Secret Single Behavior, Thursday Night Edition

One of the things that They - you know, that mysterious "They" committee that comes up with the rules - don't tell you about marriage is how some of the really good bits are times spent apart.  Yes, apart.

Admittedly, for those of you with significant others working or stationed far away, I'm sure you've had quite enough of alone time and would cheerfully kick me for saying this, and understandably so. It is the couples who aren't separated by circumstance, but who choose to spend nearly every waking second together, that work together or took every class together - those are the ones that leave me entirely befuddled.  After all, how else can you truly appreciate one another if you don't have the occasional Secret Single Behavior ("SSB") evening alone?  Doesn't the time apart, secure that you will see your SO very soon, make the time apart delectable?  Am I right here?

When I do get the odd night to myself, I wish that I could tell you that I'm busy baking casseroles in the shape of a wee Birkin, all while balancing my checkbook & running the Junior League single-handedly & catching up on some light quantum physics* reading. In actual fact, if I'm not otherwise out with friends, my SSB checklist - how handy would this be for our young professionals' Martha-lite-omnimedia project, by the way? - goes something like this:

Facial Exfoliation / Pluckage - Check

Wine? - Check  

George Forman-ed Meal du Jour? - Check

Magazine / Catalogue Reading? - Check

Ice Cream? - Check

Sauvignon blanc, Dreyer's rocky road, and unsupervised internet access. Please try to contain your overwhelming envy.

What does your typical SSB night include?

I Pick . . . Coach?!?

Enough with the sentiment, let's talk about stuff!

There is a time when every honest woman must admit when she's wrong.  Happily, I am not that sort of woman.  Nonetheless, I will admit that my former handbag honey, Coach, might - might - have heard our numerous complaints. Take a look at the following work-appropriate, neutral bags & just try to suppress the urge to golf clap . . . no, really, I'm being serious . . .

"Parker Leather Large Convertible Hippie"

"Parker Leather Riley Tote"

"Penelope Shopper"

(Credit all photos:  Coach)

These are tasteful. These are not $800 a piece.  The logo-ing is minimal.  They don't look like something the local teenage strumpet might be sporting while cruising the mall.

Don't get me wrong;  Coach is still peddling the bespangled, be-logoed, multi-colored nightmares too, but this is promising. I'm not leaving Camp Marc Jacobs yet, but still - not bad. Should we get the slow, tentative round of applause started up?

The Grace (Chanel) Moment, Part 13*

*My occasional weekly feature in which I natter on endlessly about something for which I'm grateful.  

It hit me as the BF-M & I turned a casino corner, en route to the Vegas Bar du 15 Minutes last Saturday evening.  Upon encountering the endless sea of primped, tanned, bleached clubgoers clamoring at the velvet rope - without so much as a word to one another - we swiftly made a left turn into the Chanel boutique instead.

There are some friendships that are limited by those conventional phases in life, the people who subconsciously will fit you in so long as the correct checkmarks - Married?  Kids? - are marked off.  Likewise, there are people about whom you probably think to yourself, "If only they didn't have kids (or did have) already, we'd be such good friends."  I don't propose that this is a negative thing;  we can only have so many close friends.  I mean, good friends tend to deplete one's wine supply, so I think we can agree that caution is best here.

What touched my icy, unfeeling self just a tad this Saturday night - well, aside from the jewelry counter - was the recognition that I am slowly passing from one excellent phase of life to another, and that I have a few very good people who can make that leap with me.  Not to say that I won't darken the doorstep of a chic bar or ten again twenty-something style**, but if I feel like staying in, there are friends for me, and I suspect for many of us here, who will happily join in.  Particularly if Chanel is involved.

**And certainly not to say that I imbibe much less, but the thirty-something hangovers?  Oy.

Edited to Add:  For those who asked about my Chanel purchases, I didn't make any, but thank you for grasping the deeply meaningful and hugely important part of this post.  

Giveaway Winner & Thanks

Darlings, I have a winner to announce - via random number generator thingy, reader Elle is the lucky winner of the tremendously titled "It Sucked and Then I Cried"!  Elle, please email me (click on my profile for link) by this Friday, May 1 to claim your booktastic prize.

