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?

The Empress Has No Clothes - And You Should See Her Shoes

I am a hypocrite.

I don't mean that in the sense of the little white lies and pleasantries we (in the royal "We" sense of the term) tell ourselves to get through the day. I mean it in the sense of encouraging you to avoid certain life catastrophes, while I barrel headfirst towards the same.

I should have known better. I shouldn't have headed to the mall after a frustrating week at work, tired and cranky and with a grumbling tummy. Just like going to the grocery store on an empty stomach, such a journey is destined to end badly.

And so it was last Friday afternoon, when I fell prey to the lure of the shoe department and a smoothly charming salesman who caught a whiff of my Eau de Annoyance and struck accordingly. As if in a dream, I found myself handing over my credit card, uncertain yet chanting inwardly, "I am fierce, I am fashion forward, I am . . ."

. . . a disco gladiator diva?!?"

Sigh. WHERE to begin with the problems in this photo . . .

1) My Fashion Fatwah on all things gladiator or gladiator inspired (with limited exceptions, but not this one);

2) Combining multiple trends - metallic! cork platforms! gladiator straps! exposed zippers! - all in one gilded package, hence shortening an already wee trend shelf life;

3) Paying full retail for a trendy item; these utterly fail the Price Per Wear Test;

4) This is money that could be spent for a good cause, like this or other vitally important matters like the "splurge", classic heels I am saving up to buy.

I mean, I'm a shift-wearing, lady lawyering member of the Junior League, forchrissakes. While that doesn't de facto doom me to a life of sensible twinsets - a girl needs to step outside of her fashion boundaries every now and again - it does mean that this is exactly the type of look that would wear me, and not the other way around. Some of you could and should pull this look off without a second thought, whereas I would attempt it & inevitably feel awkward the entire night. Self-conscious isn't a good look no matter what the shoe.

So back to Nordstrom I went, retail tail between my legs, to return the shoes. I'd say that I've learned my lesson & won't be issuing Fashion Fatwahs again, but we all know that's ridiculous because being judgmental is too fun. Besides, what fun are these fashion rules if we can't break them every now and again? I just won't do it at the expense of the PPW Test - nor will I shop again without a nap & a snack first, because I'm apparently no more than an overgrown kindergartner with an AmEx.

Feel free to flog me in the comments for flouting my own standards*. Can you forgive me, darlings?

*As well as for assaulting you with alliteration. And assonance, as it turns out. "Assonance" - heh heh heh.

The Nerd List, or How to Alienate People at Parties

There is that virtual small-talk file cabinet in each of our minds, some more full than others, brimming with socially relevant and/or entertaining information.  Major news stories, the "Real Housewives of ___", that time you showed up to an important party in a see-through top - you know, the socially acceptable sort of anecdote you want handy for the usual social gathering.

And then there are the dark corners of one's conversational arsenal, your modern version of the "Star Trek" convention fangirl who knows that she needs to keep her fluency in Klingon or, by means of completely random example, the emo teenage vampire series in social check.  My thesis is that we all have such a Nerd List in our minds, an inner cat lady striving to get out and talk to someone, anyone, about our secret interests, but we are hiding in shame for fear (admittedly just) of being detected.  We know that should we broach the subject with the average person, her eyes will glaze over in that Algebra class, "God, why am I still here?" way as she plots her escape.

Today I encourage you to liberate your inner Nerd & share your List in the comfort of the comments here.  Against my better judgment, better judgment never having been one of my strong suits, I'll start us off by bringing you my current working list.  Should you see me at a party discussing any of the following, run in the opposite direction:

- My hatred of Nicholas Cage in any film & belief that he single-handedly ruins the same;

- The John Hughes movie canon;

- Books, particularly uppity English ones from about 1800 onwards;

- Horses & my wish to get back into riding one day;

- My desire to move here for six months and loll around drinking in wine and scenery.

There, that's as close to that dreaded Facebook "25 Things You Never Wanted to Know About Me Ever Ever Ever But I'm Going to Force Upon You Anyways" as I'll get. 

Now that I've embarrassed myself, what do you know too much about?  Your turn, Cat Ladies!

Botox, Barbeque, and My Version of a Janet Jackson Moment

The Anonymous Husband & I attended a fancy ranch party this weekend, a scene reminiscent of a Henry James novel except with more Botox barbeque. Texas glitterati aside, the celebrants included personal A-list types such as my boss and my in-laws.  Feeling much like the kid at the grown-up's table at this particular event, I resolved to both appear and act on my very best behavior.

