A Post About, Um, Posting: A Saturday Morning Soapbox

I don't usually take to my keyboard to discuss State of the Blog housekeeping stuff - presumably you're logging on here to read my thoughts on overpriced handbags, and not the writing process that gets them here - but no one reads these things on Saturdays anyways, right? *taps microphone*

I intentionally took a day "off" of my irregular regular posting schedule yesterday to chew on the blog frustration I've felt lately. The suspicion that I'd been writing posts from routine versus inspiration. That I was paying more attention to my number of readers than the quality of my writing. That I'd been reading posts elsewhere written more for marketing than entertainment or informative purposes. That unanswered comments and Tweets I'd left others had fallen into a black hole of indifference:

Worse, recent posts from you & you & you suggest that a number of you have recently had negative experiences, from hurt feelings to unbelievable deceptions, as a result of detailing your lives online. People being people, there's inevitably going to be some nastiness, both here and In Real Life. There will always be the trolls who read us simply to mock, if not worse, but watching Invisible Internet Friends go through the gauntlet has me worried. It's the risk we take in doing this online diary stuff - if we didn't want the attention, we'd be journaling at home - but between reading those posts and the flood of feedback from that Tweet above, I started to think I wasn't alone in my recent disillusionment. Have we - more to the point, have *I* - gotten off-base from the point of all of this?

I started this site lo these three years ago out of frustration. Isolated in a job where I largely worked alone and in a new town where I hadn't yet made friends, this blog and, later, Twitter, helped me to feel connected when I wasn't quite there yet in my real life. The comments I left with others, and the responses and return comments I received, were a lifeline. It also gave me a creative writing outlet, a welcome counterpoint to the excruciatingly dull dry, technical writing of my lawyerly day job. The sheer joy I had in trying to cobble together just the right words - emphasis on trying - was a release I hadn't even realized I'd needed. Oh, did I need it.

One baby, one blogging break, and three years later, I still find that sense of connectedness and release from my time reading your online brilliance and plagiarizing it here - mostly. It's just that the occasional ugliness - my own particularly - gets to me more. I miss those early days of community, back when it was more about the back and forth of comments and less about which blogs were "popular" and how to make yourself into a marketable "brand" (which, like "moist", should just be banned as a word).

Pointing the finger at others is neither Pretty nor productive, so instead I'm going to pledge to do the following:

- I want to do a better job of responding to reader comments and checking out your blogs. Unfortunately I can't read all of the blogs I'd like to, but since you're doing me the huge honor of reading my drivel, I'd like to check out your inspired words..  Leave me a comment with your site and, better yet, make sure if you're commenting using your Blogger profile that it has your email address and/or site linked to it.

- I want to write on topics I feel strongly about only when I feel I have something worthwhile to say about them. I struggle with this because it's only through the daily discipline of writing that I, on rare occasion, come up with a post I feel is worthy. I also enjoy checking in with many of you who write daily & can maintain a high quality at that pace. I'm not at all sure that I can do the same, so I may save more posts in the "drafts" folder until they're fully cooked.

- I'll try to mix up the "stuff", more material-driven posts with those of more substance - what little I have, that is. I'll still write the occasional frequent post about handbags I can't afford; I recognize that those aren't everyone's cup of tea, but they are mine - sometimes.

- I'll endeavor not to take it personally when someone never responds to my comments or Tweets. We're all busy people and can't always take the time to reciprocate; I'm very much as case in point here. Plus, this online stuff is a bit like dating at times - we find someone who intrigues us, put feelers out, and sometimes a person just isn't into the other or loses interest, no insult intended. We move on and find others who are interested.

- I will give others the benefit of the doubt. My better self recognizes that 99% of us are doing our best here; my lesser one percent gets irritated when I see what looks like secret blog marketing - despite Federal Trade Commission guidelines and good manners - and cliquishness. Most of us are striving to do good here, and I can simply stop reading the few who may not be.

I can't believe I, the alleged Ice Queen, am advocating something so cheerful here, but - let's be kind, darlings. Let's remember the fun of writing for its own sake, for connecting with one another when someone's writing - or handbag - matches up with your own makeup and nothing more.

*steps away from the caffeinated soapbox*

Signs You Are Growing Up (Subtitle: This One Has No Babies!)

*Important, Special Note: remember to enter fab E-Mealz giveaway here!*

Funny what you think will feel like the big, fancy "I'm a grown-up now!" moments, where the Hollywood music swells as you smugly claim your new, profoundly mature outlook on life. Wedding, home buying, and That Thing We Aren't Going to Discuss Here Today (rhymes with "rabies") were a few such moments I'd pictured in my mind...

Looking terribly wise, grown up, and not yet tipsy. Not entirely, at least.

. . . but, as is so often the case, those grand, made-for-movie (if only a "Lifetime" one) affairs were spectacular but not necessarily the moments when I felt like I'd most made some life progress. 

Rather, a simple thing or two over the past week gave me that, "OK, I may just be a card-carrying adult now" feeling that more often comes in those small, quieter moments for me:

- We gave away the last of our college-era furniture and cutlery, so that we may invite other adults over without having to artfully throw pillows, dim lights & overpour drinks to conceal the IKEA'd squalor (at risk of looking like we're hosting a swingin' key party). . . 

- We threw a dinner party at which all courses intended to be served were relatively on time & entirely delicious (all thanks to the AH), with only one hostess catastrophe (all thanks to me) (By the by, shouldn't those hand dish soaps mention somewhere that they can't be used in a dishwasher? I mean, really) (Parentheses)...