Thank you all for playing!  There are plenty - or, as the Anonymous Husband might say, too many  - of books where that giveaway came from, so look for some similar goodies over the next few weeks.

**************************************************************************************

Thanks also to the lovely Marina of Penny Lane Designs, who is responsible for this site's Pretty new look, as well to as my fabulous Invisible Blog Friend, Mojito Maven, for recommending her.  After all, makeovers - even Invisible Blog ones - are good for both the eyes & the soul, no?

Gone Gambling

(Credit:  Forbes Traveler)

(Not really) (Because I go for the shopping) (And the eating) (And the people-watching, obvs) (Parentheses)

(PS - Don't forget to enter my booktastic giveaway here.)

Giveaway - "It Sucked and Then I Cried"

At heart, I am a book nerd* with a shopping problem, so I adored a recent book-themed giveaway by Invisible Blog Friend extraordinaire, Mrs. Newlywed. With her permission, I'm importing it for my very own: plucking a book from my very own shelf to give away to one lucky reader. This is the sort of giveaway - well, that and those that keep me in beauty magazines - that I can get excited about. And so I bring you a book obtained in bloggy spirit:

*A cute book nerd, but nonetheless . . .

(Credit: Amazon)

"It Sucked and Then I Cried" is the book by that famous blogger; the one at whose (very entertaining) reading I met the lovely TUWABVB and accidentally outed myself as an internet friender. In any event, I found this to be a quick, honest, and occasionally hilarious read about pregnancy & post-partum depression. If you enjoy her blog, this is written very much in the same style - in more blog post than book form.

Lovelies, if you care to win my book, as signed by the author** (thanks to TUWABVB's brave line-standing):

1) Please leave me a comment below for one entry;

2) If you want to be entered twice, please follow me using that dreadful Google Friend follower thingy to the right, and let me know that you followed; if you're already a follower, please remind little ol' me in your comment.

3) Entries will remain open until next Monday, May 27th.

**Signed to my name, actually - think of the collector value someday!!

I have various other goodies in my Amazon cart, so if you like this giveaway concept, let me know & look for similar giveaways over the next few weeks. Because I am not at all above bribing you for your reader love. Not one Pretty bit.

Giveaway - "Marie Claire" Magazine

Those haute ladies over at Shop It To Me - the ones who put those tantalizing emails in your inbox showing you what's on sale, based on your shopping preferences and the inspiration for many an AmEx indiscretion here - are doing a Pretty-worthy contest;  you can win a one-year subscription to "Marie Claire" magazine!  They are giving away five subscriptions, so run by their blog here to enter and, while you're at it, feel free to tell them The Pretty sent you.

(Credit: Shop It To Me blog)

Full Disclosure:  I am a "Shop It To Me" trendsetter & stand to get a free subscription myself by plugging this contest.  After all, If I don't keep up with Prettier Than Everyone Else research, who will?  Oh, wait . . . 

Back shortly with yet another giveaway.  No, really.  I mean it this time.

We Need a Word for This

Front, back, side-to-side.  

Any woman who has walked into a bar or, infinitely worse, a junior high dance* knows the simultaneous excitement and dread of walking into a crowded room and encountering The Look. You know the one, and it isn't Jake Ryan catching your eye from across the gym, in hopes you'll slow dance at a painfully awkward arm's distance from him.

*Why, why didn't we just band together and end these?  Adding this to my Omnimedia Takeover Agenda.

No, it is us women who are both instigator and victim of The Look, defined as the non-amorous, flagrantly competitive head-to-toe evaluation of another woman upon said woman's entrance into a social event.  And as I've rounded the bend into my thirties, The Look I've observed, regardless of American city, goes something along these lines:

- Face

- Shoes

- Engagement/Wedding Ring

- Handbag

Since our primary goal here is being Prettier Than Everyone Else, I generally take The Look as a skewed sort of compliment;  however, why the competitive thing in the first place?  Is my Marc by Marc handbag, seductive as it may be, actually going to lure your oil heir husband away, as one recent attendee at a charity event *ahem* seemed to be implying with her vicious stares?**

**While I was standing next to my own Anonymous Husband, I might add.  

Ladies and gentlemen (man? Any of you out there?), is this a universal thing, or merely a byproduct of the admittedly yuppie-prone, heterosexual-prone circles in which I often find myself?  If The Look varies in your town or crowd, what is your regional variation?

