She Likes Purple

Not As Selfish As Keeping It For Myself; Not As Nice As Intentionally Buying Something For You

A few weeks ago, I bought a bottle of SmashBox foundation on eBay. (Color: White Oak; 2) (Used: just once; keep reading.)

I thought I had used this foundation before. I thought I knew my color. In retrospect, I think it's quite possible all I did was lazily hold my hand up to the Sephora Web site in an attempt to best match my skin color to the color samples. It would have worked out just wonderfully—that technique of mine—if the look I had been striving for included resembling George Hamilton.

But my loss is your gain and all.

If you leave a comment, I'll randomly pick a brand new (and hopefully more fitting) owner for this once-used, pretty much brand new bottle of foundation. The shipping cost and the bottle is all on me. It's free for you. (No strings! I swear!) Also, Canadian readers, this little—dare I say contest!—absolutely includes you. I love you far too much to punish you for the USPS' stupid, ridiculous decisions.

Now, I realize this may be one big vicious cycle of hopeful women (or men; there's no judging around here) wanting something that doesn't quite work out with their skin. But, hell, I'm not going to demand pictures so if you want to wrap it up for Christmas or hawk it back on eBay, go for it. You will be more ambitious and less lazy than me, and really I can do nothing but respect you for that.

(Oh and by randomly pick, I mean I already know how I'll pick the winner, so the pressure is off to, for example, give me the best compliment. But, hell, THAT NEVER HURTS.)

(FYI: I have pretty fair skin. It's safe to assume that any average person wouldn't look so orange-y after applying this.)

Updated: If you can't leave a comment (if your computer is restricting you), you can send an e-mail instead. It all strokes my ego just the same.

Santa, I Can Explain

You may not be able to tell, but the T-shirt says "naughty." You may not be able to tell that she's thinking, "I'm going to pee on your pillows if you post this on the Internet. THIS IS NOT MY GOOD SIDE." You may also not be able to tell that this picture was taken just mere days ago. (Notice the kitchen. See how it shines.)

(Sad, pathetic, depressing drumroll, please.)

When I came home to this tonight, I remembered how just Sunday I was lamenting that my husband totally deserves better than me; that amazing, adorable redhead that he is. Having to deal with someone like me. Oh, it was even guilt-inducing. Back then. BEFORE.

See, although my husband can make this kind of mess—and, seriously, the mess is nothing if not impressive, am I right?—his injury prevents him from cleaning it all up.

And this, dear friends, is why tonight I'm of the opinion that my husband? My adorable, affectionate, sweet, brilliant (I apparently used the word brilliant the other day?) husband?

TOTALLY MARRIED UP.

::

For a break down of the clutter ('cause I know you're curious and 'cause I obviously had some chores to put off), hop on over here.

::

Disclaimer: This was supposed to be funny. I love my husband and I don't want to hurt him or injure him and I actually don't mind cleaning up after him because he's going stir crazy and I know this and his ideas (a new filter!) are always very cute and—let's cut the bullshit—I can get at LEAST two pairs of shoes out of that dirty kitchen. And although I don't like soapy dishwater hands, I am not aboving PLAYING THE GAME in order to get some fancy new footwear. But, if you don't find me joking about my husband funny or if you think we're maritally doomed, well, first GET IN LINE and also wander elsewhere. I can say with much certainty, that the post quality is a lateral sort of thing around here.

::

Disclaimer #2: The first disclaimer was necessary. Necessary because I'm still not drunk enough to tackle that kitchen and all this typing is killing me some time.

Extraordinarily Ordinary

I imagine everything I could say about my husband has already been said by someone at some point in time. I imagine every one of my emotions has been felt before. I imagine our relationship—and its many ups and downs—isn't really all that unique. Love is love is love. And I believe that. I believe I don't love him better or more than you love your partner. Of course I also believe that love is thrown around when it shouldn't. It's used to be forgiven, to be obeyed, to be depended on, to appease, to rid oneself of guilt, when an "I'm sorry" or a "thank you" would more appropriately suffice.

Regardless, I imagine Mike and I have had the same shitty fights you and yours have had; fights over the dishes and the dog and the bills and the fact that we'll never really need that large of a television, unless we're planning to watch The Office from CALIFORNIA. I also realize we aren't the only couple in the history of the world to have our own inside jokes, little traditions that make us laugh, that bond us as a couple. And what I bring to the table can't be too far off from what most wives offer up: DAMN NEAR PERFECTION, AM I RIGHT?

Love is universal and it's literally everywhere and although it's constantly falling apart and cracking down the middle for some, it's still always in the air. The world is never without it. And I imagine that's why— in the midst of wars and terror and cruelty and shocking disregard for life—the human race is still standing.

I've been kind of a bitch these last few days. No, really. I have. And, yes, a lot has been piled on my shoulders, and a lot of heavy metaphorical bricks have been chunked directly at my head, and I do think I have valid reasons to be grouchy, but I don't (and never will) have valid reasons to project my rage directly at my husband. Oh, and have I mentioned he's also injured and in pain and he can't adequately karate chop me when I'm being difficult? He just gets to put up with me. Envy him.

This afternoon, after about three hours of really focused and productive work; work that was crucial and important and DEADLINED, my laptop just turned off. Decided that, no, working wasn't on its agenda today or, come to think of it, EVER AGAIN. And seeing as my crisis management skills are honed just so, the sentence that escaped my mouth after assessing the situation was, "OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK." And then I screamed for Mike to come quick and DO SOMETHING.

