if I want to see the pre-show re-show pre-recap!”

            “This is unbelievable!”

 “Don’t worry.  If you guys are still here, I’ll come back when ‘After the Rose’ is done.”

“Do you know how embarrassing this is?” he hollered.

“Yes,” I said.  “I have an idea.”

*JJ Redick doesn’t play for Duke anymore, but JJ Redick is what I call any goofy, not uber-tall Duke basketball player that my husband thinks is his alter-ego and he could someday become...

**For the few of you who don’t know about Roberto, he is a baseball player.  “Oil his baseball glove” is not a euphemism.

Why Don't Friends with Kids Have Time? Washington Post article

Lavender and Figs? Yes please!

Thanks to People magazine, I learned that Kate Middleton nibbles lavender biscuits and figs to combat morning sickness.  Of course!  Who among us didn't dine on lavender biscuits and figs when we were bloated and sweaty and felt like we had a two-month long hangover? I also nibbled hand-dug morel mushrooms and creme fraiche!  

No, of course I didn't.  I powered down party-size bags of Kettle cooked BBQ potato chips and cherry seltzer.  At 9:30 in the morning.  Every morning.  Which helps explain why I'm not the Duchess of Cambridge. Apparently princes don't find belching and orange-stained fingers sexy.

5 Articles that Prove I’m Way Too Old to Read Cosmo

       I don’t read magazines, except for InTouch Weekly if I’m feeling depressed or I’m flying somewhere.  Because nothing takes my mind off of my troubles, or the fact that a possibly drunk pilot is schlepping me through a thunderstorm in a tin can at 35,000 feet, like learning what music Jessica Simpson’s cat likes.  But, back in August, a friend brought me about fifteen magazines as a housewarming gift.  Since then, they have gathered dust next to my bed because I have no time to read them.

      But this morning, my eight year old brought me breakfast in bed! I had nothing to do but laze around enjoying a PopTart and a thimble-size cup of milk, so I reached for a Cosmopolitan.  I hadn’t read Cosmo since I was a freshman in college and wanted to know how to make a Valentine’s Day planter for my “guy” out of candy hearts and his jock strap.

       I quickly discovered I am officially old, and Cosmo has no relevance to my life whatsoever.  This became devastatingly clear to me after skimming articles such as:

Five Fun Ways to Baby Your Butt.    I have real babies to baby. I can’t imagine having the time to call a friend and lament, “I’m concerned about my tush.  She just seems so over-wrought these days.”

     Cosmo says that in order to “spoil my bum” and “de-stress my derriere,” I should give it a “facial,” which just seems confusing. That's not a facial at all.  The "facial" should consist of exfoliant, a face mask, and coffee.  I’m not sure if you’re supposed to drink the coffee to pass the time while you wait for the ass-mask to harden, or if you’re supposed to splash a Dunkaccino on your buttocks in order to wash off the mask. 

     After face-masking my rear, I should use a sponge paintbrush, like those found at hardware stores,* lift my leg up onto the bathtub so that my “butt-cheek crease is taut,”** and apply self-tanner with wide-circular strokes.  The article does not qualify this by saying you should only do it if the rest of you is tan.  Apparently, having only your ass be tan, in a primal bull’s-eye fashion not unlike an in-heat baboon, is appropriate.   

       The article goes on to warn me not to put the self-tanner in the crack “because the skin inside your crack is thinner.”  That’s why I shouldn’t stick self-tanner in my ass-crack?  That’s why???

His Manbag Decoded.  At first I almost slammed the magazine shut, thinking Cosmo was going to read men’s scrotums like tea leaves.  Then I realized they were talking about a real bag; like a man-purse.  For example, a man who carries a messenger bag is “gutsy” and “dependable.”  A man who carries a backpack “doesn’t exactly beg for you to slip your lacy undies in the pocket as a sexy surprise.”  Which begs the question: what kind of man-purse does make one want to stick her panties in the pocket as a sexy surprise?  A bedazzled clutch?

