Oh No He Didn't ...

"All good things must come to an end" goes the cliche, and so it was with the AH.

To date, he had been the picture of the ideal father-to-be - from my perspective (ie, the important one), that is. He's cheerfully accompanied me to doctor's appointments, given a second opinion when asked on baby gear decisions, humored my daily occasional hormonal freakouts, and kept the complaining about our upcoming childbirth classes to a minimum.

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me when he went to touch The Bump the other day, looked at me, and smiled as he cooed, "Looking good, Chubs!"

Yes, Chubs. Because nothing says "I love you" to a pregnant woman quite like an affectionate nickname referencing her ever-expanding girth. Alas, having apparently misread my patented Icy Glare for amusement or worse, proceeding despite same with glee of a smug schoolboy who's just discovered your secret weakness, the AH has taken to dropping the offensive name at every given opportunity.

Fear not, fearless ones - not only have I fully embraced the expansion, which is a healthy and normal part of this whole P Word process, I've come up with a tidy solution to this whole Chubs issue. As the AH has been informed, for every cutesy reference to my disappearing waistline, I expect the Push Present to get upgraded.

"Carats" has such a better ring to it than "Chubs", don't you think?

Pretty Travel Photos to Distract You From My Utter Lack of Posting

Guilty Yuppie Disclaimer: No small part of me despises doing travel reviews, because I fear they come across as "Oooh, look how fabulous and privileged I am, traveling to exotic locales! Pretty please be jealous of me and my extremely good fortune / profligate spending!"

What I'm actually trying to get at is more along the lines of "Travel is just one of my things, so I live / budget accordingly, and I like reading about other people's trips to get ideas. And, well, Hell - I haven't posted in weeks. Maybe some scenic beach photos will distract everyone qualify as a post while I try to rediscover my writing mojo. Wait, can I use the word 'mojo' outside of the year 2002?"

Oh, and none of the following resorts / towns / etc. sponsored this post or trip, obviously, so regretfully, positive review to follow was at my own expense.

Thank you for your understanding . . .

***

"Hallmark Holidays" - love 'em or hate 'em, every year seems to come replete with a new, exhausting set of festivities for us to spend our hard-earned cash on. And while I generally resent such saccharine intrusions into my time and wallet - isn't Valentine's Day grating enough without inflicting "Sweetest Day" and its sappy ilk on us? - I can now speak enthusiastically on behalf of the Babymoon phenomenon.

A skeptic at first, having not heard of the concept until a few months back, I quickly cottoned to the idea / excuse to get away with the AH for a few days. Although we've been lucky enough to travel often during our few married years, not since our honeymoon had we done a longer than a weekend, just-the-two-of-us adventure. True, travel is a privilege, but we had saved and were due a lazy, hedonist, lay-about-the-beach together trip.

And so, high on hormones and the possibility of staring at my beloved Pacific Ocean for a stretch, this Valentine's Day weekend we departed for Punta Mita, a scenic, sleepy resort village one hour north of Puerta Vallarta. Six days, one outstanding hotel (St. Regis, for Hotel Snobs keeping track), zero margaritas (gah) and one maternity swimsuit (GAH!) later, we returned home oozily relaxed, sunburned, and grateful.

To any of you considering this whole gestation business, let me now say with authority - take a Babymoon. Ahem, TAKE A BABYMOON. On whatever scale fits your budget - pitch a festive teepee in your neighbor's yard if you must - just get out of town for a spell. I've found it too easy while at home to spend most of pregnancy moaning about budgets and 529 plans and other scary adult stuff you didn't consider back when having a cute baby seemed like such a fun idea. Get gone, get a fauxgarita in your hand, and just enjoy the actually fun bits of this babymaking deal.

One caveat - when I say "travel" here, I mean "a lazy ode to hedonism that caters to your now-constant need to eat / drink / rest / be pampered." Now is not the time to take that jaunt up Macchu Pichu or live amongst the indigenous persons of northern Uzbekistan. Your knocked up self reacts in strange and delightful ways to things like sun exposure, motion sickness, etc., so call this trip a good excuse to book some spa treatments and leave the adventurous, capital "T" Travel for another trip.

And for those Smug Marrieds not considering kids, now or ever, forever and ever, amen, this trip was also a good reminder to me of how important it is just to have some one-on-one travel time with the husband type. On the "Duh" scale, that remarkable insight must rate at least a 9.5, but hear me out; post-Honeymoon, we'd fallen into the group travel habit. This has been a blast, naturally, but it also hasn't left us time to just sit and have those honest, fauxgarita (gah) induced chats that come easier when you're not at home.

I have to get back now to freaking out about budgets and maternity leave benefits and ohmigodisn'ttheresomeoneIcanhiretofigurethisstuffoutforme, but I do so now with a refreshed, if still sunburned spirit. This all made it possible:

A Pregnant Lady Walks Into a Party . . .

First, thank you *so* much for all of your lovely comments, emails, and Tweets! Even this cold-hearted Ice Queen has been thawed by your overwhelming outpouring of support. From the bottom of my - uh, womb? - thank you.

Second, in sympathy with the non-pregnant, non-kid singleton or married types reading the following story, this is much more about my being an ass than being pregnant. Sadly, I've found the latter does nothing to eradicate the former.

***

Amongst my many pre-pregnancy jitters, I admit that one of my worries was, "What does a party look like for this shy type wino without the assistance of my kind friend, Cabernet*?" To my surprise and relief, navigating the social waters during these first few months of enforced sobriety has been much less miserable than I'd expected (dodging nosy questions about my sudden teetotaling notwithstanding).

