Through the Looking (Martini) Glass

Subtitle: "An Ode to Getting Old"

This weekend was a bit of a step back in time for the Anonymous Husband and I as we attended not only the wedding events of an old buddy of his, but re-visited some of our past - our bar hopping, trendy past, more specifically.

Once upon a time I considered myself a superficiality specialist in this area, keeping abreast (yes, I'm a 12-year-old boy, and typing "abreast" does make me giggle) of whatever the latest restaurant or bar was at which I needed to be seen. Naturally this was occurring in my twentysomething years when I should have been studying Torts or similar, but . . . um, at least I was specializing in something?

The AH & yours truly in pre-game mode, with apologies for the Instagram repeat photo. Also, it was ninety degrees in Austin this weekend - IN MARCH, mind you - hence the summery getups.

Like any new parent, I'm now less trendy and more "Thomas the Tank Engine" - happily so. That being said, the weekend was perhaps the first PK ("post kid" for any newbies here) time I can recall getting dolled up and heading with great, superficial purpose to where the music would be too loud, the drinks too expensive, and the people watching rife with potential (see-through cutout lace dresses circa "Like a Virgin", for splendid example.)

I loved it. Specifically, I loved getting a peek on my twentysomething life with the privileges of a thirtysomething Smug Married. I can now invisibly float through the bar crowds of the Too Chic if I choose, as I'm no longer in my unwrinkled, Prettier prime. I'm also no longer in need of unearthing cute boys or proving I'm more . . . ??? what was I concerned about back then? . . . than anyone else, or anything at all beyond the picket fenced reality I have now.

Nights out no longer hold that beacon of possibility, the thrill of the unknown - who will I meet? Will my so-called friends force me to dance? I have successfully unearthed the cute boy, and only the most indulgent of bouncers still ask me to do the show-your-ID-dance. I'm not competing for the Prettiest in the room anymore, but oh, is it ever fun to watch the ones still in the vanity hunt.

I beg you young Pretties out there - please be kind to us old folk occasionally showing up in your too trendy haunts. We aren't trying to pretend we're one of you - in fact, most days you couldn't pay us enough. It's just good to look back and remember, to be grateful for the then and the now. A $12 martini  - when did it become $12??? - seems like a small price to pay for perspective.

"Remarried & Reproduced"

Ever feel like your friends make group decisions at some clandestine board meeting you weren't invited to - "Hey, everyone, let's all get married this summer!"? I'd thought I'd long ago reached the end of this marry-go-round (pun intended, with apologies), having attended countless showers and weddings and, sadly, witnessed a few divorces over the past few years. What else could be coming, death aside, that would be so simultaneously happy and damaging to my credit card statement?

It took a chat with an older, wiser friend over the weekend to realize that I've entered the "Remarry & Reproduce" next phase of Secret Group-Decision Making. Weddingpalooza 2011 will conclude with my having attended five weddings all together - all out-of-state - and those are just the ones we were able to attend. This number includes the second weddings of two dear friends, whose first weddings I attended just a few years back. This year I've also sent more adorably monogrammed first baby gifts than I care to remember - after having received a gazillion billion last year when, at age 32, I was one of the first of us to have a child.

This photo is apropos of absolutely nothing in this post except he's (1) cute; (2) mine; and (3) I felt like it.

Someone is VERY pleased with himself for figuring out how to sit up in Big Boy Chairs like this.

This isn't a complaint - ok, it is in regards to my American Express bill, which has seen more action this summer than Don Draper in a room full of secretaries - so much as an expression of bittersweet surprise. In all the Life Stage Planning stuff I got caught up in during my teens and 20s, I forgot that there might be both a first and second (and, possibly, additional) round of weddings, and that the kids may be coming not in our twenties but thirties and forties too. Not to wish divorce on any of us, of course, but - that the happy endings may not come in the tidy package we imagined as young 'uns, but that we might be so fortunate as to eventually get an eventual stab at them - this, darlings, gives me hope.

And so it goes on. That same friend - one of those who happened upon the right marriage the second time around - tells me that the Secret Board Meetings continue on throughout life. I may soon find myself in the "major career moves and second babies" phase, to be followed by the one she finds herself in now - the mixed bag of "graduations & life-threatening illness" era. I only ask that there be a "able to send my child to college and keep up all with these changes" phase in between...

What phase are you in? Am I missing something in between now & sending Master P off to OxforStanYaleHarvardbridge aka University of No Pressure?