- We met with a financial planner to discuss mysterious, grown up things like retirement and investment portfolios. I left feeling terribly wise and mature - until I noticed that I'd had an entire garden of spinach resting itself on my front tooth for the entire meeting. Of course.

What are some of your self-satisfied, I'm-a-big-kid-now moments?

It's Not About Me Anymore - Also, Easter

Hitting on any Easter brunch ladies within flirting radius, per usual.

Sometimes the Universe sends you a sign - we Episcopalians might mutter something about divine providence, though at the Pretty we welcome Betty White or whatever other deity you prefer - and, lesson learned,  you go on with your life having Learned Your Lesson. Or so I hear - naturally, I prefer the version where I struggle for months to figure something out and ignore the flashing metaphoric lights repeatedly bleeping "This is really stupid; cut it out." 

My most recent variation on this theme involves the desire for more Grown Up Time when I can't have it due to this new stay-at-home-mom gig. As Master P has grown older, it has been easier to get out of the house and socialize, which provides a nice break in the day for Mom here. Whether through our twice-weekly playgroup or Lady Lunches, these times with other grown-ups often give me the impetus to get up, MILF-ready, and out of the house as well as provide the adult conversation work once did.

Over the past two months, however, poor Master P has had one bout of sniffles after another (therefore, so have I), and of course I feel terribly about his being sick as any mother would. Alas, being the selfish creature I am, I confess I've also been feeling sorry for myself, since his repeat illnesses have necessitated our being home and therefore cut me off from my "adult" day time excursions.

While frustrated the other day by missing playgroup again, selfishly missing that adult time, it occurred to me - again - "It's not about you anymore." Like most mom stuff I've struggled with, this would be obvious to most, but I continue to need the reminder signs. My favorite advice column here, the lead-up week to Easter . . .  for whatever reason, the Universe / God / Betty White etc. put up those sign-posts for me in bright lights this past week.

It doesn't matter that I sometimes get lonely for adult conversation on those long days at home; those days will come again, soon enough. It doesn't matter that I want to sit in bed & read all day when I'm sick; I have someone else to care for. It's not about me anymore - and, though I may struggle occasionally with that, I'm incredibly lucky and grateful that it isn't. 

At church today, thrilled to be celebrating our first Easter as a family of three, I gazed at the Anonymous Husband as he held the happily gurgling Master P. "Bring the belief of a child to Easter," our priest encouraged. Looking at the beaming, bouncing, perfect child to my left - my child, I still don't entirely believe it sometimes - I got it.

Bring the belief of a child to Easter, yet I am not a child; it's not about me anymore. Happy Easter, friends.

Taking a flirting break to revisit Sofie the Magical Giraffe

La Dolce Simple

Master P enjoying - in the "All Over His Face" sense of enjoying - his first solid meal

Subtitle: This Sounds Like a Vaguely Tragic But Terrible Nicholas C*age Movie But Isn't - Yet.

Sub-subtitle: Yes, Just Like You Feared, It's Another Navel-Gazing Mommy Post

I've waxed on endlessly here & with you Twitter dolls about what remains of the Miss Type A formerly known as Pretty - that is to say, very little, thanks to Master P. For his first few months, this new inability to plan ahead, to tackle my seemingly important to-do list, to make an appointment or lunch date with any certainty of being able to make it, was crazy making. I may be a very happily retired lawyer, but an attorney still lurks within that doesn't quite feel satisfied with a day in which I don't check off at least one overachiever box.

I won't say I've grown comfortable with this new life overnight, or am even close to fully there yet, but the dawning realization that my life at the moment has one simple priority which, despite appearances, isn't actually boring everyone to tears with my "Mad Men" conspiracy theories. Rather, it's keeping this magnificent little man alive & thriving, and happening upon that realization has helped me turn a mental corner.

Lest the cheerfully child-free amongst you think I'm saying that my child is more important than anything else, anywhere, that isn't my argument at all, truly. Delusional as I may be, I recognize that he's merely more important than most other checklist-y things *I* might be worried about, and this realization has given me license to relax a bit. The bills will get paid & my closets organized eventually - maybe - if someone else comes over and does it for me - but I'll only get one chance to see Master P roll over for the first time (and I did, and it was fantastic & further evidence of his obvious Gifted & Talented, Oxford-bound future).

Though this may seem obvious to you, like many of my parenting discoveries, I had to slog through & get to this point of clarity myself. So the dishes are piling up and my once-semi-stylish wardrobe is hopelessly out of date (the few pieces that still fit, that is), but for the first time possibly ever, I'm pretty much ok with that. This perennial over-analyzer actually enjoys the simplicity of knowing the rolling-over watching is more important. Life is slower - and better.

(No pithy ending in me today, folks. My snark is on temporary strike due to sufficient levels of sleep & caffeine for today, but as any of you who've parented a 4-month-old know well, this situation is unlikely to repeat itself. Thank you for understanding.)

A 2 (3) Month Update, Subtitle: Things People Told Me About Babies I Wish I'd Taken Seriously

(Sub-sub-title: Pretty's Attempt to Post More Often than Once per Month) (Sub-sub-sub-title: I Always Forget Which Words to Capitalize in a Title)

Show of hands, dolls - who notices a distinct difference between this 2 month shot Master P & our first one a mere one two months ago? Something slightly less shrill about this one, no?