*Baby names being what they are nowadays, I feel compelled to add that I'm speaking about Cabernet the wine varietal, not the inevitable exotic dancer of similar name. Oy.

So it was, all Smug Mothery, that I strolled into a large family birthday party last Saturday night, confident that this would be another festive evening full of my new favorite hobby, i.e. making fun of people getting sloshed. By "people" I should clarify that this particular fete of 60 included extended in-law family, Catholic clergy members, and my boss (who doubles as family friend).

As certified members of the Mommy Mafia can attest, the close friends or family members sworn to secrecy about early pregnancy news fall into two camps - (a) those who understand your desire to keep things quiet and comply easily and (b) those who literally seem to burst under the pressure of the secret, growing wild-eyed as they look for someone, anyone to drag the secret out of them. I'll let you surmise in which camp the Anonymous In-Laws, wonderful though they are, fell. Suffice it to say, by the day of this party, they were, uh, very excited to share the finally public news.

So as we sat down for dinner, I had an inkling that some sort of humiliating rousing toast to my fertility was coming, but me & Denial go back much farther than this baby business. Alas, not two minutes after the Anonymous Father-In-Law began his entertaining pre-dinner toast, the Anonymous Husband was suddenly called upon to "deliver the Good News"*.

*"Good News" is to pregnancy as "Big Day" is to weddings - totally overused and annoying. Let's agree to end it now. Thank you for your cooperation.

The AH, being a person of poise and great public speaking ability (*foreshadowing!*), stood and briefly told the room that we are expecting. The crowd politely applauded, the AH sat, and I breathed a sigh of relief, hopeful that we could now move on to the birthday guest of honor.

AND THEN - that's right, I'm going All Caps for a moment - the Anonymous Father-in-Law turned to me and inquired, "Mel, do you have anything to add?", as he grinned at the audience.

I, being a person neither of great poise nor public speaking ability, promptly turned to the crowd and proclaimed while nodding towards the AH:

"Uh, he did a great job!"

After a surprised pause, the room burst into laughter, and the AH beamed from ear to ear at me as if I'd offered him a gift-wrapped Megan F*ox for Christmas. I slowly slunk down into my chair as I turned to the AH, my face aflame as my words echoed through my head, and asked through gritted teeth,

"Did I just announce to the entire party that you did an impressive job of impregnating me?"

The unbridled & all too smug enthusiasm on his face confirmed my worst fears, which no amount of "mocktails" could assuage. As the shame of my Uptight White ancestors rung in my ears, horrified as they surely were at my having admitted to having s-e-x (as it was spelled out in my childhood home) (never mind that it was with my own personal husband), I tried to comfort myself with these thoughts - (a) surely I'll never be asked to give an impromptu speech at family events again? and (b) my "push present" had best be in the Hope Diamond category after this inadvertent AH ego boost.

And that, darlings, is how I accidentally informed a party full of approximately 10 nuns, one priest, my boss, my in-laws, and some 40-odd other people that my husband is a good lay. Merry Christmas!

How to Break Unpleasant News to Your Spouse

Important, Special Note: "Featured Blogger Friday" will continue next Friday with a supremely kick-arse blogger you're going to adore. No, really. This time I mean it. Pinky swear!

***

They - you know, that mysterious "they" - say you should keep a marriage spontaneous in order to keep the interest going. However, in my near 3 - yes, almost THREE years, clearly approaching varsity team status! - years of Smug Marriage, I've determined that certain things just work better with a system.

Take, for example, the business of breaking potentially controversial news to your partner*. We've explored these murky waters previously, including this misadventure, but never have we plunged our Wellies (pink, of course) into the actual muck of how to broach these indelicate subjects.** This is exactly the sort of thing where all that relationship spontaneity we're supposed to be getting up to can simply wreck the conversation.

*Or can I just say spouse? Significant other? Can anyone suggest a generic term for this that doesn't make me spiritually barf just a little and/or set the PC Police into a lather?

**And yes, by "broach indelicate subjects" I do mean "covertly convince your spouse /boyfriend /partner type to do exactly as you suggest"

Of course, I recommend that you all assess which system works best for your spousely-type person; my carefully honed unpleasant and/or controversial news delivery system is as follows:

Step 1: Meet the Anonymous Husband out for a drink;

Step 2: Order round of drinks #1;

Step 3: Order drink #2 for the AH;

Step 4: Assess level of AH chattiness and general demeanor;

Step 5: Slip in unpleasant and/or controversial news in the most calm voice I can muster;

Step 6: Quickly follow up step #5 with another drinks order.

Alas, this system is not guaranteed to have a felicitous outcome, but my extensive, highly scientific research has shown this gives a heightened chance of success. Besides, if my system doesn't work, at least you've both had a few drinks to lessen the blow. Not to toot my own horn - except if I don't, who the Hell else will? - in the immortal words of a certain Miss Elle Woods, I find this to be ". . . a completely brilliant plan".

What's your system? Or are you a fan of the spontaneous approach?

The Husband Wish List

Due to this weekend's fashion infraction, I've decided it's wise to step away from the shopping for a time and focus on embarrassing myself via other means. Any other means. Seriously.

Hence, when I stumbled upon the hilarious Secret Life of Tova Darling's post here, a lightbulb went off in my head; for those of us who have been blogging for a time, you'll recognize this as that cunning little inner voice that whispers to you, "This is actually rather mortifying in real life, but gives me a blog post, so I may as well throw it to the interwebs." Like Tova, I too had penned a "wish list" of the qualities I wanted in my future husband, back sometime around my freshman year in college in my case, which I managed to dig up in my diary archive.