My Important, Special Notepad Runneth Over

(Credit all photos:  Saks)

Darlings, this is like one of those delightful SAT questions:  Jumpsuits are to 2009 fashion as Linsday Lohan is to self-tanner.*    Apropos of the original jumpsuit era, let's pick answer (C), Just Say No.

*CLICK ONLY IF YOU DARE.  MWAHAHAHAHA.

I Am Not Proud

On most bloggy days, I attempt to bring you only that which I deem eminently Pretty.  Something to amuse and distract you from the fact that I am not sitting around devising solutions to the banking crisis or Somalian piracy, but am in fact simply full of, er, nonsense.

Reader, today is not one of those days.

(Credit:  Bravo TV)

Oh.  My.  Awesome.  

After last night's viewing of "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" preview - yes, my TiVo and I are running a bit behind - I hereby renounce any claim to taste or discernment.  If you're looking for me come May 4th, start with the Garden State;  I'll be the one frantically running around to get enough Botox and Big Hair to keep up with my new television best frenemies.  

No, I am not proud, but I am deeply entertained.  I hope you have an equally amusing weekend.

Important, Special Note to Those Who Like to Give Pregnant Women Unsolicited Advice

Pretty Headquarters

10 Malevolence Manor

Principality of Monaco, via Austin, Texas

Association of People Who Know Everything

123 High Horse Highway

Mars, Galaxy

Dear Sir or Madam:

I had hoped to clear this matter up with our State of the Uterus address.  Sigh.

It would appear, however, that a number of you - not you, Pretty Readers, of course - may have missed this vitally important missive.  Based on the comments I've heard lately from pregnant friends in particular, I understand that no small number of people are STILL, in this 21st century AD, offering any and all manner of unsolicited, uterus-bound advice, under that most sinister guise of "help".

You might be asking yourself - why is a blogger who is not pregnant, who has never been pregnant NOT that it is anyone else's business, taking on this monumental task?  What relevant observation could such a person possibly have on a state she has never experienced?  Um . . . good question.  Happily, I've never been one to let inexperience get in the way of my opinions.  Plus, my pregnant friends are a bit preoccupied at the moment with, you know, being pregnant.  And - AND! - you won't find me giving them advice about their current state.  Surprising, I know.

In truth, this letter is motivated by sincere anger and heartbreak on behalf of friends, both of the real world and invisible internet variety, who have recently had the double burden of pregnancy worries and fielding your numerous and - might I emphasize - unsolicited offers of advice about the same.  To that end, a couple of thoughts from this admitted interloper:

- On how a mother chooses to bring her child into the world:  I have no doubt that, due to your carb-free, pesticide-free, shadow-free diet throughout your rigorously scheduled pregnancy, your own personal labor was nothing short of a Broadway musical of delights.  Keebler Elves assuredly tap-danced from your ladybits in painless unison to usher your Organic Little Bundle of Joy into the world, while the sun shone from your every orifice and Zac Efron crooned softly in the background.  

Here's the thing:  although your own pregnancy was a veritable feast of High School Musical delights, reliable sources tell me that might not be the case for everyone.  Yes, even if they do follow your highly-regimented advice to the letter. What's more, if the object of your rapturous advice has not been so fortunate as to have such a blissful pregnancy, odds are your storytelling, strewn with fairy dust as it might be, may only serve to make the mom-to-be feel guilty or worse.

-  On suggesting that a pregnancy setback or tragedy is the result of divine will:  Religion being a deeply personal matter, I won't touch it with a finely manicured finger here except to say this - religion is a deeply personal matter.  While some might take comfort in this sort of advice, many - even the spiritual amongst us - might not.  Assume the latter & tread carefully.

Friends, can't we just all share one big epidural cocktail* and get along - silently, supportively, and, unless specifically asked, without judgment of our pregnant friends?

*Or not, if you or your Life Birth Lamaze Career Coach are against that sort of thing. Gah.

Wearily Yours,

Legallyblondemel

The Grace Day, Part 12

Darlings, I've missed you!  Well, sort of.  As much as one can when back home in beachy (or, this weekend, of course, slightly rainy) paradise.