And so it has been at Pretty HQ since around week six of the first Year of Our Lord AB (After Baby), when the "ZOMG This Newborn is Cute & All But Will Also Surely Be the End of Me" phase went out and the kinder, gentler, smiling & cooing era began. Not to say that Master P won't still be the end of me - I imagine most parents, this one included, flirt with the fantasy of escaping to a nice hotel, alone (as so aptly noted by blogfriend Privilege), at least once a day. However, just around the time his personality started emerging and sleep times lengthened, this all started to feel a bit more manageable.

By "manageable", I don't mean "easy". Not to complain - stop laughing - but despite the myriad and vaguely ominous warnings from other sleep-deprived new parents, I truly underestimated just how difficult being on call 24 hours a day for a little tyrant is. "They're just a little sleep-deprived", I'd think to myself when receiving such advice, "After all, I've passed two bar exams. I've pulled all nighters. What could be so difficult about watching a fluffy cute baby all day?"

Yes, yes - I can hear you veteran parents laughing now, and I'm here to whine tell the rest of you that there is no terror quite like doing the most important job of your life while going on more than a month of not enough sleep (and by "enough sleep" I mean more than four hours in a row; it's breaking up the sleep into little bits that's so hard on you). It's much like I imagine waking up in a non-English-speaking, dictatorial regime on 2 hours of sleep without a guide book, translator, or any idea in which nation you may have landed might feel.

At times, it was miserable. New parents tend to gloss this over, so enamored are they with their unicorns and rainbows ball of perfection baby smooshiness. Far be it from me to squelch their perkiness, but let me restate - it was occasionally miserable. There were a few 3 am moments during Master P's first month when I - yes, Pretty, the very picture of icy cool deportment - cried longer and louder than the wee dictator wailing away in my arms, desperate for sleep, desperate to figure out what he needed, just . . . desperate. Be it baby blues or sheer exhaustion, there were days when I literally counted the minutes until the next day, feeling like an utter parenting failure, praying that surely I'd get more of a grip on this baby thing if I could just make it to tomorrow.

And then he smiled. And made some funny gurgling noises. And cried a bit less every day. We figured out a suspected reflux issue was a fixable nursing one. And he started sleeping a somewhat acceptable duration of time most nights. Whatever mystical switch was pulled, sometime around six weeks Master P & I started getting the hang of things.

Though we're in a far happier stage now - or "a place of yes", as our Bravo TV court jesters would put it - another parenting thing I'd been warned about but didn't fully appreciate PB is the loss of "me" time (or as Bravo TV would say, uh, "me time"). Recovering introvert that I am, I still require daily time alone with solitary pursuits like books and, apparently, too much reality tv. I'd forgotten that part & parcel with this newborn business is the loss of personal space - spiritually and literally. This is a first-world sort of navel-gazing problem to have, but it's real and has been challenging nonetheless.

Week by week, however, the "me" time slowly increases. Master P gradually sleeps more and more soundly, and I get an extra minute or two each week to revel in the personal time I used to take for granted. It's far, far less than what I used to think I required, but I find myself savoring every page I get to read, every five minutes I get to brainlessly dawdle around the internet, before he awakens.

The aspiring parents amongst you will gloss over this with the same dismissive, "Oh, she's just whining, give me a baby already!" wave of the mental hand I did, and I don't blame you. For those of us where babies are part of our DNA, something we've always wanted, I think it's meant to work this way. God knows if we objectively looked at this baby business no sane one amongst us would volunteer for it.

Because I love nothing more than to give unsolicited advice, despite being wholly unqualified to do so, here are a few things I have gleaned from these first two three months:

- When people offer to bring meals or help you in any way with your darling babe, say yes immediately. Don't think twice or demurely turn them down to be polite, as so many of us were taught to do. You will not have free hands to cook, clean, or do any other sorts of domestic drudgery, and for once in your adult life, other people will actually offer to do it for you, for free. Take them up on it & enjoy the look of surprise on the person's face that you did.

- Don't feel guilty if you feel frustrated with the baby or don't immediately have a head-over-heels reaction to his/her birth. Some people fall hopelessly in love immediately with their wee tyrants, whereas my reaction began somewhere around the "Holy overwhelmed, this is awesome and all, but did I do that??" end of the spectrum and has incrementally but surely moved towards the Crazyinlovetown, population 1.

- I'd been told this one, but didn't believe it: it's ok to put your crying babe down in a safe place for a few minutes while you take a few minutes of sanity-saving whine/wine break (ie, bawl in the closet) for yourself. Really. Be on the lookout for the postpartum depression, of course, but absent that, taking the occasional pause is essential. If you just can't bear to put baby down, enlist a partner or family member to pitch in while you walk away and clear your head (preferably out of earshot of the crying) for a minute. The baby won't break. Pinky swear.

- Breastfeeding is *much* trickier than advertised, despite what the Boob Brigade might have you believe. Yes, yes - there are many health & emotional benefits to it blah blah blah, but what the Brazilian supermodels forget to mention is that it is hardly an intuitive exercise, and it's one that many struggle with if they're able to do it at all. Take a nursing class (with your partner, assuming there's one in the picture) pre-baby, and keep a lactation consultant's number and a healthy dose of patience on speed dial should you choose to try nursing - and yes, Booby Brigadiers, it is actually a choice.