Is posting on a blog, already a self-indulgent endeavor, about a diary entry akin to a double dose of self-absorption? Er, probably. I like to think of it as an In-n-Out double-double; a cheesy ode to short-term thinking (or cardiac distress, as it were).

In any event, here is my Husband List. I realize this may look like an invented list at best, dolloped liberally with a dose of Smug Married, but in the interest of full disclosure I'm reproducing this exactly as I wrote it some 13 years ago, in the order I wrote it:

- Brown eyes

- Short brown hair

(Pretty Note: I blame these first two on my first childhood crush, which was collectively on the cast of "Menudo". Yes, that Saturday morning "Menudo" featuring none other than Ricky "Next stop, Gayville" Martin. Interestingly, these are two of only a few list traits the Anonymous Husband doesn't possess. *cue Smug Married moment* )

- Broad Shoulders

- Honest

(Pretty Note: I'd like to point out that "honesty" came FOURTH on my list, behind three physical traits. Yes, I've had my priorities straight for a long while now.)

- Loves his family

- Believer

- Chivalrous

- Ambitious

- Intelligent

- Funny/sarcastic

- Wants kids

- Well educated & loves learning

(Pretty Note: "Loves learning" = apparently I longed to marry an ABC After-School Special.)

- Loyal

- Likes animals

- 6'0 to 6'2 tall

(Pretty Note: Almost made it! Again, I know how to prioritize the really important stuff.)

- Patient

- Outgoing

- Gives a decent massage

(Pretty Note: Mind you, this was written during a more innocent time. If I knew then what I knew now, I'd replace this last one with "A terrific kisser etc. & willing to turn a blind eye to / underwrite my spa habit." In fact, this alone could replace 3/4 of the list.)

As ridiculous as this may look in retrospect, not only am I happy to have written this down somewhere, I'm kicking myself for not having consulted it during the years of dating brown-eyed men (sadly, no "Menudo" cast members) who were otherwise sorely lacking in the List department.

Has anyone else written one of these? Care to share?

How to Infiltrate Your Significant Other's Wardrobe

Alternate Titles:  "How to Tell if Your Husband is Reading Your Blog" and "The One Thing Tim Gunn's Book Won't Tell You"

Step 1:  Observe the style snags in your SO's closet.  In the Pretty household, my otherwise darling, Banana Republican sort of husband has sported the same tattered jeans and chino shorts (and not in that luxe, "I just walked off a Ralph Lauren ad set" way) since approx. 1996, resisting all attempts to change the same.

Step 2:  Steathily & casually drop into the conversation how his Friend X had a nice pair of jeans on at dinner that night; observe SO for signs of panic.

Step 3: If no signs of panic observed in Step 3 - or the complaining is kept to a minimal "This doesn't mean I have to go shopping, does it?" -  secretly purchase proper jeans and shorts on your own.

Step 4: One night, confuse your SO by acts of domestic felicity.  In my household, this equated to my offering the AH a drink upon his arriving home, making dinner AND doing the dishes afterwards.  Yes, I am still awaiting my medal.*

*Which I imagine comes in the form of diamond stud earrings.  Emphasis on imagine.

Step 5:  Only after completing Step 4, oh-so-casually say that you popped into the store for a great sale (truth of store and sale entirely optional) & felt like spoiling him.  Before he thinks you've purchased Megan F**ox for him on layaway, follow this up by saying the next best thing (to him):  "Oh, I've already put them away in your closet.  Let me know what you think."  

Step 6:  After he tries on the clothes, lavish praise on how clever he was to pick them out - again, sprinkle this speech liberally with as much fiction as required - and the many splendors of his posterior in those pants, etc.  Enjoy!

(Credit:  Macy's)

(And a preptastic pair of Seersucker shorts from here)

Voila!  And - show of hands - does this actually take anyone else 6 steps?

***

Thank you all for your thoughts about my blog question yesterday.  By virtue of my being far too lazy to keep up two blogs popular demand, I will be keeping all manner of nonsense here.  

That being said, I also hope to be doing some guest posts in the near future with some very talented bloggers here.  These posts may entail more of the same nonsense, or something necessitating a different voice or more "colorful language" as my late, great Grandmother may have put it.  In any event, I'll be sure to link here when I have something up there.

The Five Year Spouse?

Here at the Pretty, I've confessed my tendency to think in five-year terms.  This odious, rare Type A tendency of mine usually rears its ugly head in the context of achieving those mythical Life Resume Goals, such as going to law school -  "What's the next goal?" I start to wonder, furiously trying to anticipate the future.  "Shouldn't I be out, um, achieving something?"

It shouldn't have surprised me, then, when I recently did the math on how long the Anonymous Husband and I have been together, dating years included, and had a Moment when I realized we are approaching year 5.  I hasten to add - I'm hastening so quickly, I risk injury to my glorious summer handbag here - that this doesn't mean that I am at all unhappy about this.  Quite the contrary - to have found someone willing to put up with my nonsense for five years and beyond, particularly this AH someone, is nothing but a happy, happy blessing.  I mean, I am good looking and all, but even then . . .

As something of a serial monogamist, I've come close to this five year mark before in a dating context.  Those being in non-marital situations, of course, year 5 was anticipated in slightly differently manner; I'm relieved that this milestone with my actual spouse hasn't been sprinkled with that formerly delightful seasoning of subterfuge and passive-aggressive attempts to get the other one to do the breaking up.