A few hours later, and one trip to Frys and then another to Best Buy and close to $100 charged on my husband's PAID OFF credit card and some back rubbing and brilliance conjuring later (neither of the last two things on my part; although I don't think you were confused about that, were you?), my files were pulled from the hard drive and transferred to our desktop. I finished most of my work just minutes ago.

I imagine I'm not the first wife to cry in the middle of Best Buy, with visions of yelling bosses and little sleep and months of preparation down the drain swirling through her head. I imagine I'm not the first woman to look at her smart, capable, unbelievably-good-with-computers husband and plead for him to fix this, make this better, just do something or I will die. Seriously. And I know I'm not the only woman who acts unreasonably hormonal and bitchy only to need saving when she deserves anything but a familiar hand to reach out and, yes, save her.

I know I'm not the only person to sometimes feel as if I don't deserve the partner—the life—I have.

But it's worth mentioning all the same.

::

Oh, if you're interested in what I cooked over the holiday, take a look.

I Was The Only One In The Grocery Store Buying Shrimp And Wonton Wrappers

Mike and I are staying home for Turkey Day. My husband can hardly sit in our very large and comfortable love seat without howling in pain; riding in our very small and uncomfortable Saturn seemed out of the question, even if the journey would have carried us straight into the arms of a fried turkey. I'm going to cook tomorrow and Friday, and even though our Thanksgiving menu is going to be a bit non-traditional, I'm quite excited about it. What I'm making will have to be revealed later because the chances I say ah, screw it and run out to Taco Bell instead of dirtying up the dishes I JUST CLEANED are pretty 50/50 and I'd hate to tease you with promises of possibly-from-Everyday-Italian recipes and then deliver pictures of a cheesy gordita crunch (Mike's) and a Diet Pepsi (mine).

It's all very bittersweet, this long weekend at home, because on the one hand there's NO! HOLIDAY! TRAFFIC! and on the other there's no quality time with out-of-town friends and family and no quick trip to College Station. But Mike and I spent our very first Thanksgiving alone together (2004), so it's kind of nice that we're spending this Thanksgiving—our first as husband and wife—also alone together. The holiday obviously makes me think about what I'm thankful for, even though I've never been very big at the whole going around the table and spilling out my generic gratitude, because obviously I'm grateful for the big things—family, friends, a job, health, my Mollyhead, running water and so on. And the other things just seem odd disclosing. Except on a blog! Awkward disclosures are like half the reason I do this. You too?

Of course, I am thankful for my family, my friends, my dog, but I'm thankful for more than that (although actually less than that, as nothing is really more important than those big things, I know).

I am thankful when I hit a string of green lights on my commute home or when I'm slightly chilly and open the dishwasher only to be pleasantly surprised with a layer of steamy heat. I am thankful my mother takes me to lunch and hugs me hello and goodbye. I am thankful for eBay and shopping on warm Sunday afternoons. I am thankful for movie trailers and fountain drinks and warm pretzels slathered in mustard. I am thankful for our wedding photos and all the memories looking at them conjures up. I am thankful for Saturday breakfasts with my husband and Saturday afternoon naps. I am thankful for bad TV and good TV and TiVo giving me easy access to both. I am thankful for good neighbors and friends who forgive quickly and anyone who loves fiercely. I am thankful I show up for my own life. I am thankful that I think odd/crazy/weird/different/strange/dorky are all synonyms for authentic. I am thankful for enthusiasm and strong margaritas. I am thankful for warm sweatshirts and my husband's ratty T-shirts. I am deeply grateful for all the ones who came before him—the ones who discarded me and disrespected me and lied to me and even for one in particular who used me on such a grand scale it became hard to recognize mysel—because every time my flopping and burrito-rolling stirs my husband in the middle of the night and he, still mostly asleep, reaches out to rest a hand on my shoulder/back/arm/leg, I am reminded that his touch wiped clean all the scars left by those who touched me before. I am thankful for learning how to invest in good make-up and good hair products and realizing that no matter how much money we have, my body deserves respect. I am thankful for the smell of smoke rising from chimneys and a season dedicated to—among other things—carbs. I am thankful for prosecco and ripe apples and nutella. I am thankful for boutique sales and ballet flats and wine glasses and Central Market's cheese selection. I am thankful for good books and deep laughs and sleeping in. I am thankful for the feeling I can still remember—almost perfectly—of walking on my college campus. I am thankful my husband holds my hand and that I am in control of my own happiness. I am thankful for easy laughter and Mosaic tables and mimosas. I am thankful for my sister and the mother she has become. I am thankful for the family I married into and the family I came from. I am thankful for a childhood in California—Oakland A's games and race days and the zoo and the gelato place on Taravel and West Portal and driving down to Santa Cruz in the summer—and being an adult in Texas—wildflowers and cheap gas and football and Mexican food and Wings N More and chivalry. I am thankful for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and that I learned how to say yes to life, even when paralyzed with fear. I am thankful for pictures and snail mail and an Internet that is so vast and wide and expansive yet seems to easily connect me with such incredible people.

And I am thankful that although bratty and selfish and exhausted and ridiculously sensitive and optimistically cynical and broken and scared and jealous and insecure and hopeful and bitchy and childish, I am still grateful every day for this life, this person that I am.

I hope your day—however you spend it—is just how you want it. Whether surrounded by chaos and turkey or with your best friend and a pepperoni pizza. There should be no rules on how we spend our happy moments. And no two Thanksgivings are the same. Thank goodness.