The Smug Married Judges - Joint Social Media Accounts

Just like I was a perfect parent before I was an actual one, I had the Smug Married thing all figured out before I was actually married. Not to talk about m-o-n-e-y or worse, m-a-t-h, but I figured the equation of (Shared Bank Accounts + Shared Home + Shared Religious Beliefs) + (Spouse Not to Be Shared With Others) + (One Credit Card of My Very Own to Buy Shoes With) = Marital Harmony, more or less.

Of course, I now realize that there isn't one right answer to how people go about the business of being happily partnered. Though I'm occasionally tempted, I try not to judge those who go about the Smug Married business differently than the Anonymous Husband & me. Yes, really.

That being said, I did recently run across one thing that activated my Smug Married Smirk of Judgment - the joint marital email account. Yesterday I spent no less than fifteen minutes attempting to identify the sender of an email giving me detailed instructions about a new volunteer thingy - clearly I'd met this person, but when? Who was she - or he? By whom would my reply email be read? Most importantly - here comes the ugly Smirk - this person was clever enough to get online and send an email, but not so to establish their very own account? This only got me thinking more about the few joint Facebook accounts I've noticed, and I remain . . . confused.

[Imagine Smug Married Look of Judgment in lieu of post photo here; I apologize for the lack of visual splendor here today.]

Let me rush to state the obvious - yes, I'm somewhat traditional in many aspects, marriage included. I took my husband's last name without much consternation, and of course I'm happily home raising Master P and making a mess of this homemaker stuff. That being said, it would no more occur to me to share an email or Facebook account, or share my passwords for the same, with the AH than my wearing a fanny pack in public would.

One of my favorite aspects of this Smug Married gig is the trust factor. Call me naive, but I like being treated as someone who can be trusted to have some privacy, email included, and I believe/ sincerely hope I've married someone worthy of that respect too. I don't want to get into the business of monitoring his communications - why bother marrying someone when that is even a question? The AH & I are united as one, according to the tenets of our religion, yet we're two separate people too.

Should there come a time in which my Spouse Not to be Shared With Others theory is called into question, for example, I imagine the AH & I would quickly revisit this separate accounts thing. For now, however, surely building in some space to trust one another is a healthy thing - for us, at any rate.

In my dotage, I now try to ask the question, "Maybe I'm the weirdo here?" when I find myself in these Smirk of Judgment types of situations - so, am I the weirdo here for believing in individual online accounts? Is there a comfort in sharing accounts or passwords I'm overlooking? A generational thing?

When Life Is Running Behind Schedule

For as long as I can remember, I'd planned by age 25 to have a husband, 2 kids - one boy and one girl, please and thank you - and the "Father of the Bride" house, picket fence and all, plus a prestigious, wildly interesting career while somehow also staying at home with the kids. I'd flash my Mommy Mafia gang sign - in the shape of the Tory Burch logo, I'm guessing - as I swiftly took over the neighborhood playgroup & PTA with a snap of my always manicured fingers. You know, just the basics.

Via

Some of your recent Tweets & posts reminded me about how many of us Type As, past or present, get these Lofty Life Goals set in our minds and then are mystified when it doesn't all unfold on our timeline, if at all. How infuriating it is to pass whatever time stamp we've set for ourselves, especially when we see others reaching those goals before us.

I vividly recall the wistfulness I felt on my 25th birthday, which brought me not the Norman Rockwell future I'd envisioned but rather a deeply questionable boyfriend and an impending law school graduation with no job on the horizon, let alone a marriage, house or kids. Watching friends easily snap up great jobs or meet the One was an exercise in choking back my envy to feel properly excited for them. I was having a blast doing what twentysomething singletons do - travel, happy hour & dating the wrong people - but on some level I still wondered when that (expletive) picket fence was going to show up already.

I was off by 3 & 7 years on the marriage and kid respectively. I have a bamboo fence in Austin instead of the Southern California picket one I'd wanted, and I'm still waiting on the "Father of the Bride" house and wildly interesting career - but, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, I'm here.

My religious slip is showing with this, something this Episcopalian isn't entirely comfortable with, but - I look back and feel so grateful that it unfolded how it did, on a timeline not of my making but capital "H' His. I wasn't ready for the family I craved at the age I'd thought I'd wanted it. Wouldn't have appreciated my now husband had I not first dated the Messrs. Wrong and You Can't Be Serious. Would have balked at the staggering responsibility of mothering had I not partied and goofed around and traveled through my twenties.