Ecstatic as I am about the State of My Union, I can't help but wonder - what changes lay around this mysterious Year 5 corner? I'm mature enough to know - stop laughing - that people do change, even in (especially?) in the context of a marriage, but my mind keeps spinning off in various directions about this.  For example:

What if he suddenly decides to drop out of life and start wearing appalling Christian Audigier tees while dating the 23-year-old daughter of my (future) plastic surgeon?*

*As much I'm trying not to fan the "Plus 8" fires, I mean . . . I mean . . . really?

What if I suddenly decide to drop out of life and start wearing appalling Christian Audigier tees while dating the daughter of my (future) plastic surgeon?

The best that any of us can hope for is to continue to change in the same direction as our spouse, right?  AH, I promise to keep this in mind as we approach the 5-year mark and lay off the "What next?" thinking - so long as you vow never to don the tragic, pre-mid-life-crisis t-shirts, that is.

From Newlywed to Nobody?

"What's he looking at? Did that strumpet Angelina just walk in? Am I that boring?  Did I accidentally start talking about my new purse again?  Why won't he make eye contact with me?"

It happened again last Friday night, as it has with increasing frequency since my marriage.  While out for dinner & drinks with the Anonymous Husband & a few of his acquaintances, I noticed that some of the male & single amongst them largely talked around me.  They briefly acknowledged me, then swiftly ignored me as they resumed scanning the room & constantly checking their Blackberries for someone more interesting.*  Again.  

*Psst, single men - the single ladies don't much care for the Blackberry move either. 

Before I give you the wrong impression, I hasten to add - I'm hastening so fast, I'm risking death by my perilous espadrille wedges** here -  that this has nothing to do with my seeking out attention from any man but my own personal, perfectly wonderful AH.  Sure, we ladies all generally appreciate - um - appreciation; however, that isn't the issue here.

**Banana Republic shoes of awesomeness.  Trust me.

No, what I object to is my tidily being filed away in the "Wife of ___" social cubbyhole, a woman to be respected by men to whom I am not married (good!), but also marginalized as someone not worth tossing more than a pleasantry or two prior to resuming The Search (not good!).  I absolutely don't deny them The Search itself - been there, married that*** - but merely the skipping of the formalities that indicate I am still someone worthy of small-talk.  Plus, straight men of the world, who better to act as your wing-woman than a wildly attractive yet happily married lady?

***Remember how the AH & I met in a bar?  But how it was classy in our case because friends introduced us?  Yeah.

Do I have just enough perspective to realize that this is a vastly less important problem than, say, the North Korean nuclear issue or the (hopeful) undercover operation to save that "Kate is Eight and Hates Her Husband" lady from her own hellacious hairdo?  Yes.  Yes, I do.  However, it's simply, you know, rude.   We do like our manners here at the Pretty, particularly when I'm the one doing the etiquette enforcing.

I hope this doesn't sound bitter;  on the contrary, the realist in me is grateful for these sorts of karmic kindnesses along the "Ohmigod, I'm not in my 20s anymore!" path.  After all, this is yet another reminder that I am slowly and voluntarily emerging from the bar-hopping, twenty-something scene****.  I'm also told by my mommy friends that this "Wife of ___" business will seamlessly morph with the advent of kidlets into "Mom of ___". Perhaps this gradual transition into the next "of____", as ushered in by the gin-swilling singletons of Texas, is actually nature's kind way of preparing me for total social identity annihilation. 

****Into what - the trashy reality TV watching scene?  

Gentlemen of the Great State, until that next "of____" comes, perhaps we can arrive at a detente of sorts.  On our next social adventure, why don't you briefly remember to ask me how my week & pretend to look interested in same before resuming The Search, in exchange for which I will resist dunking your Blackberry into your Shiner beer?  Deal? 

How to Spice Up Your Marriage in One Easy Step

Picture the scene:  you're sitting at the dinner table with your husband, enjoying a meal which you lovingly picked up from Pei Wei prepared, chit-chatting about your respective days at work.  In whatever state of dress or undress you prefer, gaze longingly into his eyes and drop the following into a perfectly innocent conversation:

"So, speaking of kids .  . ."

Take a brief pause for dramatic effect before continuing on with whatever story it was you meant to be telling, of the sort that has nothing whatsoever to do with your having your own children personally*.  Can't you just feel the marital excitement? 

*Edited to Add:  In my case, I was launching into a story about my friend's kid.  Yes, really. Please refer to my State of the Uterus address for any additional questions.

You may want to alert your neighbors before trying this.  As I recently and quite accidentally learned, you will not have time after those words slip out; if your partner is anything like the Anonymous Husband, I assure you that he will have already levitated into the next zip code.  After all of the wifely hard work you've put into ordering takeout making dinner, what a shame it would be to have to waste your evening tracking down your husband, aka Terrified Spice.

Prettier Than Everyone Else, Mascara Ed. (#3,472,897)

Some people have a Napoleon's complex.

Some people solve complex equations.

I, as longtime readers know, have an eyelash complex.  

That's right - you all can go on obsessing about the size of your intellect, or your chesticles, or run about solving actually important global issues - but I will be right here, scheming how to furtively switch the Anonymous Husband's lush, long eyelashes* for my own scrawny set without his noticing.

*Dear God:  Really, incredible lashes on a man?  Just a thought.  xo, LBM

The Product:  Imagine my delight, then, when I popped into my friendly neighborhood Sephora this weekend and received the following goody in my "Beauty Insider"** check-out bag:

**I'm afraid that this sounds like product placement - it isn't.  I will always tell you if someone has asked me to review or plug something.  Pinky swear.