Although I'm looking forward to a few days off work and a few extra hours with my guy and, yes, possibly a sale or two, I am thankful that I don't need a calendar to tell me when I can celebrate life.

Six

Jennie: Do you think we'll be happy in 50 years?
Mike: Yeah. I do.
Jennie: Do you think we'll still make each other laugh in 50 years?
Mike: Of course.
Jennie: Do you think there will still be TiVo in 50 years?
Mike: Yep, those priorities sound about right for you.

Happy six months, my injured, whiny, stubborn, funny, brave, genuine, complicated, interesting, strong, affectionate man.

Because It's Been Far Too Long Since I've Shared A Picture Of Molly

And because with a whiny, needy bed-ridden husband, there's little more to do around our house than watch Everyday Italian and torture our dog.

::

It was, quite possibly, the world's most uneventful weekend around the Canzo house. Unless hearing these sentences are eventful for you:

Feed me a carrot. No, no. Put more ranch on it.
Watching Oprah makes my shoulder hurt. Will you change it?
BAAAAAABY. COME QUICCCCCK. I CAN'T REACH MY CHEEZ-ITS.

(Oh, and when I actually put more ranch on the carrot instead of going with my initial response of chunking it across the room along with the remote and HIS SIPPY CUP, I realized my maturity was absolutely AT CAPACITY.)

I go back to work tomorrow and Mike's cousin is stopping in to make sure he can reach all of his necessities. And although the thought of leaving him does worry me, it also means I won't be allowed to injure his other shoulder which may have crossed my mind 544,342 times over the course of the last 48 hours.

Happy Thanksgiving week to you. The "what I'm thankful for" post will have to wait. Something tells me you don't want to hear I'm thankful for painkillers that also induce drowsiness.

All in all, the patient is doing okay. He's uncomfortable and in pain but he's able to insist on having four ice cubes (NOT THREE) in his white-grape/peach juice and I think that's absolutely indicative that this injury won't be the end of him.

I'll keep you posted on whether I will be the end of him, as, truly, time will tell.   

Mike's Wife

For the most part, the surgery went well. Mike's shoulder is all stitched up, and we're home. But Mike did have a bad reaction to the anesthesia and we were in his post-op room for a few hours longer than we had planned. Mike could hardly sit up for a while, and when he attempted to, his nausea forced him back down in pain while his body tried to rid itself of food that wasn't there.

He's now fast asleep, covered by all the blankets we own and breathing pretty heavily. Molly's in the desk chair with me, because I won't let her in the room unsupervised. Although Molly loves me, and would pick me over just about anyone, she's ultimately her dad's girl. And she's fine here, with me, but I know she'd rather be in there with him. As would I.

Before I left him this afternoon, before they wheeled him down the hall slightly sedated, he gave me his wedding ring to hold. I shoved it on my thumb, to keep it safe.

We're home now, the doors are locked, the patient is asleep, the house would be silent if I weren't pecking away on the keyboard and there's a desk full of empty places to set his ring. All places he's set it a million times, when he showers, works on his Mustang or cleans the fish tank. But I still have it on my thumb, and something tells me it'll come to bed with me tonight.

Today, during Mike's surgery, I snuck out to finally change my name on my license. At the hospital I signed medical forms and listened to the doctor's instructions post-surgery. I was listed as responsible for Mike on his pre-surgery paperwork and above "relation to patient" Mike had written "wife."

I was ready to marry Mike long before he was ready to marry me, and I won't lie about that because I'm afraid of what you'll think. I won't lie about it period. He did eventually catch up with me and six months ago I became his wife and on that day—our wedding day—he was floating just as high as I was. But over the last six months, I've wondered when will it feel real? When will it sink in that this dream I dreamt for so long actually came true.

I walked into the post-op room tonight, welcomed by the world's most irritating nurse, and when she eyed me, after I took his hand and kissed his forehead, she said, "So, you're his what? Sister?" I exhaled because sometimes I don't understand why acknowledging someone's sheer stupidity is considered polite. Shouldn't we ignore them or—better yet—kick them, so they can learn?

"No. I'm his wife."

Total irritation aside, when I answered her on this day, a day that turned out longer and more stressful than I expected, I smiled.

It had finally sunk in.

My husband is home and he's doing okay. And your thoughts and well wishes and e-mails, they have warmed me more than you could ever know.

::

(Ally, thank you. Forever.)   

Have I Talked Enough About Weight Watchers?

So, I'm on Weight Watchers. (And the Internet just rolled its eyes because will I ever stop talking about points?)

This eating healthier and doing away with the 2000 calories a day I consumed in RANCH DRESSING ALONE is actually working out splendidly. I'm a big fan eating food that tastes good while constantly having to pull up my jeans because—oops!—they're too big.

Also, I've been cooking. Which is really something. My mother worked hard my entire life— in fact my mother is the hardest working person I've ever known. She cooked as much as she could, and I think she is angry with herself for not cooking more, but because of my mother I have career goals and a work ethic and my mother has single-handedly given me more throughout my life than any other person breathing, so momma, let's let you off the cooking hook, Ok? Regardless of why, I've never cooked much. I've tried here and there and I have one chicken recipe that's considered my specialty and a brownie recipe that people actually request but consistently cooking, well, there's a Taco Bell like a stone's throw from us, so cook? What?

With Weight Watchers' built-in recipe section and recipe builder and the lovely gift from my sister-in-law and, also, my wee crush on Giada, I have begun to accumulate all these recipes (easy! and good for you!). So, hell went and froze over and I've begun cooking. THREE TIMES THIS WEEK ALREADY!