Is it Okay to Take Time Off from Your Husband?   This one made me laugh so hard that I spewed PopTart across my bedspread.  In this article, a woman goes away with her girlfriends and feels guilty that she enjoyed talking with them about face cream so much.  She consults with a psychologist about how to break it to her husband that she likes to go out by herself sometimes.  How in the world can she tell him this without hurting his feelings?  The psychologist says to gently explain that “recharging her batteries” makes her a better wife.  Given that this is Cosmo, I’m assuming they mean literally recharging her batteries.  But I digress. 

      I’ll bet this article was ghost-written by a single woman, because any married woman knows that there are few things a husband enjoys more than when you go the hell away so they can watch sports in peace.  Unless you go the hell away and leave all the children home with him during March Madness basketball.  They do not like that. 

Why He Loves When You Bite Your Lip.  Biting your lower lip brings out his inner cave man!  When your lips redden, you look fertile and guys want to impregnate you!  After three rounds of drug-free childbirth, the last thing I need is to accidentally get impregnated by a cave man if I happen bit my lip while confusedly figuring out the tip on my dinner bill.  I went right to the drug store and bought white lipstick.    

Advice: I’ve been with a few guys who keep their eyes closed the entire time we have sex.  Are they thinking about other women or what?   Yes.  Yes.  A thousand times yes.       

       Oh, wait… Cosmo’s verdict is “probably not.”  Way to unconvincingly spare the ego, Cosmo.  Then again, Cosmo may be right.  He may not thinking of other girls. He may just be happily picturing your shiny, caffeinated, tan, baboon-ass. 

*the article really says “hardware store.”  I did not make that up.

**this article assumes that one’s butt cheeks are at all capable of getting “taut”; yet another reason why I am too old for this magazine.  

Moms, do you read Cosmo?

I Bless the Rains Down in Africa

So I'm finally going to get fit again.  I'm buying a used Gazelle.  One of those Tony Little machines that makes it look like you're running gracefully across the African plains.  Above the ground.  While holding metal sticks.  And not getting anywhere.

 

                                          Tony Little

So get ready, gentlemen.  In about 3 months, I'm gonna look this hot:

                                                     Tony Little

Camel What? Moms and the Exercise Pant Fad

      


      When I think of moms in the seventies, I think of oversize sunglasses, station wagons, and those giant silver tennis racket key chains. When I think of moms today, I think of Pinterest, silver Honda Odysseys, and butt corsets.

       I'm not sure exactly when the new Mom Uniform became tight, spandex exercise pants.  Somewhere between yoga and zumba.  Although exercise itself is irrelevant. Workout gear is the new muumuu: anyone just throws it on for comfort.

       I'm surprised at how many moms actually wear these pants, given that it's the equivalent of running around in tights.  I'm also surprised at how many moms look good in them.  Moms today are either exercising their asses off (literally); or these pants have a supernatural, saddle-girthing effect on one's thighs.

       When I was visiting with my fashion forward friend - who has been my best friend since age 2-  she suggested I start wearing these magical suction pants.  "You can't wear jeans every single day," she told me.  "Stretch pants are so much more comfortable."

       "So is my bathrobe, but I wouldn't go to the store in it."

       "You'd look good stretch pants," she said.  "They'd show off your curves."

       "I have no curves," I said.  "Breastfeeding and gall bladder surgery sucked all the lipids out of my body."  It's true.  I'm still searching for the whereabouts of my ass and breasts.  If you see them on a milk carton, let me know.

       "They'll look good," she persisted.  "Trust me."

       The last time she told me to trust her, she tried to send me out in a crocheted vest.  But I was curious how these figure forming wonderpants worked.  So we went and got me a pair.  I came home and tried them on.  I looked sleek.  And glossy.

        I beamed at my friend.  "I look like a sexy otter."

        She stared at me.  "Please don't ever say that again.  But you do look good.  You just need to take your underwear off."

        "Excuse me?"  My eyebrows raised.

        "You have panty lines."

        I didn't say anything.

       "Panty lines," she repeated loudly.  "It looks like you have four butt cheeks."

       "Women wear these with no underwear?"

       "Some do," she said.