(Credit:  Sephora)

Wildly intrigued with this wonderfully named "BADgal Lash" mascara, I immediately sped home in the Trophy Wife Wagon to investigate.  I eagerly anticipated the most lush, illicitly tempting lashes, the likes of which would instantly entice men to do my bidding or, more importantly, my laundry. 

However, after a few go-rounds with the product, I propose the following re-name:

- SLIGHTLY-MISCHIEVOUS-gal Lash or

-  REMEMBER-THAT-ONE-TIME-I-ALMOST-GOT-TIPSY-ON-SMIRNOFF-ICE-gal Lash

. . . because "bad" in the "outrageously good results" sense, this isn't, but it is pretty decent.  Gold stars to the applicator wand, which wouldn't clump despite my enthusiastic attempts - just picture Grace Kelly leaping around her boudoir, frantically gauging at her eye with a mascara wand, and you'll get the picture.  It also held with no visible flaking throughout a work day.  It just didn't have that extra volume or length oomph which those of us who are languid of lash require.

The Bottom Line:  solid purchase for those who already have decent lashes & are sensitive about clumping;  for you, this is a good, everyday mascara buy on the high ($19) cosmetics end.  Sadly, for those of us driven to coveting our husband's lashes, just go on and invest in DiorShow already.  Because what price a lash complex?

Extra Fun Bonus Reading: Favorite bloggeristas Preppy Princess and Think Classy are in the mascara war trenches with me, so please see their recent posts as well for vitally important updates.

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".

The Grace Experiment, Part 4

My attempt to start each week this year by listing 5 things, little or big, for which I'm grateful.  I'd say I try to do this sans the usual snark, but, well, um . . . that's even less fun than attempting to act appropriately thankful here.  

Would you believe I'm feeling grateful for more than 5 things this week?  The least nauseating five, if you can believe it:

1.  Friends who exclaim upon my entering a party, "Oh, good, we can open the champagne now!"  YES WE CAN!

2.  Recchiuti chocolates.  Trust me.

3.  The HRH Pug spent his Valentine's Day weekend clad in a festive holiday-themed scarf, so the Anonymous Husband threatened both divorce and custody proceedings if I post a recent photo.  Therefore, I attempt to earn your reader love by posting a puffy-hearted picture of the HRH as a puppy:

We're still working on our entry for Mrs. Jetplane's Pug contest . . . these things cannot be entered into lightly, after all.

4. Proof that I haven't been 100% sucked into my latest Type A Minus obsession, car shopping*, in the form of this DVF dress that is now on my stealth sale watch list.

*Although this is arguably more socially normal & productive than the teenaged vampire problem, no?

5.  That I met the AH in that time honored, old-fashioned way**, versus the current reality show means which primarily involve hot tubs and spray tans***.  Not that I'd know this from religous "Bachelor" watching.  Nooooope, not me, tra la la la . . . 

**In a bar, naturally.

***Bikinis?? On a first date?? 

My Imaginary Friends

I have some potentially upsetting news for you.

You are not real.

At least, not according to the Anonymous Husband, who sauntered over to my MacBook last night, observed my Twittering, and haughtily proclaimed, "Hey, you're spending an awful amount of time online talking to internet people. What about, you know, real people?"

!!

Please take a minute to absorb this. I'm sure you all went about your day today assuming that you did in fact exist. It's a little confusing, isn't it? However, looking at the happy end of this revelation, this might also mean that your job and your mortgage and bills to pay are also fictional?

Selfishly, this revelation is a bit confusing for me as well, since I am fortunate enough to have actually met a few of you. That I've also known a few of my readers for years is also perplexing, but that must have been the day one of many of Physics I didn't understand.

And for those of you I've not met yet, I am saddened that, since you all are apparently a figment of my imagination, I apparently won't get the chance. Disappointing to say the least, since you seem like a particularly pretty, witty bunch. And a bunch inclined towards champagne consumption, which is my type of crowd. Sigh.

But in all seriousness, after directing my Icy Glare in the AH's direction* - I lovingly add that this would be the AH who works in and went to school in and grew up near Austin, giving him ever-so-slightly more of a social foundation - I did pause to seriously reflect on his statement. After gazing deeply into my computer monitor for a few minutes, mulling over my average day in this new city of mine - which includes lawyering, looooooong commuting, gymgoing, dinner fetching making, pet caring, bill-paying, Junior Leaguing, and trashy TV viewing - I decided: not so bad, self. Somehow, despite the Twitter and the Blogger and all of the FUN I'm having writing and getting to know you find people, I'm slowly learning my way around this new town of mine - and! - doing a lot of other stuff AND running across some nice people along the way. Not an overnight affair, but I'm getting there.

*This is my A-1-A objection to Botox & the like, by the way - however do you properly scowl at people?

I realize this is silly of me to ask, given that you all are apparently just Internet People and hence figments of my little ol' imagination, but - has anyone else out there been on the receiving end of such a Stern Talking To?

Attention, Brides!

(Credit: clevercupcakes on Flickr)

No, this cupcake bouquet isn't from my wedding - back in my day, mashed potato bars were the trendy thing. I call do-over.

"Something will go wrong" must be the most frequently given wedding planning advice out there. It is also the most ignored.