(Momma, remember that paragraph up there? With the sweetness? And the love? And remember how proud of me I know you are because I've been cooking! For your son-in-law! Well, how about a gesture to show your pride? Want to buy me shoes? Because my husband said that if I buy one more pair, he's going to sleep on the couch and I'll have to cuddle with my cute new ballet flats, and although ballet flats are incredibly smooshable, you wouldn't want to be the reason your daughter has to SLEEP WITH HER SHOES, now would you, mom?)

So, I've been cooking and I've been taking my lunch to work and I've been saving us money (with a bit of extra encouragement from that very out-of-line-if-you-ask-me threat by my husband). I've also stopped drinking as much because champagne is two points for FOUR OUNCES which means on an average Wednesday night I was consuming 87 points. (And I wonder why my jeans stopped speaking to me in late June.)

All in all, it's really going well.

But, Mike isn't on Weight Watchers. (We did get a nice hearty laugh while calculating his Jason's Deli potato the other day and realizing that if he were on Weight Watchers, he wouldn't be able to eat for the following two-and-a-half days.) Even so, he eats everything I make him. He finishes everything I make him. (And there's a story I'm saving for another day because it's so good and it involves one of the first moments I realized I was going to marry Mike and it also involves a baked ziti recipe that did not mention BOILING ANY NOODLES and a licked-clean plate from my now-husband and me in tears in his kitchen, but, again, I'm saving that story. For another day.)

Last night in addition to a broccoli/chicken pizza, I made a chocolate angel-food cake. After the cake was cool, Mike served us up a couple slices. As we sat and ate our cake, me with visions of A MEASLY THREE POINTS dancing in my head, I turned and asked him what he thought.

"Baby, I love that you're cooking. I'm so proud of you, but this tastes like diet cake."

He finished his slice, so sweet that one, but he didn't ask for seconds.

::

So, I've made a few changes around here. I've added a "post of the day" because I read a lot of blogs (just take a quick gander at my newly updated links page) and at least once a day I say to myself, I want to share this post, but I can't write a whole post of my own that consists of nothing more than GO HERE because, well, when will I talk about Veronica Mars? So, problem solved. (Also, if you scroll over the blog's name, you'll see that it links to the post.) And I've also added a "product of the day" which also links to the product's buy-page. When that re-design finally happens, these features will stick around. Lovely Nicole suggested I feature a "shoe of the week" but I have to mull that one over a bit more. It may be far too dangerous for my bank account balance. And my marriage. But the recipe section is coming! There are some kinks (read: I'm an idiot) but I'll figure it out! Pinky promise and everything.

If you can't think of a post title, should you rethink the post altogether?

I've been tagged for a handful of memes lately. And I want to do them all, I do. I like talking about myself (love shoes, dog thinks I'm a superhero, slight addiction to a petite detective by the name of Veronica Mars), but there's only so much you lovelies can take of me ranting about, well, only me. If I posted meme after meme, I fear your eyes would become permanently lodged in the back of your skull, because there would be eye rolling. I WOULD ENCOURAGE IT, EVEN.

So, my favorite color is purple. It's not as if you didn't know.

But I've noticed and appreciated and said "AWESOME!" right out loud when I see my blog name linked to. There may even be fist pumping, I can't lie. I can also assure you that I plan to do them, eventually. Just as soon as I pass along my blog awards and finish the laundry and vacuum and catch up on sleep and get my husband over this surgery hurdle and, also, bake a pumpkin pie that is only FOUR POINTS per slice. (I'm going to make Thanksgiving my bitch, I swear it.) I really do plan to get to them all. But I hope you don't hold it against me if when that may be is a bit indeterminable.

Speaking of points, yesterday was a long, exhausting, FOOT-SUFFERING day, and by the time I got home, at nearly 10PM, the day really couldn't have wrapped up any sooner. Unfortunately I was up until 2AM working and blog surfing. (You're wondering how on earth this is going to segue into points and you're kind of hoping I'll forget about the points, right, because I know how THRILLING blogs become when they talk only about the point values of every food on the planet. WHERE'S MY BLOG AWARD?) When I did finally get home, THIRTEEN HOURS after I had left, there was a package from Amazon waiting for me. It was from my sister-in-law (Mike's sister). It was a Weight Watchers cookbook (all recipes under 8 points a serving!). The note that came with the gift said that she'd been reading my blog and was proud of me and wanted to give me something to help me find balance.

Ric, I cried. You knew I would, though, right? 

I try really hard to keep Mike's family off these posts because blogging is very odd and it's very hard to explain and where my mother has to love me, Mike's family doesn't. And I don't want to do anything (ANYTHING!) to make them uncomfortable. But, in short, I married into the greatest family I have ever known (apart from my own). Mike's mother (aside from my own) is the nicest human being I've ever met. Mike's parents have been happily married for more than 30 years and to say they inspire Mike and me is QUITE THE UNDERSTATEMENT. Mike's extended family is large and brimming with love and laughter. They are a normal family with normal flaws, but I don't love Mike despite the group he came from, I love him in large part because of the group he came from.

Mike's sister is grounded and calm and together and beautiful and smart and funny and she may or may not realize, but her older brother is more protective of her than any other person alive.

Richelle came to visit me a few years back, when Mike was out of town. While she was here she introduced me to someone I didn't know. She introduced me as her friend, not as her brother's girlfriend. And although I'm so fortunate, so lucky, so honored to have her as my sister-in-law, I'm even luckier to have her as my friend.