I hasten to add that I don't think this marriage/kid/house timeline is something everyone does or should crave, nor do I think we should all sit back meekly while we wait for whatever higher power you do/n't believe in to make our goals possible. It is maddening to feel like you've fallen behind on your goals, whatever they may be, when you're doing everything you can think of & then some to get there - particularly when those around you seem to be achieving them without effort. Nothing I'm saying here is meant to gloss over that pain, which truly just, well, capital "S" Sucks..

My thought is simply this - sometimes - not always, but sometimes - it works out even better than you had hoped, or the Lofty Life Goal changes without your even having realized it. Besides, when you take the scenic route to the goals your peers have already achieved, you get the benefit of learning from the mistakes they make by being there first - and that, darlings, is a price beyond Tory Burch, gang signs & all.

The Smug Marrieds Jet-Set: Anniversary Trip to...

I know what you've been thinking.

You've been wild with anxiety, thinking, "OMG I cannot believe that Pretty left to wonder about where she & the Anonymous Husband are jet-setting off to for their fifth Smug Married anniversary. I mean, how are we to enjoy a long holiday weekend with such unbearable suspense?"

I apologize for causing you this unbearable agony and announce, without further travel planning procrastination ado, that the Pretties are headed this November for a long weekend in...

                                                            Source: google.com via Toni on Pinterest

                                           Source: google.com via Museumist on Pinterest

                                                                Source: google.com via Sam on Pinterest

                                           Source: towntoiles.com via Ashley on Pinterest

                                            Source: theberry.com via Sharon on Pinterest

Source: blessyoursweetheart.tumblr.com via Sharon on Pinterest

We went with majority reader opinion and, based largely on your terribly helpful advice, excitedly booked our trip to Charleston. We've sorted out our Historic District-based hotel, but I would very much appreciate any restaurant, shopping (of course), and sightseeing recommendations, either in the comments here or at my highly top secret email at ipickpretty AT gmail etc.


Again, my sincerest apologies for keeping you in such agonies. The staff - wherever they are - has been duly informed that such unkindness will not be tolerated.


Charleston restaurant/ shopping /sightseeing recommendations? 

***

PS - You know how I love a PS - many thanks to my Twitterati who gave me such helpful advice on buying a proper DSLR camera. We - as in, the Royal We - are trying to de-ghetto-fy the photography quality here, and the near unanimous consensus was to start with this Canon. I'm bargain hunting now & hoping to have one - and staff to train me on how to use it - secured by the time lovely Charleston rolls around ....

Primping for Playgroup & Other Silliness

Show of hands - how many of you (*raises hand*) have...

Dressed up to see your girlfriends more than any romantic person of interest?

Cleaned your house before the housekeeper - that is, the person kept in employ thanks in part to your sloth - arrives?

The Anonymous Husband delights in making fun of me for this sort of thing, claiming that I do things like dress for other women more often than him. It came up again last night when I was frantically cleaning Master P's play area in anticipation of the playgroup we hosted today, and again this morning when I woke up early - ie, pre Master P - to shower & get gussied up for the same bunch. This is the playgroup filled with women who would most understand why the play area might not be perfectly tidy after I've been traveling for a week or, ya know, taking care of a whirlwind one-year-old.

Hmm. Maybe he has a point. Is it a strange that my primping efforts, both for self and home, aren't always - ok, usually - motivated by the husband and child types I'm theoretically meant to be, you know, creating a nice home for and stuff? Or whatever it is that so-called housewifes, of the non- reality TV sort, are supposed to be doing?

Source: motifmagazine.wordpress.com via Johnna on Pinterest

Before the Internet Mothering Brigade gets their feminist dukes up, let me clarify - I'm in no way rescinding my right to wear my Secret Sweatpants (in home only, mind you) or the Mom Uniform or have things like opinions. I have no desire to return to anything remotely 1950s aside from the spiffy dresses. That being said, I'm just wondering - does it matter what's motivating the effort to present a decent appearance?

Eh. I think it's ok to take pride in keeping a home & one's self presentable. That being said, the house isn't always often clean, and there are days like any mother has when I'm sprinting to get a shower before the AH arrives home. Whatever the motivation, I think that I'm trying when & where I can, even when impressing the playgroup isn't at stake, though I should be mindful of that too. Surely that - and the occasional  Secret Sweatpants, because don't deny that you have them too - is enough.

On the Road (Home) Again...