Don't bother denying it. Whether you're contemplating marriage/ partnership/ spousaltude or already there, everyone in the Whole Wide World - possibly excepting those intimidatingly fraudulently perfect Cyborg Brides in Martha Stewart Weddings* - will tell you this. And every last one of you will smile sweetly and chirp about how down to Earth you are about this sort of thing and how you're just happy to be marrying the right person tra la la la la, just like I did. And, like me, not one of you will mean it, secretly believing that because this is ((prepare to gag)) YOUR BIG DAY**, surely things will in your case be supernaturally perfect.
*Don't let my snark mislead you - I may or may not have spent most of my engagement oogling MSW. And I may have sneaked a peek once or twice before I got engaged, but you'll never get me to admit it.
**Can we agree to exile this phrase off to its own astral island, in a galaxy far far away?

Instead of focusing on what could go wrong, enter this post from OH Mommy, the most recent addition to my Stylish Moms I'm Taking Detailed Notes From Although Not in a Stalkery Way blogroll, in which she ponders what she particularly liked about her own wedding and what she might change given the chance. Would that this post & others like it had been around back when I was planning my own wedding two years ago, when everything I read seemed to either emphasize how PERFECT and WONDERFUL and TYPE-A SCARY a bride's planning was, or to illustrate exactly how tragically one year's worth of party planning could go sideways. In other words, TERROR. You know, since your wedding day is the most important part of your marriage and all.

And in hopes it might somehow help those in the wedding**** planning way, I bring you five things I am happy to have done at my own nuptials & five I might change, with the following caveats:
(1) no way I can be unbiased here, so I can only hope I don't sound like more of a total brat than usual. For all I know, my guests clicked their heels with glee upon the cake cutting, so eager were they to leave my miserable festivities, but I fervently hope that's not the case; and
(2) some of my real life type friends read my nonsense here & are fully able to call shenanigans on me , as well they should although please don't tell me if that rumor about the guy peeing in the reception patio bushes is true because, yuck.
****Wedding with a capital "W", that is; I assume those of you clever enough to run off to the Justice of the Peace can just sit back and snigger at the rest of us.

Oh, and I'm going to generally say "I" and "me" here so as to not use the dread We, and not because of some sinister belief that it's all about the bride (insert joke here):

5 Things That I Wouldn't Change About My Wedding
1. Establishing my spending priorities early on - food/liquor and band - and budgeting around those items. Keeping focused on those made it easier to cut elsewhere when necessary.

2. Having my reception at a venue I was happy to support & where I felt comfortable with and confident in the staff. Knowing that a museum I loved was getting my exorbitant rental fee made the price much easier to accept.

3. Combining both my & the Anonymous Husband's religious traditions (we're from two different denominations) into our ceremony. This is the private sort of thing that likely only the AH & I noticed, but it was important to me us. Importantly - please, please consider your guests here if possible, recognizing it isn't always - this also didn't lengthen the ceremony.

4. I hate to mention the "M" word, but - paying & planning for everything largely ourselves. I won't pretend that I always felt grateful for this at the time - quite the reverse, actually. However, in retrospect, the result was a wedding that was very representative of the AH & me.

5. You'll mentally kick me in the shins if I say the groom, won't you? So . . . no mariachis. Yes, really. It's a South Texas thing, and this California girl is happy to claim home citizenship in this regard.

5 Wedding Decisions I'd Reconsider
1. Basing too much of my guest list on distant acquaintances from years ago, vs. people in my life now. There is no perfect science to this, but I worry that I imposed an obligation on some people who, in retrospect, I should never have expected to attend.

2. I might have had the wedding back in my superduperbeautimus southern California hometown instead. Long-distance planning seemed like an unmanageable feat, but I would have loved to show off home & been married in my old church.

3. Not trusting my instincts with the few vendors I hired despite my reservations. My wedding planner, who announced a career change 3 weeks before the wedding & basically disappeared, comes to mind.

4. Spending too much time/ $$ on save-the-dates and hotel blocks; most out-of-town guests either forgot this info by the time to reserve came around, or disregarded it and found their own reservations elsewhere.

5. Assigned reception seating. Oh, how I loved how those dainty little cards looked, but I suspect it cut against the more casual cocktail vibe we wanted. And it was a GINORMOUS pain in the ass to organize.

For those who are partnered up, what would you change? Wouldn't change? Any wedding planners in the house with opinions on this?

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

Edited to Add: Thank you all so much for your well-wishes about my dumb car wreck. Where are my manners? Probably smooshed under the front hood of the great, likely late, Prettymobile. Sigh.

The Grace Experiment, Part 2

This is my weekly half-hearted attempt to set aside the snarkitude & list 5 things for which I'm grateful, with the happy yet unintended consequence of annoying blog friends like The Coconut Diaries.

1. Receiving a completely rad surprise present from a good friend. If I told you this gift had to do with my teenage vampire issues, you would probably stop reading and immediately delete me from your Google Reader, so this had absolutely nothing to do with that. Um.

2. Stumbling upon my excuse to post weekly HRH Pug photos, in blatantly derivative manner of those famous bloggers who regularly pull this sort of Hallmark move:

You're witnessing a daily ritual here at Pretty HQ, in which the HRH Pug embarks on an exhaustive search for the ideal rawhide hiding spot. Please note the somber, stress-filled expression in his buggy eyes. This is a deeply serious business.

3. Spending the weekend with the Anonymous Husband - given his lawyerly line o' work, I don't take this for granted - who voluntarily accompanied me on an emergency Anthro* shopping expedition and only whined once.
*The dress of impossible cuteness? So cute. So mine.

4. American holidays primarily dedicated to overeating and only tangentially related to football, particularly those followed by special episodes of "The Office" (wish you were here to watch, Shabby Princess!)