And just so you can see that genes, they are no myth, here ya go. And, another from our wedding day.

Thanks, Ric. I'm making broccoli and chicken pizza and chocolate angel food cake for dinner/dessert tonight!

::

I'm considering adding a recipe section to my sidebar. I need to figure out the logistics, but would you be interested? I'm also considering adding a section where I'll link to my favorite blog post of the day. Again, need someone to do it for me to figure it all out. But if it does work, I promise to only link to myself once a week. Fine, twice.   

Monday Weigh-in

I lost two pounds last week, bringing my total weight loss to 7.4 pounds.

I really can't say enough good things about the Weight Watchers online program. I would recommend everyone research it as a weight-loss option. I'm 23 pounds away from goal, but, more than that, I'm happy I've found something that is maintainable. I can truly see myself using this program for some time to come. And that makes it so much better than a diet. It's as cliche as it's ever been, but it's a way of life. I'd love to scarf down an entire pizza, sure, but I can still have some pizza and that's something. THAT'S A WHOLE HELLUVA LOT.

::

In other news, Mike is having emergency shoulder surgery this Friday. The recovery is six months. He'll be able to work and life won't be too interrupted, but it's surgery. And it's serious. So please send him positive, happy, speedy-recovery thoughts. He does read this site (sometimes by force), and I know he'll smile reading your sweet comments.*

Also, if we're being really honest, which is how I like to keep things around here, go ahead and send some positive thoughts my way too**. My husband has been known to drive me OUT OF MY MIND when he has the sniffles. Something tells me he's not going to miraculously man up when it comes to getting his shoulder cut open and messed with.

::

*When he comments, it's under the name "Wully" (such as the last post, actually), and I'd love to share with you why he has that nickname, but it's right around lunchtime, and it's best to throw that much sap at you on an empty stomach.

**When I said "thoughts," you knew I meant "tequila," right? I thought so—you're just the most intelligent readers around—but it never hurts to double check.

On What I Believe In

First, we don't have cable. It was turned off on Friday because of a payment glitch and even though the payment glitch has since been sorted out and Verizon has since offered us their sincerest (ha!) apologies and we have since shelled out what we needed to shell out in order TO GET OUR TIVO RETURNED TO WORKING ORDER RIGHT THIS DAMN MINUTE, Verizon apparently doesn't care how badly my face twitches when I'm separated this long from Laguna Beach re-runs.

I secretly think Google Reader may have been behind the whole Verizon fiasco, giving me the gentle nudge I needed to catch up on all of your blogs. And I did just that. With Molly on one side and a constant string of Diet Dr. Peppers on the other. Along the way, I read this post. And, well, that last line, that question, sort of obviously screamed POST IDEA.

I won't delve into religion here, at least not yet, as I've recently curbed my alcohol intake and that really does seem a topic I'll need to tackle after a glass or seventeen of wine. But what is my life made up of? What stirs in me? What―other than a very expensive and rather unreliable alarm clock―moves me to get up each morning?

What do I believe in?

To me there's no blanket answer, no universal recipe that fits nicely in the blank. It's a specific question, meant for no two answers to resemble each other. And I've thought all day about what my answer looks like.

Mike and I went to Wal-Mart last night because it was a little past ten and Target's SOLE flaw is its hours of operation. We were looking for an air filter and a few more Smart Ones pizzas (WHICH THEY DIDN'T HAVE; WAL-MART I DESPISE YOU) and managed to leave with $68 worth of consolation crap. We brought Molly and left her in the car, windows cracked. And then we swung by Sonic on the way home. As we drove down Main Street, Lemon Berry Slush and Diet Cherry Limeade in hand, Mike started talking about work. Molly―weighing in at 40 pounds as the world's largest and most oblivious lap dog―rode shot gun with me. Then we started talking about babies and although I'm not pregnant (lest you make the same mistake Idiot Bar Patron made) babies are a fairly regular conversation topic between Mike and me. We mostly discuss how long we think we'll be able to exploit our children's dependence on us in order to never have to fetch our own beers. And also our future son's name, since Mike and I can't seem to agree on a boy's name TO SAVE OUR LIVES. About a block from home, I realized that I believe―deeply―in the power of an ordinary life. And, more specifically, what my ordinary life is made up of.

I believe that my husband pushes me on the cart in any given store because it amuses him when I yell out "Faster!" just as much as it amuses me to yell it. I believe that there are a few things a life can never gets its fill of, and shoes are one such thing. I believe my mother doesn't know how strong she is and my father doesn't know strong I am. I believe that someone's flip judgment can devastate even the best day, and even if we shouldn't care―even if we're bigger than that―we can sometimes morph back into the most insecure version of ourselves because of it. I believe that even our best friends disappoint us, and we soon realize that sometimes people can't give us what we can give them. And that's okay. I believe champagne isn't only meant for special occasions. I believe that romance is an undefinable word, as one person's bouquet of flowers is absolutely another person's case of Diet Dr. Pepper. I believe traveling should be on everyone's to-do list and the laundry really can wait. I believe in the power of a smile, a card, a gesture, a touch. I believe most people are just looking for someone to hear them, and don't need anything resembling advice. I believe I will always be my own person and no single role will define me, and I believe that declaration will blur into something unrecognizable one day and I'll have to reclaim it over and over and over again so that my laziness and dependence on others won't be allowed to win in the end. I believe we are at war unnecessarily and that our country can no longer determine what an honorable politician looks like. I believe that the media has taken over on a scale we can't comprehend but parents still influence their children more than anyone. I believe that Texas is wrongfully stereotyped, and Texas A&M will win a national championship in my lifetime. I believe that movies affect us differently in a theater and there is no such thing as bad pizza. I believe that life would be sweeter with background music and TV will never get better than Veronica Mars. And I believe that, ultimately, life is defined by how we treat the people who love us.