*For the non-Texans here, "fancy ranch" is not an oxymoron.  Think jeans, jewels, and boots and cosmetic surgery, but the secretly expensive version of same.

Alas, my best behavior did not include running on time pre-party, so I threw on what I hoped to be summery, A-list appropriate ranch attire - white jeans, wedge espadrilles, and a lemon-yellow sleeveless tunic made by a certain Palm Beach designer synonymous with "appropriate" - without a second glance in the mirror.  

The AH & I then scooted away in the Lawyermobile to collect a few fellow partygoers.  When we picked them up, I noticed a few of the male guests looking oddly at me, but I imagined this was symptomatic of my decidedly Junior Varsity status at this party & didn't think too much of it.  However, when we arrived at the party and some other men quickly glanced in my, er, chesticles region, then looked away, I knew something was amiss.  

Armed with a vodka soda and a growing sense of foreboding, I skulked into one of the approximately 500 fancy ranch restrooms only to behold . . . the lovely "flesh-toned" bra I'd just purchased, winking at me from under this seemingly opaque and tasteful tunic.  

Readers, there comes a time in every woman's life where she must make a decision.  When finding yourself in such a predicament, you can either hide in the corner, mortified, and pray that no one notices you for the next 5 hours. Or you can do as I did, figuring that if you must be at a party full of VIPs for the next while, you may as well do so in the company of your kind friend, Vodka, and brazenly sidle up to the poolside bar in broad daylight as if nothing is amiss, only pausing occasionally to strategically align your handbag over your "second base" area.

Upon being grilled about the situation, the AH snickered & reassured me that the problem wasn't quite as terrible as I believed it to be.  Given where his eyes were resting at the moment, we'll take this with the proverbial you-know-what, but I've learned two things from this episode: (1) when attending a Varsity-team sort of party, stick to what you know (sundresses for my casual summery events) and run the undergarments/bright lights test 1st; and (2) confidence (whether real or imaginary) and Grey Goose (only real) goes a long way.

This is Why You Shouldn't Throw Your Old Journals Away

While procrastinating last night over a blog post of actual, yet highly dubious, substance, I spent no small amount of time over at that procrastinator's paradise, Twitter. A mere mention there of haiku by Invisible Blog Friends Maggie and Kate sent me scurrying to my sentimental archives, a overstuffed bag spilling over with cards and diaries and other detrius of friendships and relationships past and present.

A few minutes later, I located the goldmine - heartbreak haiku! - lodged in the depths of a twentysomething journal. Not to bore you with personal detail, but this bout of Japanese-style poetry came courtesy of a long-time former boyfriend, he of the dating archetype that we all should go out with at least once while in our twenties: he was good-looking, he was wildly interesting, he was an utter commitment-phobe. A fantastic guy in many aspects, but not my fantastic guy. When the inevitable breakup came, it came after 2 years of much sturm und drang and heel-dragging and dramatic! breakup! speeches! You know, the usual.

What could be more self-indulgently meta than bringing you bad breakup poetry on an already self-indulgent blog, you ask? I have no idea! But while I try to sort through this other post, I may as well embarrass myself with howlingly bad haiku for your amusement.

Delicate ones, please cover your eyes or just skip to tomorrow's post if you can't bear saucy language. Forgive me, but in the throes of breakup agony, I took leave of my inner feminine censor. For your protection, I've edited out the particularly naughty letters. Brace yourselves:

I f*ck*ed it up bad /

the boy I left has left me /

closeness made us part

And just in case that doesn't pain you sufficiently . . .

Big, shiny diamonds /

the promise of forever /

rocks can't comfort sh*t

GHASTLY almost to the point of being awesomely terrible, no? This, dear ones, is why you must pinky-swear that you will never, ever throw away your old diaries. After all, a girl never knows when she'll need to humiliate herself on the web for the delectation of her readers. And there is no faster way to feel better about the aging process than to see in written form what a complete nitwit you were back when you had no wrinkles and cellulite to fuss over.

More later on an actual subject of interest, and - forgive me - no more heinous breakup poetry. Not this week, at least.

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 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.

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".

A Christmas Karma

(In which I haphazardly mix religious metaphors in an attempt to appease the Universe via holiday cards.)

I take it you've never brazenly challenged karma by engaging in a possibly unladylike, yet truth-filled gossipfest conversation about someone, only to have that someone not 30 minutes later leave you an exceedingly friendly, guilt-inducing message? Right, me neither.