       "That's disgusting."  The last time I checked, spandex wasn't a breathable fabric.  My grandpa was a urologist, and I wasn't even allowed to wear Underoos when I was a kid, because they weren't 100% cotton.  I was beginning to think that exercise pants were masterminded by the executives at Monistat.  Women sweating in Lycra!  It's foolproof! We're rich!

       "So wear a thong," she suggested.

       "Who wears a thong while they exercise?  Isn't that painful?"

      "You're hopeless."  My friend buried her in her hands. "And when's the last time you exercised?"

     I ignored her comment.  "What about Underalls?"

     "If I find a time capsule, I'll get you a pair!" she hollered.  "Underalls?  Are you serious?  Just put on a thong!"

     I dug into the dusty, pre-children corner of my underwear drawer and grumpily pulled one on.

    "Under the pants!  Not over them!" my friend yelled.

    "This is how they wear it!"  I yelled back.

    "They?  They?"

    "Yes!  The fitness people."

    My friend's voice became very quiet.  "The fitness people?"

    "Solid Gold dancers! Jane Fonda! Olivia Newton-John!  They all wore G-strings over their tights."

    She glared at me.  "I'm gonna drag you into the twenty-first century one way or another. Solid Gold is OVER.   Jane Fonda is in her seventies.  Eighties maybe.  And Olivia wasn't even a fitness instructor!"

    "Are you disrespecting Olivia?" I shrieked.

   "I'm not disrespecting Olivia."

   "Say her full name!"

   My friend took a deep breath.  "Olivia Newton-John.  Songstress.  Goddess.  Inspiration."

   I mouthed the words along with her.  "Good," I said.  "Now admit that I look like a sexy otter."

   "You're a freak."

   I burst out laughing.  "I know you don't wear underwear over stretch pants for God's sake," I told her.  "I was just trying to get you to say 'sexy otter.'"

   "Just wear the damn pants," she said.

   "I don't think I can pull them off.  But you're right.  I should wear something more comfortable than jeans."  

   I signed onto my computer, somehow fended off my friend, and rush-ordered myself a Slanket: the Original Blanket with Sleeves.

 
   
Moms, would you ever wear wicked tight exercise pants?   Dads?  Would you?

A few notes regarding the Slanket website:
1.  Do I truly need 3-D glasses in order to see my Slanket? 

2.  In order to avail myself of the "interactive warmth" do I need to wear a Slanket with someone, like the two dudes on the couch?

3.  I almost typed "Skanket" in my hyperlink, which would have taken you to a much more interesting window.  








I love you, Olivia

     

     

Holiday Decorating

30 Blogs with the Best Holiday Decorating Ideas

http://www.housekeeping.org/blog/30-blogs-with-the-best-holiday-decorating-ideas/

      I love this article about housekeeping.  It almost makes me change my mind about cleaning, as I discussed last year in Et Tu, SeaWees?   

    When I was in high school, I baby-sat for a family who had a sampler with “Housework Makes You Ugly” cross-stitched onto it.  The colors on it were dull, and a sad little broom leaned in the corner.  At the time, I found it mildly amusing.  Now I know it’s just heartbreakingly true. 

            I am thirty-six but have the gnarled hands of a seventy year old.  Layers of skin have been stripped off from sanitizing baby bottles and scrubbing pee off of potties.  And off of the carpet. And off of toys.  And off of shoes.  I chronically smell like a past-its-prime Christmas tree thanks to my organic pine forest eco-friendly cleansers, and I have a hunchback from years of picking Disney dolls' hair out of our bathtub drain.   

And I don’t even clean that much.  At least not compared to my mother, who made Mr. Clean look like a flophouse tenant with a soap phobia.  When I embarked on my career as an attorney and bought my first house, she embraced me, then looked deep in my eyes and said, “Please.  Don’t forget to sweep under your rugs.”  I remember her lying on the floor to get a better vantage point of the dust on her table legs.  Her fitted sheets were folded so crisply that she stored them in a cabinet of hanging files.  When I would ask her to play house with me, she would say, “I play house all day.”

That wasn’t to say she didn’t spend time with me. She taught me to sew buttons, to clean the coffee maker with vinegar, and to iron on all three of her specialty-sized ironing boards.  I was the only seven year old in the Midwest who could press a tuxedo shirt.