Finally, I don't believe that my husband completed me or fixed me or is my soulmate but, rather, that I chose him and continue to choose him every day because he quieted my mind in such a way that running errands and paying bills, taking the car in for an oil change or driving in commute traffic, seems less cumbersome because I know it all ends with a left turn onto our street, with my husband on the other side of our green door. I believe that although I could live without him, if life was cruel enough to force me, I will never want to. I believe that I want a life with him more than I want a life without him. And I believe that I do our marriage no kindness by pretending his stubbornness doesn't make me eye a suitcase every now and again.

And I believe―even though I sop up every little bit of this life that I can, even though my dog jumping up to greet me every night still makes me smile, even though my husband's hair and his groggy adorability make life worth it on a level that all these ridiculous words could never come close to describing―that this ordinarily beautiful life of mine will still suck ass if we don't get our cable turned back on like five minutes ago.

Fooling The Neighbors

Our next-door neighbors moved out today. A lovely middle-aged couple who would always wave and hold our packages when we were out of town. Also, the wife acted genuinely interested when I forced her to look at our wedding album. We'll miss them.

This morning, as I was leaving for work, the husband stopped me in our joined driveway to say goodbye and to see if we wanted a few things that weren't going to fit in their U-Haul, a porch swing and an old fireplace set. I said yes to both because Mike and I were very poor once and during that time we learned that the answer to anything free is yes. Can I treat you to dinner? Yes! Would you like this old dresser? Absolutely! What about this stuffed owl that may or may not be covered in asbestos from our attic? Sure! We'll hawk that on eBay!

They also mentioned, as they were wishing Mike and me luck in the future, that we were the quietest neighbors they had ever been so fortunate to live next to. I thanked them politely and swallowed the urge to LAUGH DIRECTLY IN THEIR FACES. As I waved goodbye and drove off to work, I thought about what had happened just the night before and wondered how Mike and I got so sneaky, fooling everyone into thinking we're normal and quiet and responsible when really our life centers on who can yell loudly enough to make the dog pace.

Scenes from a duplex, circa last night:

Mike: BABY!

Jennie: YEAH?

Mike: COME IN HERE PLEASE!

Jennie: ARE YOU GOING TO YELL AT ME ABOUT MY SHOE PURCHASES?

Mike: YES.

Jennie: I THINK I'LL STAY IN HERE THEN. THANKS THOUGH.

Mike: JUST TO LET YOU KNOW, $47 IS NOT "A FEW DOLLARS."

Jennie: NOTED!

Will You Settle For Me Begging For Stuff?

I'm particularly glad I didn't sign up for NaBloPoMo this year because—oddly enough—writer's block has recently fallen over me and—oddly enough—I know exactly why. There is one blog post I keep coming back to and one blog post I'm not yet ready for. Even though it's taking up a considerable amount of my brain space, and although this is cruel and vague, the words just aren't right yet. It's meant for another day.

Thankfully I'm keeping myself busy with all of your posts, and I'm reading every single one of them, even if that leaves me little time to sleep and also causes me to post my shoe picture of the day around 10pm each night. You are more disciplined and determined than I am, and you deserve acknowledgment of that.

But I'm desperate to post something (anything!) because I don't want you to move on to better blogging pastures and forget all about me. I'd cry, I swear it. And Molly would never talk to you again. She's a grudge holder, I won't lie.

So, let's talk about wish lists. I think that's fair, since November has reminded me how deep my love for shoes really runs. I'm going to offer up a few things I'm coveting and you're going to do the same, if you feel so inclined. And if any one of us hits a Vegas jackpot or guesses all the matching lotto numbers, we can refer back to said wish lists and, you know, share the love.

1) A few things from amazon.com.

2) These lovely, lovely shoes. (They're similar to a pair at J.Crew that are almost $200 more. J.Crew, take note, YOU ARE TOO EXPENSIVE AND IT'S STARTING TO IRRITATE ME.)

3) OK, J.Crew, I'm sorry. I got a bit emotional there, but it's only because I remember the days when you were much more reasonable, just a hair above GAP, even. But, your sales are redeeming, so, forgive me. Here, I'll add you to this list: These and this, too.

4) A few camera lenses, recommended by my favorite photographer. Also, one of my favorite bloggers and mothers. I've never met her, but visit her site and soak up her wisdom. She's living right, and it's inspirational.

5) Plane tickets to Toronto to visit my nephew.

6) Gemstone earrings from Red Envelope. Garnets, please. (I'll take these, while you're there. And I'll use all of December's flex points on them because I AM DROOLING AT AN ONLINE IMAGE OF THEM. That's something.)

7) Kitchen mixer.

8) A new laptop. Haven't picked it out yet, so cash will be fine.

9) The following Sephora goodies: Stella perfume, NARS gloss (Medea), Stila eyeshadow (Java, Viola), Purity cleanser.

10) Wine glasses from uncommongoods.com.

11) Bling holder from ournameismud.com

12) Oh, and an iPhone. Plus all the cancellation and start-up fees necessary for getting out of our T-Mobile contract and signing with AT&T.