- Just you wait until your wee one smiles at you intentionally for the first time. I count myself amongst the tragically cynical, and even I was reduced to a blubbering pile of goo the first time Master P cheerfully flashed his gums in my direction. He smiles with his entire body, and I'm afraid to report that I'm helpless in his presence when it happens. This bit only gets better.

And with that, I'm off to enjoy an afternoon of football with Master P & the AH ... there's a phrase I never thought I'd utter five years ago, but much to my Type A Minus surprise, I'm finding the unexpected is mostly a happy surprise nowadays.

An (Un)Labor Day Thought ...

Just to put the cherry atop my morphing-into-a-mommy-blogger-despite-myself sundae, last week I resigned from my highfalutin' (or just "falutin'"? Can you "lowfalute"?) lawyer job. That's right, Bravo TV - I'm now a full-fledged member of the stay-at-home Mommy Mafia, and yes, I am awaiting my casting call for "Real Housewives of Austin."

As fortunate as I am to be able to do this, the "housewife" and "stay-at-home mom" labels will take some adjustment. Motherhood expert that I am - stop laughing - I'm still far from the first to struggle with not only the decision to stay home, but also the labels that come with the choice. Frankly, the decision to stay home was a far easier dish to take - I'd always been interested in being a full-time parent. I mean, who doesn't want to spend their days doing this . . .

(Credit: the uber-wonderful Nicole Mlakar Photography)

... ok, a lot of you don't want to sit around beaming beatifically at babies, and I don't blame you. At all. To put it mildly, this really isn't the right gig for everyone - for example, those of you who enjoy sleeping. This is much, much, CAPS LOCK MUCH more difficult than I'd bargained for.

My point was . . . oh, yes, my point - my wanting to stay at home with Master P is sitting much more readily with me than is the admittedly shallow ego hit of not having a "job" to identify with. My recent position gave good dinner party; without fail, I'd get a few oohs/aahs and looks of being impressed when asked that inevitable, quintessentially American question, "What do you do?" I didn't love the profession, but oh, the seven years of (faux) prestige I'll miss.

How will I deal with being slightly less impressive in the eyes of Dinner Party Land, even if the AH & I are thrilled with our decision?

Will I get bored at home?

Will I magically learn how to do house-spousey things like make dinner (read: unlikely)?

Of course, all of these superficial worries are easier than focusing on the actually important one - am I capable of raising this remarkable little man? This is the woman who can't remember which remote control turns on the television, and I'm to be trusted with the care & safety of another human being?

This isn't a plea for reassurance. Rather, it's just a . . . it just is. Stay-at-home-mom is. Huh.

Surrender, Dorothy

I admit it.

This here blog began as a frothy devotional to my own vanity concoction about my current obsession du jour - mostly fashion, with some travel and new-kid-in-town blather about this Californian's move to Texas mixed in - and has veered dangerously towards being a ... a ... well, I may as well just say it:

Mommy blog.

Gaaah. I can fuss and moan and bang my (delicately featured) Pretty head against the keyboard, denying my blog morphage all the live long day, but there you have it. Life changed irrevocably once Grand Master P made his appearance some 3 plus weeks ago, and to fight the change here would prove yet another area in which I need to let go and just ... I dunno. See the title of this post.

I'm a mommy blogger. There. And one who has taken much time off from ye olde interwebs to figure out this entire baby thing, which is admittedly wildly more difficult and fun and challenging and rewarding and weird than I'd anticipated. It doesn't mean I've given up the Good Life quite yet for a life of wearing Crocs or other sartorial horrors, but ...

A mommy blogger who had, despite all warnings to the contrary, secretly envisioned a cheerfully slumbering newborn who compliantly slept, smiled, and cooed on command as I recommenced going about my pre-pregnancy business, smugly congratulating myself on a job easily and well done.

(*Pause inserted to allow sufficient laughter*)

A mommy blogger who has quickly put together that, to bogart a bit from the SATs, new babies - or mine, at least - are to compliant schedules as Lind*say Lohan is to law enforcment. That is to say, a laughable, if not entirely fictitious, mix at best. My schedule, my prior life - all wonderful stuff, but all on hold for now.

So I surrender - peacefully, happily, willingly, at last. Surrender to the new blog direction - if not permanently, for the foreseeable future. Surrender to the simultaneously difficult and awesome, slowly unfolding little package that is Grand Master P.

(Not to worry - strictly fun, non-pontificating photos to come shortly. Pinky swear.)

That Body Image Thing

Subtitle: "In Which, Against Her Better Judgment (Which Has Been Defeated by P-Word Insomnia Anyways), Pretty Attempts to Be Serious for Five Minutes"

In a quote heard 'round the world - at the very least, the teensy corner of the internet occupied by P-Word obsessed types like me - "Biggest Loser" personal trainer Ji*llian Michaels sparked no small amount of controversy in an recent interview quip regarding biological children, "I'm going to adopt because I can't handle doing that to my body."

Debate aside (not to worry - I'll get there in one hot minute, darlings), her statement brings up a body image issue that I feel sometimes gets short shrift for those of us who struggle with the "Do I or don't I want kids?" question. Full Disclosure: since my earliest memory, I've been firmly on Team Kid. It has just been One of My Things I've known about myself, since forever. However, even I admit to a passing thought at this pre-baby - emotionally, vanity included (since I'm nothing if not vain), could I handle the whole carrying a child thing, assuming I was blessed enough to get pregnant? Could Miss Type A here accept that the many changes that will happen (note: are happening, one brownie at a time) to her body, weight gain included, are a healthy part of pregnancy?