You know those friends who you not only, you know, want to be friends with, but the ones who you can't quite figure out why they let you hang around because they are that much funnier and more interesting and more brave and intelligent AND - it must be said - Prettier than you?  Where you hope and pray that by your terrible sense of humor biting wit and subterfuge alone, you might trick these fine people into speaking to you on a regular basis?

I spent the whole of Saturday with those people.  And on top of that, I got to spend it with them eating and drinking and spa-ing* in places like this:

*Yes, this is a verb when done properly.

(Credit:  Estancia La Jolla)

Whatever you do, by whatever means possible, book yourself a spa day here.  And try to trick these friends into being yours - or your attorneys**.  They are intimidatingly, awe-inspiringly good at both.  

**Just in case that "whatever means possible" doesn't work so well for your spa strategy.  Not that I would encourage that.  No, really.

Gone Home

(Credit:  Wikimedia Commons)

Remember this?  This is ______ Park, home to the world-famous __________ zoo.

It's The Law. You Know The One.

Once upon a time, in a faraway state country mindset land known as Texas, a lawyer-by-day and aspiring monarch-by-imagination moved to a fair town called Austin.  Although I - er, this lawyer-monarch; "Princess LaMo" sounds fitting - was new to this place, I figured by virtue of my spouse, I would swiftly Smug Married my way into a fabulous new life of girlfriends and various social events.* **  

*Foreshadowing alert!

** Not to worry; this isn't just another post of me whining my new town. Pinky swear.

Some fair maiden singleton friends, off in faraway lands themselves, began around this same time to test out internet dating.  From my Hill Country perch, Princess LaMo here wholeheartedly encouraged the online dating.  I am ashamed to admit that an equal part of me covertly, and not a little smugly, thanked God that I had met the Anonymous Husband the old-fashioned way.***  

*** In a bar.  I know, I know.  Karma will have its way with me.  Keep reading.

Enter Stage Left, Murphy & her bemused Law, one year and one blog later: As I hurried along last night in the Prettymobile, trying to catch the book reading of the OG of Personal Bloggers, hoping to meet a should-be-famous blogger there, it dawned on me.  This being just one week after meeting up with this group of hilarious lady bloggers.  And a good eight months or so after starting the Pretty blog here and e-meeting nice people such as yourself, a comfort while I otherwise struggled to find my way around this new city.  Yes, I was speeding to meet someone I'd only "met" online, to hear someone speak who I'd admired from afar online, who I'd learned about from my other invisible friends online.

And so it came upon a frantic drive clear . . .  I have become an online friend-er.  A platonic, accidental left turn from eHarmonyville, but an online one nonetheless.   Thanks, Universe!  I get it!  Irony!   

Murphy = 1, Pretty = 0.  And, with sincere apologies to my tremendous friends, singleton or otherwise, I am OK with that.

Grabbing The Bright Side By the Throat, Newlywed Edition

ALERT!  Unicorns and rainbows and whiskers on kittens to follow!  ALERT!

If you'll forgive me this Fraulein Maria moment*, I'm finding myself in need of an attitude adjustment of the sort that only cosmetic dermatology can provide.  Since the Tax Man has taken that lifeblood away for the moment - turns out you can't deduct chemical peels - I'm forced to turn to the free, non-alcoholic** variety of happy perspective.

*Am I using this phrase correctly, Ms. Coconut Diaries?

**Non-alcoholic just because it's Tuesday - and I'm out of Veuve. 

Maybe it's all the gorgeous wedding pictures floating around the web as of late - ahem, Kate - but amidst all of the These Difficult Times gloom of the past few weeks, I've found myself going over the past 2.5  years of my marriage and finding comfort in the little Smug Married*** stuff. 

 ***These apply to anyone who has been in a long-term relationship, be it with a man, woman, or Chia Pet.

Of course, this isn't to say that I believe my Smug Marriage is perfect or anywhere near it.  I intentionally, and under blood oath, don't dwell on the negative or truly private stuff here except to say that, left to his own devices, the Anonymous Husband would verily bury our home in piles of change left everywhere, the weight of which would eventually sink our house.