Admittedly, the list is ever growing, so perhaps next week when I'm still not ready to discuss that which I want to discuss, I'll continue the wishing. Or perhaps I'll just say fuck it and post nothing but Molly sporting every sweater she owns. Maybe even force her into some shoes or a funny hat. Better yet, maybe I'll finally get around to posting about our Build-A-Bear, Louie.

The dignity around here has reached new lows. It's easier to give in and roll with it. Trust me.

And, what are you wishing for? Other than peace and good weather and laughter and all that nonsense.

Something's Fishy

The night Mike and I had our first real conversation was December 6, 2003. (I talk about that night, and a few others here.) It was Crystal's birthday. We were in the same bar celebrating. He told me I looked nice and then bought me a drink. I It was that easy.

Later that same night I found myself in his house. (Crystal was also there as was Molly, so no need to gasp in shock at this particular choice of mine. At other choices, though, sure.)

Crystal and even Molly were soon asleep, as it was close to 3am. But Mike and I found ourselves watching Sportscenter in his family room, pretending we were Sportscenter's biggest and truest fans; fans who never missed an episode which was why we were staring so fixedly at the screen and not because the whole situation was just painfully awkward. Other than a few of my drinks on his tab and the odd way he asked if I needed someone to walk me to the bathroom earlier that night I couldn't be sure he liked me. And so I was sitting next to him, on his couch, pretending to care about the stats of the Michigan game, all the while going over in my head every fuzzy word we'd exchanged that night and debating whether or not I should just, you know, grab his hand already or—better yet—die on the spot. Finally, as the Sportscenter theme song cued up for the third time that night, Mike asked if I wanted to look at his fish tank.

This had to be a euphemism, right? I think I stared at him, blinking, for a full minute before he stood up and I followed him into his front room. And, yep, there was a fish tank. I may have breathed a very deep sigh of confused relief.

We sat on the floor in front of his tank looking at his two fish swimming around, and I thought to myself, He's gotta make a move. Why else would we be looking at stupid fish?

Thirty minutes later (and with my legs—and my brain—fast asleep) we headed back for the couch. I imagined he had chickened out. How cute? I thought, He was too nervous to kiss me. (Fine, perhaps I thought, WHAT IS THIS GUY THINKING I'M SO CONFUSED OH MY GOODNESS!)

Later that night we did kiss and he'll tell you I made the first move and I'll tell you he's probably right but regardless it brought us to where we are now—married, in a house where the TV is never tuned to Sportscenter and with, yes, a fish tank in our family room.

At some point most nights I walk into our front room to see Mike watching his fish. I always smile, as it reminds me of that first night. How off-the-mark I was about his intentions. He may have liked me, he may have even wanted to kiss me, but he absolutely did not ask me to look at his tank as any kind of strategy.

He really just wanted to show me his fish tank. And if possible, realizing that makes me even more attracted to that guy of three-plus years ago. That genuine, nerdy, patient, original, move-less man.

By the way, Mike built the fish tank stand himself.

::

In my blog's redesign, I'm hoping to add a FAQ page. Any questions you'd particularly like to ask? Personal, surface, interesting, odd? I'm up for anything as so far I've come up with:

Q: Do you like purple?
A: Why, yes. Yes, I do.

Monday Weigh-in

I want to share my good news, even though this will make for a pathetically short post. I weigh-in every Monday and you may remember last Monday and the expletive-throwing number that appeared on the scale. Well, since last Monday I've lost 5.2 pounds.

Instead of celebrating over a medium pizza, I'm going to treat myself to something else entirely. (Inspired by Slynnro.)

Happy Monday. Here's to another goal-meeting week.

Shopping, Sweet Discoveries And Shout Outs

This weekend I had very little to do which seems to be quite a strange pattern forming around here. A pattern I'm not altogether disappointed with as the weekends are beginning to feel like weekends and not exhausting marathons of social activities. But, with my free time, I didn't tackle the laundry I absolutely should have tackled and instead found myself solo-shopping much of the weekend away. My bank account isn't talking to me and I can't exactly blame it.

But I took pictures!

(A bra from Target isn't pictured and you're welcome for that. Neither are the four shirts Mike picked up at Kohl's today. He desperately needed them, so I wasn't bitter about him cramping my "going broke" style. Oh and also not pictured are jeans from Old Navy because I'm wearing them and every picture I attempted to take made me look like a bison. We're going to blame the angles and not my thighs for that. GOT IT?)

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I've become a bit obsessed with Everyday Italian and the truly delicious meals she offers up—oddly enough—everyday. I bought her Everyday Italian cookbook and doggy-earred a few things I want to add to my recipe collection, but it's somewhat terrifying to make something (the money! the time! the mountain of dishes!) without knowing the point value accompanying it. Am I making a smart choice or pissing away all my flex points? Well, one feature of Weight Watchers online is the "create a recipe" section. You enter the ingredients, you get to see the point value per serving. I can actually have one of these without destroying my week of target-points chasing. And now I can sing Giada's praises for her food and not just her, um, other qualities.  

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So in the last week or so, I've gotten two shout outs from two of my favorite bloggers. These shout outs are currently hanging out (all chopped off and irritated) in my left sidebar. I'm particularly flattered by them because these women are funny and fabulous and a bit of an inspiration to me. So, thank you. Sincerely. But, along with the power of the shout out came the responsibility to pass it on. (Forcing me to channel my inner Spider-Man.) I'm working on my picks, honestly, but I won't lie and say that the urge to link to my complete Google Reader subscription list hasn't overcome me. Regardless, look for a future post that passes the blog love on.