5. Kerbey Lane queso, and my new hometown in which this delectable foodstuff can be located.

The Grace Experiment, Part 1

No, not that Grace I usually blather on about . . . today's title refers to a blog experiment launched here and as written about by a host of other bloggers far more talented and interesting than little ol' me (like this one). Here's the idea - please brace yourself for the unicorns-and-rainbows, soft Oprah-lighting feel to this one - for 365 days, the blogger posts 5 things, mayjah or minor, which have graced his or her life.

Since I am obviously far too lazy / irreverent / bad at following rules busy and important to do a daily post, let alone one in which I set aside my snarkitude and act appropriately, I'm adapting this to a semi-sorta-regular weekly series. And so - ((deep breaths)) - I attempt to set aside bitter harpy-ness and bring you the five things for which I'm feeling quite grateful lately . . .

1. Men who cook willingly & well. Mine in particular is, at this very moment, making a big Italian dinner all by his very ownself.

2. Surprise phone calls - remember that funny device that makes the odd ringing noise, the one I generally prefer to ignore?* - from faraway childhood friends.
*Not to be confused with my iPhone, for which I harbor unhealthy feelings of devotion and adoration.

3. Overcast Sundays perfect for napping on the couch & starting a new book:

So long as we're getting obnoxiously warm & fuzzy, I'm pulling out all of the shameless stops, including gratuitous puppy photos. Yeah, I know.

4. Witnessing an important moment in American history , regardless of how you or I (you might be surprised) or your mom's gardener's waxer voted.

5. Finding my go-to-jeans on sale.

The Dread Pronoun "We"

Forgive me, readers, for I have . . . er, not sinned, exactly. Let's go with egregiously boo-boo'ed.

I mean, seriously. Conduct unbecoming an aspiring Princess of Monaco.

You know those appallingly cliched things you swore you'd never do if you ever got married or otherwise long-term partnered up? The stuff that newlywed nightmares and Jim Belushi sitcoms are made of? On the level of referring without irony to your spouse as "the old ball and chain", complete with faux-exasperated eye roll? Or starting to dress and look like your partner or pet*, not necessarily in that order?
*Although if you are dressing your pets, or dressing like your pets, you might have more to worry about than mere Smug Marriedness. In related news, please ignore this post. Thank you.

Yeah . . . well, along these illustrious, utterly obnoxious lines, check out what I accidentally quipped to a co-worker the other day, apropos of absolutely nothing. Mind you that the Anonymous Husband had appeared nowhere in the conversation to this point:

"Oh, we did go see 'Revolutionary Road' the other day. We thought it was wonderful, but . . . you know . . . it could have used an upbeat musical number or two and some animated Disney characters."

!!!

Like with those delightful sentence diagrams from English class, let's dissect the various problems with the above sentence, shall we?

1) The use of "we" not in the Royal sense - as regular readers know, the Pretty is quite the fan of the irregular and inappropriate use of same - nor in the factual sense, but in the more sinister, Orwellian groupthink sense, "My husband and I think just alike about everything!! And do everything together! Nary an independent rattling around in this Pretty head of mine!! You poor singletons must be exhausted having to, um, have opinions of your own and stuff!

(Credit: Barnes & Noble)

I wonder if Mr. Orwell could have imagined being featured in an inane post about marital cliches. Sounds appropriately apocalyptic to me, for what it's worth.

2) The snootypants implication that the AH & I are the sort of people who see Artistic Movies on a regular basis, on purpose, of the sort that only play at one theater in a 500 mile radius. And, impliedly, watch PBS only and grocery shop at Whole Foods, vegan organic gluten carb free, while espousing the virtues of cruelty-free knitting.

3) Sigh. I'm just too disappointed in myself to continue.

Readers, will you forgive me? I promise, pinky swear, to only use the Dread Pronoun We in the irreverent, delusional sense henceforth . . . and endeavor to stop using terms like "henceforth" . . . and "endeavor" - oh, nevermind . . .

"Revolutionary Road", aka A Yuppie's Torture

"How do you break free without breaking apart?" - tagline to "Revolutionary Road".

(Credit: Wikimedia)

@6:50 pm, Saturday, January 17th: Anonymous Husband and I settle in to our seats for that cinema du suburban nightmare, "Revolutionary Road".

@6:57 pm: Engage in covert armrest warfare with the lady to my right, as we struggle for room in the packed theater. Briefly note that my boots are much cuter than hers.

@7:00 pm: Get wholly engrossed in movie & neglect armrest warfare, to the delight of uncutely shod neighbor.

@8:56 pm: The AH and I stumble from the theater, shellshocked, viscerally affected, wishing for a drink, a distraction, an ANYTHING to ease the personal insecurities raised in the past two hours.

@9:00 pm: Drive home to Pretty HQ in silence, save a few muttered, barely audible words relating to vodka.

@9:15 pm: Liquor in hand, the AH & I slowly go about unraveling that which we just watched, simultaneously excited and daunted and horrified. The AH channel surfs between Big Hollywood Action Movies as I look for the answers in the delicate lines of my crystal glass. Wedgwood appears no closer to assuaging the fears than I do.

@12:00 am, Sunday: Fall into a dreamless sleep, grateful for respite from the questions.

@10:00 am: Drive to & from in-laws, with 80 miles one-way and nothing to do except think, again, too much.

@5:15 pm: Sit down for usual Sunday night blogging, attempting to summon perky powers to discuss favorite winter beauty products, only to find the thinking won't stop. Attempt to silence the unceasing questions via my kind friend, cookie dough, only to find I'm just more plump, yet no more content.