Back to the specific quote controversy, if your gut take on Michaels' quote wasn't warm & fuzzy, you're not the only one - my initial reaction was one of judgment, "Whoa, vain much? And doesn't 'doing that to your body' imply that the many bodily changes a P-word lady goes through are akin to a loathsome disease to be avoided?" Taken to its logical extreme, the thought struck me as self-centered at best and incredibly insensitive to those of us who choose to be P-word and/or those of us who struggled or are struggling to conceive in the first place. I admit I questioned whether someone so obsessed with her appearance should be a mother at all, whether the children be biological or adopted.

That said, my second reaction after chewing on this for a bit was, "She has every right to decide for herself if this just isn't something she chooses to deal with, whatever the reasoning; even if I don't personally agree with it, kudos to her for being self-aware enough to say it. Plus, the body change stuff *is* weird."

One of the spiffy parts of doing / not doing this P-word thing in the 21st century? (Note: I am not, not, NOT about to launch into the pro-choice / pro-life stuff here. Really. Nanny nanny boo boo, you can't make me.) That the women amongst us, to the extent that any of this is in our control, can decide if and when to do the motherhood thing, in the manner that makes most sense for us & for our family. We all bring our bias to how this works out, of course - my pro-kid, Episcopalian, cookie-dough-eating lens I see things through necessarily colors how I think this happens. Bottom line, however, it's terrific that someone like Michaels can decide that for herself if and how to have kids (with the repeat caveat that, to my view, much of this is out of our human hands), just like I can decide those concerns absolutely don't outweigh the benefits for me.

In addition to this freedom thing, Michaels validly touches on a sensitive point for many of us - the weird body change thing. Here's my experience - it can be, you know, strange. I'm no workout fanatic, but I was athletic as a kid & have regularly exercised and kinda sorta kept an (lazy) eye on what I eat* since high school. Hence, there is a part of purposefully gaining weight, even when I know intellectually that it is for the best interests of my baby, that simply takes getting used to for me and, I suspect, for many of us. I've absolutely had my moments looking in the mirror and thinking to myself, "I look enormous. Fatter than fat. Will I always be this large? I wonder if my husband notices (hint: yes)?"

Admittedly, there was a teenaged time when I took to the latter part of my Grandmother's maxim, "You can never be too rich or too thin," a bit too literally. Thankfully, my extreme dieting flirtation was brief - as anyone who has seen me or my eating habits since can attest - but it does allow me to empathize to an extent with the body image & control issues Michaels mentions. I can only imagine how those are magnified for someone who makes a living looking fit & encouraging others to follow her example.

*Glaring sugar consumption habit aside - what I lack in natural sweetness I attempt to make up for in diet.

A happy surprise & vanity bonus of the body change stuff for me has been how it has improved - yes, improved - my self-image about certain body hangups. Those hips I previously liked to complain about, much to your certain delight and amusement? Are currently part of a curvier, balanced picture. It's been a cheap thrill seeing how the other, more voluptuous half lives. I now know what it's like for someone to not make eye contact with me while in conversation, even if the talk is increasingly being made in the direction of my burgeoning belly.

On a less vain and more important note, that I've been blessed enough to be able to carry a baby in this body thanks in part to said changes? Pretty cool. As someone who had fertility challenges going into this whole deal - ironically, possibly due in part to said past extreme dieting - I don't take this lightly. It is, in a word, awesome, and I can't adequately express how grateful I am. For me, and hopefully for many of you considering the whole P-word thing, this is a fat that feels pretty lightweight, all things considered. If not, like for Michaels, then that is absolutely your right as well.

Now that I've bored you senseless with my baggage, what's your take on this? And should I fear for my blog life now that I've dipped my (in dire need of pedicure, I have to confess) toes in more serious waters?

The (Not-So-) New Girl In Town ...

It would really help if I were a nudist.

Well, not really, but (a) I just wanted to see if you were awake and (b) it would be nice to be more comfortable in my own skin (if not actually baring skin) when it comes to certain things. I'm coming up on two years of living in Austin, and many important pieces of my life - marriage, work, and baby-on-board - have fallen into place just so, more or less just as Miss Type A Minus here would have planned. I'm a fortunate one, even if I'm hesitant to drop my patented Icy Cool Demeanor enough to often admit it.

In the area of making new friends, however, things have admittedly not exactly gone along with my hopes. I know what you're thinking - how could anyone like me not be besieged by one social invitation after another?

This is entirely my fault, of course. My long history as a Recovering Introvert clearly indicates I'm nothing if not (a) lazy; (b) nearly as shy as lazy, if not quite; (c) an aficionado of solitary pursuits - unless anyone knows of a Book Reading Twittering Cookie Dough Eating Club*?; and (d) overly fond of alphabetized lists. Combine this list with my utterly solitary, lawyerly job in a land far, far away, and it just hasn't been as easy as I'd imagined to meet new people, amiable as Austin is. Coming from towns in which I'd either grown up or had other organic social introductions, I'm also finding myself a bit adrift on just how to go about this.

*If not, anyone want to start this totally awesome sounding group with me?

Fear not, dolls - lest you think I'm a shut-in, I have quite accidentally met a terrific friend or three here. I'm also taking steps to overcome my natural laziness and regularly do stuff that I both like and involves, um, other people, with the hope that repeated exposure might wear down their defenses. Yoga. Church. Junior League. Researching the Smug Mummy groups I can join once Grand Master P arrives. All this without the kind, socially lubricating assistance of alcohol, I might add.