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I'm off to kick the laundry's ass now. And think of blog ideas that maintain one organized thought.

No NaPoBloMo

The collective post theme around the blogosphere yesterday was in regards to NaPoBloMo. And, well, this is awkward, but I'm not participating. For good and valid reasons*! Reasons I'm going to share with you. Right now:

1) I'm far too busy posting pictures of my shoes. And, what's more, buying shoes to post pictures of. (Baby, if you're reading this, when I say buying, I actually mean, rubbing your back and deleting all SOAP Network shows off our DVR to make room for more Ace of Cakes! And Survivorman! And Family Guy! Kisses!)

2) Two words: November. Sweeps. (So help me, NBC, if you break up Pam and Jim.)

3) Reading all of your blogs. Geez, my Google Reader is on fire. Basically we all can't participate in NaPoBloMo or we'd have no time to actually read the fabulous words sprinkled around the Internet. So, YOU'RE WELCOME. I'm taking one for the blogging team.

4) Laundry. I can say nothing witty about laundry.

5) Cooking! I have a plethora of recipes from some lovely people. (Also, thank you! I have a new folder in my inbox titled "Recipes" but it should really be titled "What did I do before I blogged?") (Edited to add: Raven, you're the recipe queen. My recipe book would be nothing without you.)

6) Speaking of cooking, watching Everyday Italian. She makes just the most delicious-looking dishes. And Mike is Sicilian so he's all, "Let's get back to my roots!" And, I'm all, "Let's be honest here, we're both watching this show because she has great boobs." And he's all, "Word." 

7) Reading Pride & Prejudice because FINE I didn't finish it in October. And FINE I think what I have read so far kind of sucks. But I will finish it, so I can rant about it sucking with a little validity.

8) Finding new and clever ways to get my husband drunk out of his mind so when I bring up the possibility of purchasing a few pairs of J.Crew ballet flats, he'll slur "shuuure" instead of "Woman, I am not a bank."

9) Trying to master Photoshop Elements because all of our out-going Christmas gifts are going to be framed photos. Sorry if you were holding out for an iPod or even a nice sweater. Mike and I have a shoe obsession to fund and apparently debt to chip away at, which brings me to...

10) ...WINNING THE LOTTERY!

11) Counting and calculating points. My thighs will be normal-sized soon enough. And my jeans will stop screeching in fright when I step into the closet.

12) Re-designing this blog. It'll be done by December 1. PROMISE. (You had to bring up the Pride & Prejudice promise, didn't you? Why do you hate?)

13) And, truly, I post like all the damn time. I think I need to work on the quality and not the quantity around these purple parts. But don't you worry, my one real goal for the month is to comment just as often as I can on all of your lovely everyday posts. Because I admire each of you.

::

If you're thinking to yourself, That liar, we all know she's going to spend the entire month watching One Tree Hill reruns, well you'd be eerily and a bit snarkily spot on.

*Good and valid are euphemisms for lazy. You picked up on that, no?

The Season

So, Halloween? How was yours?

We had exactly TWO trick-or-treaters and although I'm generous, our eight bags of candy were not dented, by any means. I brought about a third into the office this morning and the rest has hopefully gone to work with Mike. Basically, I'm doing all I can to avoid having candy anywhere near me and, what's more, of the 24 Halloween cupcakes I made on Tuesday night, I ate not a one. Not even a sneaky lick of the batter-covered bowl.

Forget balance, kids. For my will power, I want presents.

Last night we had Natalie and Micah over for dinner and I made Crusted Honey Mustard Chicken—a recipe I pulled from the Weight Watchers site. We* also made steamed broccoli and dinner rolls. (*I say we, because Natalie was forced to assist me in the kitchen. Note to all: if I invite you over for dinner, be prepared to pitch in.) Oh, and there was fat-free pudding for dessert. Total meal around 13 points. And it was delicious. Natalie, concur won't you?

Although I talked all night about forcing Molly back into her lobster costume because, come on, it was Halloween, sort of why we dropped a whole Hamilton on it. (Am I cool enough to pull that off? You know, like "all about the Benjamins"? Dropping a Hamilton? You're groaning, aren't you?) But whenever I'd say to her, "Where's your lobster costume? Get your lobster costume, Mollyhead!" she'd tilt her head and then fetch her squirrel. And, well, I wasn't going to search for it on my own.

After Natalie and Micah headed out, leaving behind an empty wine bottle, Mike and I watched The Colbert Report and a bit of poker before passing out.

I love this time of year. Especially in Texas, where this time of year doesn't mean having to stay indoors for the next four months. I love stepping outside to smell the first chimney smoke of the season. I love the seasonal brews from World Market and planning out the family gatherings of the next few months. I love that Mike starts cracking a window around this time, to let the cold air seep in, leading to more snuggling than usual. I love the lights and decorations that start popping up on houses and the grocery stores that stock all their pumpkin pie ingredients near the front of the store. The movies get better this time of year, with award season right around the corner. And sweaters and boots get dusted off. There's more baking. And more parties. And more laughter, too, it seems.

And—making this time of year near perfect— there are the day-after-holiday sales at Target.

Oh, and there's also this:

My nephew, the world's most adorable and smushable kangaroo.

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I hope you, lovely reader, had a wonderful Halloween—perfect parts sugary and spooky and delightful.