This not being the "I Pick Excellent Movies" blog, I prefer to leave such reviews up to the experts, hence this isn't exactly a review. This is more to say that sometimes a book, a song, or a movie just happens upon you. Doesn't need to be Art with a capital "A", or enjoyable, or even good in any quantifiable sense (if such a measure exists, which I question) - just something that speaks to the questions you hadn't realized you were asking yourself.

And so "Revolutionary Road" crept up on me in a month that has been prone to much navel-gazing and, admittedly, privileged-life ennui about things like What Should I Do When I Grow Up - a question only those of us fortunate enough to have choices can fuss over. A month in which I couldn't and can't quite identify what was the matter, and so I've wrapped myself in books and rediscovering songs I'd hidden away and such. So I'd expected to like this movie, but I hadn't anticipated being emotionally knocked sideways by the questions it raised. And that is one of many reasons why I'll keep going to the movies . . . but not without a pre-movie vodka soda next time.

Back soon with bright and sunshiney-y, Pretty product intel . . .

Signs You Are No Longer Dating, Friday Night Date Edition

Pre-Marriage Internal Monologue, 6 pm

"Oooh, Anonymous Boyfriend should be here soon - he is SO adorable! I wonder what fabulous restaurant he's taking me to this time? I'd better go re-check my outfit and make sure that these silver heels make my behind look good . . . shaving. SHAVING!! OHMYGOD (or "ZOMG" for the hipsters like myself) I FORGOT TO SHAVE!* Where is the emergency toxic-chemical Nair?" ((sound of crashing and cabinet slamming as search commences))

*In case my late Grandparents are reading this from their Heavenly MacBooks, this is not meant to imply that I had any actual need for shaving before dates. Nopety nope nope. La la la la . . .

Post-Marriage Internal Monologue, 6 pm

"Oooh, Target loungey pants. Sooooo comfy. I wonder if, once I arrive home, I can make it from the car to loungey pants in 60 seconds. And, somehow, convince the Anonymous Husband to cook dinner.** Maybe a movie later, even though this is high school date night & we'll have to wade through the hormones to find our seats? So long as it's not one of those WW II boy flicks out right now? More importantly, so long as I can remain in the loungey pants for the movie?"***

**I did! Singletons, never underestimate the wonders of a spouse who cooks well & willingly. Makes me nearly as happy as my loungey pants.

***I lost, both on the movie and the pants. But see above about the cooking!

Pretty Ice Princess - Victoria Beckham???

Hello again! Please forgive me my blog absence, sweets. I've been off doing my best impersonation of a dutiful housewife, including but not limited to Christmas shopping, decking the halls, and pretending to ignore the outrageous sums the Anonymous Husband spent Ebaying AC/DC tickets, although the latter may prove a useful weapon in my ongoing Macbook crusade. Ahem. In any event, I'm back - or "Back in Black" as the aforementioned band might put it . . .

Anywhoooo, as you might imagine, We here at the Pretty have devoted no small amount of time and energy into the study of what makes an cultural icon of our most favorite flavor, the Ice Princess. It would be easy to merely group together the most famous of the group based on outward appearances alone - Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (obvs), Princess Grace (obvs obvs), January Jones when in "Mad Men" character, etc. - but surely the question merits a less superficial take. Pets, it isn't often that you'll find me advocating a less superficial approach to anything, so I hereby accept your polite applause and suggest the following as rules in addition to the physical obvious which we should be using in our evaluations:

1) Curiosity about the world, whether it be via travel (according to one's means, of course), keeping up with current events, etc.;
2) Education, whether it be formal or an ongoing personal process of reading and learning;
3) Charitable involvement, again according to one' s abilities and interests;
4) Demurely, deceptively delicate demeanor and deportment (and, apparently, alliteration and assonance);
5) Unapologetic affection for natural glamour, both in one's appearance and one's surroundings; and
6) A private sense of superiority based upon knowledge of #1-5 above, evidenced only by an ever-so-slightly icy and sly smile.

So as a student of the genre, I was quite intrigued to stumble across this Harper's Bazaar feature on Mrs. Beckham herself, in which she explains the machinery behind the "icon" (Pretty Parentheses added) that is Posh:

(credit: Harper's Bazaar via People Magazine)

I won't spoil the fun of reading this yourself, but for those of you wanting an abridged version, here for your delectation are Mrs. Beckham's additions to the Ice Princess Lexicon:

- (when asked about those infamous no-heel boots she recently wore): "Oh, c'mon, they're not that hard to walk in . . . you have to go to a sex shop to get this spray to polish them."

(credit: Daily Mail)

I'm thinking the key accessory here is less the harlot-y non-heels, and more the Arm Charm (hideous pinstripes notwithstanding), don't you?

- (when asked how she prepares for events): "I go into hair and makeup, and I turn into 'Victoria Beckham.'

- (when asked about running out to do errands): "If I go to the supermarket looking like sh-t, that affects my work. I am selling an image."

This all seems, I dunno, a bit heavy on the external, "branding" business, and less concerned about the other stuff that makes a legend . . . what do you think? Have I read too much Jane Austen - wait, don't answer that - such that I expect my heroines to be "accomplished" along the lines of what we discussed above, or is pop culture indeed steering us in the wrong, PVC-clad direction?

ETA: I hope I didn't imply that my jury has definitively voted on Posh per se. Unlike She Who Shall Not Be Named (name rhymes with "Laris Pilton"), I'm confident that Victoria is in on the joke, she has a few undeniably fabulous, non-PVC items in her closet, and I won't deny that she is . . . something. It's the idea that she's an ICON with a capital "i" that I'm not quite comfortable with yet. Let the debates continue!