So until I happen upon a few more innocents and trick them into hanging out with me - or in a couple of months when I can start imbibing again, whichever comes first - well, frankly, I'm struggling to be patient. Much of my 2 years here has been wonderful, and this piece will eventually fall into place as well. Without my having to resort to the whole nudist thing, I hasten to add.

In the Middle Again . . .

Every so often I like to obsess over revisit this decision of the AH & mine to move me from Southern California to Texas*, lo these four years ago. And by obsess over "revisit", I mean quite literally returning to the scene of my childhood crime, fueled by nostalgia and as many Animal-style cheeseburgers as I can choke down.

*Have I told the tale here of how the AH & I came to be? Remind me if not - because nothing says "fascinating" like somebody else's schlocky love story.

My most recent revisiting was prompted by a baby shower this past weekend; ostensibly, I was there to co-host, but of course I also used this as yet another totally self-centeredopportunity to question The Move. As I took a moment to survey the shower, in a room full of old friends and that irritatingly perfect San Diego sunshine, I couldn't help but wonder - again - at what I am missing out on having moved here to the Great State.

And yet. Yet.

Incrementally, infinitesimally, with each visit I see that the conversations don't flow quite as easily with most of my old friends. A bit more time passes in between each email exchange. Without my having realized it, we just don't have as much in common anymore, not without that effortless bond of school, geographic proximity, and an ill-advised penchant for surfers uniting us. Not even the obnoxiously ideal weather - have I mentioned how perfect it is? - can blind me to it.

How does any of this glorified journal entry - slash - identity crisis have any possible relevance? It doesn't, not in the Grand Scheme of Things. Thing is - I've been surprised that with this whole "P Word" condition I'm in, the question of who I am, and what my, er, unborn child eventually takes from that, suddenly seems important, hugely so.

My son will be born a Texan. A Texan. While I'm delighted this will give him a de facto working knowledge of Good Manners* and football, how do I incorporate my background into the raising of this little guy, when I'd always envisioned my kids growing up amidst the palm trees and my old friends and all the other unnaturally good-looking people back home? We'll muddle through and figure it out, I suppose, existential "where is home?" questions featuring relatively low on the newborn scale of life needs.

*I love you, California, but I've had enough doors slammed in my face by our strapping young men to know that we're lacking in the Chivalry Department. Hop to it, Gubernator.

And in the meantime, I'll take some comfort in knowing that although I come from a place full of beautiful people and, uh, places, that Austin is slowly, incrementally, infinitesimally feeling more like home too. More and more often, I find myself wanting to spend weekends here, not only because I should but because I want to.

Maybe home can be in two places after all. *

*Especially when the AH eventually buys us a beachfront vacation villa back in La Jolla, that is - work hard, Handsome!

My Side of the Sandbox

With thanks to the brilliant and badass Coconut Diaries, who inadvertently inspired this post & thereby provided yet another example of why I should call this blog "I Pick Other People's Ideas".

***

"I just want to spend more time with couples who have kids," complained an acquaintance of mine recently - this after the (kid-free) Anonymous Husband and I had driven no short distance to spend time with her and her husband.

The thing is, I understood where she's coming from (once I recovered from the social gaffe, that is).

Once upon a playground, our friends were simply that - the people we liked, who all fell under one happy circus tent labeled "friend". We didn't categorize "the swingset friends" or the "Cabbage Patch- appreciative friends" as discrete entities, with never the twain shall meet. It could be the champagne has fizzled my memory, but looking back, I'm struck with just how much easier it was to distinguish the Good Guys (Gals) vs. the bullies, and that was the only pertinent distinction.

Of course, as we get older things get logistically sticky - if we're lucky, we figure out the stuff we like (and meet "friends I like to argue with"), pick a job accordingly ("law school friends"), and pair off ("couples friends"), but none of this figuring out comes with a translation guide to friendships that try to transcend those artificial lines. Woe unto the person (ie, me) who throws a party with all of the above friends & expects social magic to commence.

Instead, when it comes to making new friends in this post-sandbox era, I find myself inexplicably wanting to meet people who have checked the same life boxes - partnered up? check. professional? check. wants kids? check - without understanding why. Is it to somehow justify the life decisions I've made? Or is it also, as I suspect, more a matter of practicality? The moms I meet can't just meet for a last-minute happy hour, and I'm not yet interested in playdates unless they involve David Beckham and, well, no one else.*

*Love you, AH!

These invisible boundaries don't apply so much to those lifelong friends. In my set, we're all ambling around various stages of singledom or motherhood, etc., and it hasn't affected our closeness. Rather, it's with the newbies - the friend dating stage of life I'm now in - where I'm finding it a challenge, from both sides of the issues.

What does your side of the sandbox look like? Do you think this is a natural, good thing, or do you miss the earlier, simpler days?

The Texifornia Dance

Darlings! Thank you for the kind travel wishes. I've missed you so.

Well, sort of. Actually, I've been busy missing home - wondering where home really is, rather. There's a bad Motley Crue song in there somewhere, but I promise not to sing it and just get on to the point without resorting to leather pants or other hair metal accoutrement.*

*Just imagine a Grace Kelly lookalike with feathered 80s hair, though - this idea has legs (Aqua Net?).