So in an attempt to start off the weekend on a more karmically balanced, festive foot, I'm turning my retail attentions today to sending some good out into the world through holiday cards. However, I find myself stuck* in one of those life-stage quandaries . . . As a singleton, I merrily sent out cards some years, others not, and no one seemed to care one way or the other. In stark contrast, as a DINK type now, I sense I am expected to send cards annually, but not those delightful photo cards or the informational inserts** that you parent-types often send. Although the Anonymous Husband and I are of course really, really good-looking and all (not to mention humble), I figure our friends and family are familiar enough with what we look like.

*Yes, I realize being stuck over something monumentally important like holiday cards is not an important problem in the grand scheme of things, or as compared to whether I ought to order that on-sale J. Crew daycoat already. Maybe I could just mail out a festive photo of the day coat instead?

**Speaking of informational inserts, certain Anonymous Relatives of mine send out a two-pager. Double sided. Authored by one of the family cats. Which two years ago featured details of medical treatments being conducted in Anonymous Relative's, er, nether regions. Um, so forgive me, but I do not forsee any personal pamphlets being included in my own holiday cards, although I support the brief (BRIEF), non-nether region mentioning sort from others.

Readers, what say you - am I right that as a married with no kids sort, I go with the personalized, non-photo cards? What are you sending this year? Most importantly, can one actually buy karmic offsets, like those carbon thingies, and will any of the above suffice in my case? Gah . . .

Why You Should Like My Friend Better Than Paris . . .

In a likely futile attempt to distract you gentle readers and myself from Election Returns Purgatory, I'd like to direct your attention to someone far more interesting than me . . . I mean, really more interesting than me. Who doesn't need to, say, hold random blog contests to obtain virtual friendships and defeat the evil one that is P. Hilton. Behold the electronic missive I just received from one of my bestest best friends, quoted in part to protect the identities of the far more intriguing:

". . . I'm leaving for Burma this week with Friend X . . . just a girls' trip through a leisurely totalitarian dictatorship . . . did I tell you about Sri Lanka, the archeological expedition? That should be fun."

Whereas the average email from me would read more along the lines of:

"So today I went to work and am pondering a gym visit, although that might interfere with my catching up on TiVo'd "The Office" episodes. On the other hand, maybe I'll just go hog wild and tackle my split ends instead. Decisions, decisions!"

Honestly, I have no idea why my funny, intriguing, stylish, intelligent, beautiful (yes, to make things supremely unfair, this BF is also incredibly good looking) best friends put up with me and my mundane self - and this isn't a compliment-fishing expedition here, truly - but emails like this remind me that I should do whatever is in my powers to bribe, trick, or lure them into assuring their continued BF support. On nights like this, when I feel queasy about The State of The Upcoming Union, I take comfort in knowing that the world at large has these people in it. If only because they are obviously going to take over the world (or Burma at the very least) one day, so best to stay on their good side . . .


(Important Note to the BF-J - love you, International Woman of Mystery.)

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A special thank-you for the clever girls at A Tale of Two Sisters for gifting me with a "Smile Award." I for one certainly smile when I see things like this on their fair site:

Thank you for making my day a bit more sparkly with this one, dolls.

My Dog Ate My Battery

As in, my AAA real-life battery that powers my remote control - or rather, one of the 5,000 remote controls here at Pretty HQ thanks to the Anonymous Husband.

(Envision a battery instead of a bone, a grown woman shrieking guiltily in the background, and an equally blase dog, and you'll get the picture.)

First, let me say the dog is 100%, completely, absolutely well and fine. His owner, notsomuch, but the actual canine is the picture of health. Listen, I called the emergency vet and do dog rescue and stuff and my dog has an actual Staff that I myself envy and nooo, that is not my terrible dog-mother guilty conscience talking. Aaaaaaaaa.

Second, is there an entrance exam for the parenting of an actual human child? Because I'm a bit concerned about the practical skills portion of my test. Not - NOT! - that I am comparing a dog to a kidlet! I am not, so please don't think I'm belittling you or something! Exclamation point! Ahem. Just saying that similar fears may apply regarding how to avoid, by means of completely random example, getting absorbed in blog reading for 5 whole minutes only to find one's only pet or child chewing on an acid-filled batteryohmyeverlivingGodhowdidthathappen. You know, the average day.

As that inimitable Bridget Jones might say - doom. Doooooooooooooom.