But I wanted to play with my mother.  So I swore I would get down on the floor and play when I had kids.  And I do.  But the whole time I’m picking crumbs off the carpet and sticking my hand under the couch to check if any raisins or cheese cubes are becoming antibiotics under there. 

I don’t have the cleanest house, I assure you.  My coffee maker never sees soap, much less vinegar.  My fitted sheets are balled up and shoved in a corner of the linen closet.  One night I found a ripped-out magazine advertisement for Ty-D-Bowl lying on my pillow.  I think the toilet left it there.   

A nagging voice in my head tells me, “Clean more.”  “Clean better.”  “How can you function with stained kitchen grout?”  The voice only has a German accent about forty percent of the time, so I can’t blame my mother alone. 

I needed to do some research.  So I went to the Motherhood Research Institute, aka Target.  I wandered the cleaning aisles and was greeted by polka-dotted sponges and cheery little birds dancing on tile disinfectants.  The dishwashing gloves were more fashionable than my entire wardrobe, and the toilet brushes and vacuum attachments looked like giant pastel penises. 

I moved on to the girls’ toy section.  They were selling grinning plastic vacuums and maid carts with imitation Windex hanging off the sides.  What kid wanted to play with that?  I wanted to play with real toys, like SeaWees.  Remember those awesome mermaid dolls?  They floated around in those lily pads made of…cleaning sponges. Wait a minute... NO!!!

It’s a masterminded conspiracy! From the time we’re born, the Man tries to lull us into associating housework with Fun! Pretty! Trendy! so that we’ll keep doing it.  Male houseware designers are trying to get us to think about sex while we’re cleaning with those monolithic dustbusters.  We’ll clean, think about sex, have sex, procreate, then have even more people to clean up after.  It’s the perfect crime.

They weren’t going to get me.  I decided then and there to really let the housework go.  When my neighbors noticed the cobwebs in my eaves, I told them it was a set design for my kids’ presentation of Charlotte’s Web.  When my one year old drew lines down the side of my cream couch* with her green jumbo crayon, I took a red crayon and drew rosebuds on the tops.  When my baseboards became completely overgrown with dust, I got rid of the furniture, threw some lava lamps and bean bags into a corner and told people that shag baseboards were all the rage.  I put my husband’s socks into a plastic grocery bag and threw them onto his dresser.  I made a half-ass attempt to condense his shirts into a pile and tossed them there, too.

“What’s this?” he asked, gesturing toward the undershirt origami.  He’d been in the military and folds things in a very precise way so that three months’ worth of clothes and a rifle can fit into his government-issue lunch bag. 

“I refuse to do housework anymore,” I declared.  “After having three kids in under five years, my main jobs are to raise decent human beings and to coax my internal organs out from under my ribcage.”

To his credit, my husband immediately grabbed a basket of clean clothes and started folding.  I went downstairs to watch TV.  An hour and a half later, my husband was still upstairs.  How long did it take that guy to fold a basket of clothes?

I went upstairs and saw him placing our folded clothes on the bed.  In microscopic piles.  He had folded my shirts down to the size of silver dollar pancakes, and the baby clothes looked like stacks of dimes.  Had I wandered into an episode of The Littles?**

I opened my mouth to ask my husband, “how small do you think our drawers are?”  But he looked so intent and loving while he tended to our things that I shut my mouth and put my stack of underwear into my jewelry box.

It hit me that if he folded a few more loads, I could fit my whole wardrobe into my nightstand drawer.  My bureau would be empty!  I could put the toys in there and get rid of that big, hideous toy basket.  We'd have room for that toy kitchen I saw at PBKids!  It has the sweetest little fold out ironing board and real stainless steel pots.  My girls would love it!

*Clearly, I bought the couch when I was single.  Once you give birth, your OB/Gyn notifies Interpol, who then sends alerts to all furniture retailers.  From there on out, you are forbidden to buy couches in anything other than poop-brown leather or moss-green microsuede. 

**Is it wrong that circa 1983 I wanted to be Lucy Little so bad that I’d stick a scarf in my waistband and pretend I had a tail?