I've been gone for a total of four years, but flying back to California still reminds me of seeing a (non-cretinous) ex again - for the span of a weekend, it can be deceptively easy to only see the lovely, pretty bits. Even the biggest clod or city can show promise for 48 hours, making it less simple to recall why it was you left in the first place. You were fine until you saw one another again, but oh, the first time back . . . and it doesn't help if home is the Geor*ge Clo*oney of cities. Throw in my friends that make my hometown, well, home, and it generally equals a long flight back to Texas to reflect on why the Anonymous Husband & I decided to make Texas home.

Am I (are we) happy in Austin, where I live now? Absolutely. It's a terrific city. Could I (we) be happy back home? Absolutely. It's a terrific city.

Can you call two places home? Or is home something that, geographically and spiritually, can only be in one place?

A Case of the Kimberlys

Like I mentioned last week, the Anonymous Husband & I played host to a group of good friends this weekend. You'll be happy to hear the Pretty HQ high maintenance prize did not go to our lovely, pregnant guest, but remained with its rightful owner (ie, me). After the last of them shuffled away - our typical food-and-wine soaked weekends leave one barely ambulatory, much less walking - I was left with a niggling case of the Kimberlys.

You know the "The Kimberlys" - it can include platonic girl crushes, but goes beyond that to a woman (or man - should we have "The Toms" for you boys?) who seems to embody whatever life goals you're seeking at the moment. I wouldn't exactly call it envy - that shade of green can simply wreck a girl's complexion - but I admit there is something of a jealous element to it. You know you shouldn't, but you can't help but compare your life to hers.

My original Kimberly - cleverly named "Kimberly" - was my grade school classmate with the shiny flaxen mane, amber eyes, and effortlessly sweet disposition whom the boys enthusiastically chased around the playground. Even her penmanship was irritatingly perfect. Of course, I was too busy beheading my Barbies and devouring books and challenging the boys to debates to get too worked up about this, but oh, for just one day in her (unscuffed, ladylike) shoes. . .

Nowadays, my Kimberlys have less to do with the boy chasing, and more to do with those Life Resume Points I feel like I'm falling short on - the girls, like my visiting friend, who seem to have that mystical love / work / pretty hair / baby balance figured out, and without much apparent effort at that. I wish her every happiness, of course, but I also wish she could somehow share the secret recipe.

Am I mature enough now to realize that no one, not even the Kimberlys, are as perfect as they seem? Sure, most of the time. And yet - every once in a while, I start comparing & feeling like if I could only have one day in Kimberly's (still unscuffed, and therefore still wholly unlike mine) shoes . . .

Anyone else know about the Kimberlys? The Toms? Who has this effect on you?

Edited to Add: Queen Bee Swain makes an excellent point in the comments which, deep in the throes of Kimberlyism as I was, I forgot to include - in my advanced years now, I do try and turn my Kimberlys into positive learning opportunities. "What is it about this Kimberly that's triggering the envy thing? What can I do to incorporate that into my life?" I'll usually pause to ask now.

Plus, I've secretly figured out how to get that Kimberly flaxen mane thing, so it's all good.

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.

Note to My Twenty-Something Self

Warning:  this is a lukewarm attempt to be semi-thoughtful.  I apologize from this blip on our otherwise frivolous radar.  It couldn't be avoided, but I promise to return with your usual dose of champagne bubbles tomorrow.

Last Saturday was one of those rare, obligation-free days for me.  No work or volunteering scheduled, no social obligations, only two pets to keep alive, and the Anonymous Husband was out of town.  I had 24 hours in which I could selfishly do as I pleased.  Bliss.

Once upon a time, this unscheduled stint may have secretly frightened me.  Yes, really. As much as I make of Secret Single Behavior around these parts, as much as I enjoy my solitary pursuits like reading & writing, my quarter-life-crisis self may have inwardly cringed at such a day.  "What is wrong with me that I don't have social commitments lined up?" I'd think to myself.  "Shouldn't you at least be working on something?" my inner Type A Minus she's in there somewhere, although I've done my best to bludgeon her to death with Pinot would question.

If only I could send a note to my twenty-something self, I'd say this - sometimes it takes being on your own, sans schedule or socializing, to be able to live the rest of the obligation-filled days.  Given my otherwise frenzied twenty-something orbit of school-job-boyfriend-going out-volunteer-workout, I wish that I could go back and pause to more fully enjoy those infrequents solitary times.  To not fill so much of it wondering What I'm Going to Be When I Grow Up and When I'm Going to Meet the Right Guy.

Perhaps it takes the prospect of losing the ability to be entirely selfish - ie, the Project Family negotiations going on at Pretty HQ - as well as finding some answers to my quarter-life-crisis questions to really appreciate these "off" days?

There's also an element of getting older and, as New Agey as it sounds, just getting comfortable with what I like.  If I want to sit at home endlessly watching "Arrested Development" on Hulu, in between rounds of wandering around my favorite bookstore or shopping the excellent BCBG sale, - I can do so, and I'm not worried about a boyfriend or friend judging me for any of it.  The friends that have made it this far?  They'll do - more than do - and have already accepted my strange bits.  The ones (the friends, I hasten to add, not boyfriends) to come in the future?  Will hopefully like some of the same things too, and if not, there's more where they came from.

In the end, the jobs and boyfriends and friends sort themselves out, but these types of unscheduled days?  Don't last forever, apparently, if in fact you have had the luxury of getting such days at all.  For this last Saturday & any such Saturdays to come, I will be grateful.

