Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Cute, yes? And forgiving where it needs to be. AND three times cheaper than this dress that I thought I'd love, but PVT vetoed. Since he thought I looked like I was, you know, for hire. Which is not, per PVT, necessarily a bad thing. But in this case, it was not whorish in a good way. So there you go.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Of course, as much as I'd like to lock up my parents in my house to babysit, whilst I run away for a couple of days for an orgy of facials and guacamole, I do enjoy spending time with them. And, as such, am faced with finding an entertaining destination farther than my backyard. Where to go? What to do?
Ughhhhhhhhhhhh. Yes, we ended up at the MALL. A mall with a Macy's. And a JC Penney. And those dreadful kiosks in the aisles where one can buy knock off sunglasses, remote control helicopters, and purses uglier than a 1970's shag carpet.
But really, it is just a regular mall. Why am I such a freaking snob about it? It does, after all, have a Gymboree (where I spent a wee bit). And a Sephora (where I spent a bit MORE).
I think it's because I have an innate and terrible fear of AVERAGENESS. And being merely AVERAGE. The fear was much more pronounced when I was younger and full of moonshine dreams, thank goodness. Because now that I'm living in Tulsa, Oklahoma, with a pile of kids...that sounds pretty darn AVERAGE, doesn't it? But as forty-and-wrinkle-dom loom on the horizon, I've realized this: average ain't all that bad. Average, particularly in the absence of tragedies and sickness and general awfulness, is just fine. If average means healthy children and a Chubawumba husband, all of whom I want to lick an average of eight times daily, average is pretty whip cream wonderful.
Just please don't drag me into a JC Penney.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Oh my friends. You would not believe what I was PINING for this weekend. TULSA, OKLAHOMA. Yes, I'll say it again: TULSA. OKLAHOMA.
There is somewhere on earth that has far more cheez per square mile; far more horrifying 1950's-esque craft stores; far more venues to buy ugly yard elves; and far far far more buffets of endless green bean casseroles than my current (please ignore self-deception) hometown. Where is this lovely venue? Branson, Missouri.
Have you even heard of it? Well, I hadn't, until I moved here. But it's a mere threeish hour drive from Tulsa, and it is - deem the travel brochures - a sort of Vegas lite here in the Midwest. My youthful mother, who waxes nostalgic for Lawerence Welk (no, she is NOT eighty nine! So - no, I don't get it. But anyhoo) thought we might all take a road trip there during my parents' annual visit. Sure, I said! I have two additional adults to help me with my offspring? Let's go to Cape Canaveral and hit some far off galaxy! No? Branson, you say? SURE! WHATEV! Let's go!
But. This place! Full of - please don't call me ageist - very old people arriving by the busful to eat lukewarm catfish and watch variety shows of former talents looking to cash in on their celebrity of thirty years ago. And drivers so slow that it took us AN HOUR to drive the three miles back to the freeway to get us the hell out of there.
The patrons were so old, that when I found myself, late in the evening, in need of a - ahem - feminine product, I was in a bit of a bind since the hotel shop did not sell these products. Since no premenopausal women had stayed there before. EVER.
The pinnacle of awfulness? We searched for a non-buffet option for dinner and settled on the Olive Garden. Where there was an HOUR wait. REALLY. Since an hour wait with four hungry children could make even Mother Theresa swear like a sailor, we gave up and ended at....IHOP. Where you cannot even have a glass of wine to assuage the fact that you are eating DINNER at IHOP.
Really, internet? When you get old, do you really not care what you eat? If you're on a fixed income, do you go out of your way to buy cheap things, just because they're cheap, without regard to intrinsic beauty or function?
I hope not, my friends. If, when my hair is snowball white, my boobs hang to my toenails, and my parfum smells of mothballs and listerine, I am ever so inclined to buy an ugly yard elf, or queue up for the mystery pot roast buffet for $6.99 - please get me to the nearest neurosurgeon for a bit of brainosuction.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
My friend - my apparently DANGEROUS friend, Kappa Kappa Karen - first introduced them to me on our Dallas junket. But, despite the (really egregious) price, they are SO cute, are they not? The Auburn Diva will wear them ALL THE TIME.
But that's all the mischief that will transpire here over the next few days, PVT. Don't you worry.
How's that for tourist propaganda: "Come to Tulsa! No mascara required!"
And last night, two of my bestest friends brought me out for a long, boozy, birthday dinner. How lovely to sit, eat, drink, and gossip. Emphasis on sit. And gossip.
And my gosh, I don't even want to admit this, because I am transforming my frivolous blog into a freaking NAVEL-GAZING BOO HOO FEST, but - well, I am nothing if not authentic: I needed to go yesterday to have my Hcg levels rechecked. They hadn't come down to normal, and apparently sometimes (per a quick internet perusal - I can't even think about it without wanting to hurl up my spleen) the remaining placental cells can metastasize, and one would need to see an ONCOLOGIST. Can you imagine that kick in the butt? After having a miscarriage?
So I had a meltdown in the lobby of the OB's office yesterday, asking the sweet nurse about this nightmare, and she reassured me and said she's only seen that five times in twenty years. Which was good to hear, but even better just to cry it out with someone who understood.
And so my sole stupid thought remains: do we remain thankful for all the loveliness we've got, taking all of this as a sign that what we have now is more than enough? Or is trying again the only way to fill this void?
That is ALL I think about. All I DREAM about. And the occasional holiday party attire conundrum. Clearly I need a lobotomy.
Friday, November 6, 2009
SO THERE. Please feel free to join me in saying FREAK IT this month. It feels so good.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
If, by some small miracle, the answer is YES, my ravishing single sister, she of the Pre-Raphaelite curls, soft voice (so soft you can't hear her sometimes, but is that REALLY a drawback for most guys?), and graceful swan walk...who also happens to be an intellectual property attorney in Washington, D.C., is COMING to T-TOWN:
Alas, I don't believe Tulsa is chock-full of single men. And Neiman Molly is picky. So picky, in fact, that even if you were a good-looking, tall, Harvard-educated securities trader with exemplary table manners and a keen sense of humor, BUT you were a mere 32 years old, Neiman Molly would discard you like yesterday's sashimi roll. She has an odd penchant for older men, a predilection for which she has not yet been psychoanalyzed.
So...if you are a forty-ish male divorcee, with a bit of money, charm, and excellent conversation skills; if you have a knowledge of arcane historical facts or a sexy travel schedule including, perhaps, Dubai and Santiago; if you consider yourself a connoisseur of Pinot Noirs, French art circa Gauguin, and premium vodkas (but not in a overly metrosexual way...); if you're attractive but not too pretty; if you drive an understated gray Audi or Mercedes...
Oh, cripes. Who am I describing? Does the domestic version of James Bond live in Tulsa? If yes, please contact me STAT, sir. I would like another niece or nephew soon. Thank you.