Ahem.  In any event, I'm forcing myself to take the By God, I'm A Fortunate Person!?!?!!! approach today with things I'm starting to learn about my husband type person such as:

          - I like that I can tell when the AH is doing his fake laugh.  No, I won't tell you.

          - I like that he blatantly tries to cheer me from my frequent occasional sullen moods my making me laugh, even though it makes me want to deck him (in the most demure, feminine manner possible) at the time.

          - I like that he himself is rarely in a sullen mood, which leaves me free to be the moody one.

          -  I like that he tells me the same thing, line for line,  each day before I leave for work.  I like less that I leave for work before him, or leave for work at all, but I digress . . . 

          - I like that I don't have him or this all figured out yet.

And with that, my darlings, I'm off to Force! Perspective! And! Happiness!  via ice cream & "The Colbert Report".

Target Shoes: The Good and the Fug

I could start this post off with a cringe-worthy "Let's get this week started on the right foot!" pun, but I am not that lame.  Most of the time.  Really.

I'll just go ahead and begin, then, by admitting that on my daily latest Target trip, what began as an innocent paper towel excursion ended up in the shoe section.  I have no excuse save the siren call that is the patent stiletto:

I bring you the Mossimo Valonia Pump, available in blue and black.  Longtime readers know my Target Sniff Test;  due to the heinous quality of Target's online photos and occasional in-person quality issues, I try to only recommend that which I've personally inspected on my daily latest adventures.  These pass my TST;  they look far more expensive than they are, and the blue ones in particular are a rich, azure color in person.  If These Difficult Times interfere with my plans to invest in the red shoes of hotness, I will be purchasing these excellent alternatives.

On the other end of the shoe spectrum, I hate to disappoint the more preptastic amongst you, but the recent Miss Trish of Capri collection is . . . um, it does not pass the TST.  Admittedly, this line has always been a bit Palm Beach prepalicious for this Banana Republican, California sort of girl.  However, in the interest of blog reporting - and spending more time in the shoe department - I decided to investigate:

Bejeweled turtles? Cheap-looking pleather?  Insane wedges?  Most un-Pretty.  

Wishing a well-shod, wonderful week to you all . . .

The Grace Moment, Part 11

My attempt to start each week off on a grateful note, with the incidental and delightful side effect of irritating you.

(Credit:  Flickr user Ravisastry)

I'd try to add something wry and terribly hilarious here, but some things don't require embellishment.  T-Minus 5 days until I'm back home at my beach . . . 

Choose Your Own Adventure, Boring Adult Version

Class, please raise your hands if you're a book nerd highly literate like me & remember the "Choose Your Own Adventure" children's series.  These are the ones where the reader stars off with an thrilling, oh-so-slightly unrealistic adventure, such as a weekday shopping trip to Paris, and is presented with choices leading to different endings like:

- If you want to take a field trip to the Hermes factory and risk expiring from handbag happiness right then and there, turn to page 84;

- If you want to sit in your hotel and brood longingly at the Eiffel Tower in manner of that most American of tourists, Carrie Bradshaw, while your boyfriend ignores you, turn to page 52.*

*Yes, it's possible that I've watched too much HBO since my "Choose Your Own Adventure Days". 

Yesterday, layoffs struck at the Anonymous Husband's office.  Again.  He is still employed & absolutely fine - employed & fine, I promise! - but it's beginning to feel here at Pretty HQ like a Choose Your Adventure novel of a distinctly more grown-up, less entertaining variety:

- If you want to start panicking about the future and spending every last second checking the internet for more bad news, turn to page 36;

- If you want to keep perspective and recall that you both still have great jobs and there are many who need good thoughts and help, and those people aren't you, calmly turn to page 52.

I don't post this in hopes of stirring up more panic in These Difficult Times - this blog is about being prettier, not more paranoid, than nature intended - but just to say, I'm trying to keep hopes up & finding it difficult today to keep my characteristic perky, ebullient spirits**. I'm struggling to calmly turn to that theoretical page 52, count my blessings, AND ratchet up the savings. Because, unlike my favorite pulp fiction of youth, sometimes we have to take more than one ending into consideration before we turn the page.  

**Anyone buying the perky, ebullient bit?  Anyone?