***

Credit to blogger Wearing Mascara for inspiring in part the "note to my younger self" idea.  Thanks!

Hitting on New Friends, Ed. #4,971,852

(No, not "hitting on" in that sense, but in the "I'm new in town and attempting to trick people into liking me" one. This isn't the "I Pick Polygamy" blog.)

Yesterday morning, I stood in front of my closet for no small amount of time, mulling over that age-old question - "Which outfit will convince this new group of women that I'm the most brilliant person they've ever had the chance to befriend, all in one happy hour?"  Because surely it is the clothes and not the personality that matters, no?

As I finally selected that outfit that would surely prove the key to my social success - if you must know, crisply white A-Pocket Sevens, wedge espadrilles, and a vintage-y, kelly-green Banana top -and moved on to the hair/makeup portion of the Prettier Than Everyone Else program, I questioned for a moment when the last time was that I devoted so much effort to being just this vain concerned about my appearance . . . 

. . .  it was back when I first started dating the Anonymous Husband.   As in, not anymore, but during those heady early days.  Oh.

This isn't to say I've moved into the sweatpants-around-the-house cliche*, although my typical Target loungey attire is teetering on that unfashionable edge.  However, it struck me that I was putting this much effort into impressing a group of women I'd never met before, but I had unconsciously wandered close to XL tee shirts and baggy sweats territory with the person I'm presumably most interested in impressing.

*And I only say this because I don't have children yet; for those that do, the fact that you find time to select actual clothes (assuming you do), any clothes, while herding kids is a commendable achievement.

Don't get me wrong - as my male friends are all to eager to inform me, a certain amount of this dressing up business is & has always been for other women's sake, and I don't debate that.  For example, the AH would never appreciate my ongoing quest to find the perfect handbag (which this week is this); be it Payless or Prada, it's all the same to him so long as he can sneak his sunglasses and sports tickets in there.  Who else to admire the fruits of my laborious shopping efforts but other women?

I won't be hanging up the loungey pants anytime soon - they surely rank amongst the top 5 reasons to get married in the first place - but I will try to keep this clothes thing in perspective.  If I can muster up the hair-drying, closet-staring energy for strangers, I can also do so for date night; on the flip side, my failure to wear the "right" pair of jeans to either isn't going to sink my social ship, given that we're past the Junior High years**.  If only I could get the AH to appreciate my purses . . .

**Remember those Guess jeans with the triangle label on the back?  Just try to tell me those weren't mandatory; you can't.

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!

"The Singing Uterus", or "How I Make Important Life Decisions"

It started early in 2005 with the occasional bookstore trip, when I'd make an uninterested pass through the fiction shelves before zeroing in on my real target - the wedding magazine aisle.  These furtive dalliances with "Martha Stewart Weddings" led a few months later to my diving ring-finger first into that black hole of online wedding planning, "The Knot".  

Only after I'd skulked around those pages & sites for months did it slowly occur to me, "Hey, I might be ready to marry this man!", the one I'd been dating for one year by this point.  Yes, reader - I may be Pretty, but I'm not always the swiftest to the finish line.  Happily, the Anonymous Husband* proposed shortly thereafter, so I didn't think much about the timing of secretive research vs. reality.  

*The guy I was ready to marry = the AH, fortunately.  

Until now.

IRONY ALERT:  The very blogger who warned you to stopstopstop it already and quit asking everyone, including me, about our up-to-the-minute plans to procreate, is about to venture into a discussion of those estrogen-addled waters herself.  Much like someone insulting your mother, it doesn't count when you're the one doing it.  So there. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Fast forward to last week, when one of those moments snuck up on me during a morning Starbucks trip.  As I stood impatiently in line, already running late for work, a toddler wobbled in front of me.  Her black curls akimbo, she made those "Look at me!" toddler eyes and smiled as she swung around to proudly show off her sparkly blue fairy wings.

Cue my ovaries clack clack clacking like biological castanets, tapping out in perfect time, "OMG, fairy wings!  You can do this mommy thing, Mel!  Don't you want a child of your very own to dress in whimsical costumes?!?"  My inner reverie breaks only to note the harried mother of said toddler, who has apparently seen the fairy wings act already & grabs the girl's hand to hurry to the door.

In truth, this is one of many moments that have crept up on me over the past few months.  I've honed my Nancy Drew** sleuthing skills yet again, only this time in the "parenting" bookshelves and those delightfully paranoid baby websites that tell you the 5,076,892 ways you can poison your child before he or she is actually conceived.

**I'm missing her ability to solve the crime in 150 tidily summed up pages or less, sadly, as well as the naturally "titian" hair.  Sigh.

Don't mistake this admission for my telling you that the AH & I are actually trying to have a child quite yet; on the contrary, my body has gone into a sort of parenting bachelorette ("ovarette?") party in the opposite direction.  Suddenly, there is no wine within a 10 mile radius that is safe from me.***  I peruse and purchase soft cheeses and sushi like a lech peering at a nudie mag. I'm compelled to plan exotic  trips that cannot happen, practically speaking, if a baby is in the near future.  

***Not that the wine was safe before, but you know what I mean.  

Until that magical realization gradually dawns, just as it did before, you can find me with my kind friend, Pinot Noir, hoovering a brick of Brie, while I sneak around the paranoid baby websites and wait for clarity - or the inevitable "Martha Stewart Babies" magazine.

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? 

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?