*Subtitle: "Writing the Same Post Over & Over Again & Hoping Y'all Are Too Kind to Mention It"


**Mildly Important Note: Hello from Death Hell Heat'd Dallas! The Pretties are jet-setting around visiting family this week, so please forgive my erratic posting & commenting for the duration. Given that you - all three of you - hang on my every word, I realize what a hardship this is. Thank you for your understanding.

I've droned on here before about teaching Master P about my Southern California homeland and questioned why, after six years (!) here in the Great State, I'm still compelled to describe it as "home" and pass a taste of it onto him. As much as I love my life here & want my wee Texan to learn native skills like football and chivalry - not necessarily in that order - I still chew on what it means to be raising a child here.

Is all the pondering because I'm homesick? Looking to make my stamp on my son, who already looks & inevitably will act much like his Texan father? Desperate for blog material?

All of the above, probably, but today I'm less concerned with the whys & more happy with my Californiazation (deemed a word here at the Pretty) scheme for its own sake. Today marks a historic first in the life of Master P, made even more special by the presence of fellow Texifornian & gorgeous creature Shabby Princess:

Yes, that's an In n' Out French Fry my boy is nearly fainting over, and I couldn't be more pleased by passing along my California legacy via . . . God's Chosen Cheeseburger? Hmm. Though the nostalgic food & chat with one of my favorite Invisible Internet Friends was mostly for my benefit, obvs I couldn't help but think there will be some other home goodness to teach him about. You Texans may have more land & better manners, but it'll be tough to beat that Pacific Ocean view he'll enjoy visiting one day.

Fast food favorites aside, we've had some other happy firsts here in the Big D:

If you'll forgive me the iPhone photo - I've bored you with tales of tricking both the Anonymous Husband and Master P into reading, but this is the first time I've witnessed Master P toddle up to the AH, make the "UP, UP!" flappy arm gesture and shove a book in his direction, indicating with a verve rarely seen outside a third world dictatorship that he'd like to read rightthisverysecond. So moved was I by this literary scene that my Icy Glare of Judgment has basically been disabled for the day, which is an issue when your 1-year-old is attempting to scale his aunt's staircase with a sippycup in one hand & dirty diaper in another.

On that schmaltzy note, I'm off to put my law degree to good use by cuddling - yes, cuddling, I admit it - the world's most well behaved newborn, reminding my ovaries that, based on evidence to date, my own personal newborns don't prefer cuddles nor good behavior. Down, ladyparts, down!

Spitfire newborn though he was, at least he's fairly delightful now.

For my fellow expats, where is home for you, and what do you hope to pass on to your own personal children it? Also, any advice for the ladyparts trying to trick me into having Imaginary Child #2?

The "Date Night" Thing (Quotes Intentional)

Once upon a child-free time, the Anonymous Husband and I would do typical Smug Married things like check out a new restaurant or see a movie without feeling compelled to label those occasions. Such times required no more planning than one of us, usually the thoughtful AH, making the occasional reservation.

When we learned I was pregnant, we swore that we'd continue to make regular efforts to go out together. Surely after a few weeks we'd have the energy to go out. Surely we'd find a caring, reliable babysitter available on a weekly basis to help out. Surely we'd never become that couple too tired or too bored to have a dinner conversation, staring blankly at one another at the nearest bland chain restaurant.

Yes, yes - surely cue laughter here.

So it turns out the date planning post kid ("PK") is more akin to launching a multi-front international invasion. Napoleon had nothing on my ability to coordinate the armed forces of Babysitter, Restaurant Reservation, Husband Scheduling (or Attempts Thereto), Suddenly Sitter-Averse Master P and, um, Last Minute Pulling Myself Together-ing. The AH & I now have strategic meetings about so-called "Date Nights" and penciling in dates weeks in advances. So we have & continue to make an effort, but between the AH's frenzied job, the fun of securing a sitter, and Master P's sniffles & recent "stranger danger", it has been more on a once or twice monthly basis.

This past weekend was worth the World War III level scheduling efforts, however. We talked, not about scheduling or Real Life Stuff, but just fun banter like we haven't done in a while. We escaped the heat with a beer and a movie, both of which we can't recommend highly enough:

Excellent, excellent, excellent - oh, any probably copyright DreamWorks Studios or some legal thingymagig.

Though the times we get out as a couple now lack the spontaneity we once enjoyed, I do look forward to these PK dates even more than I did pre-baby. Though the complexity of coordinating these only adds to my collection of wrinkles, the painfully scheduled* Date Nights are worth it.**

*See, I am able to do complex scheduling for something - that should make you Life Planner Mom Schedule Agenda of Doom types happy!

*Unless the AH makes good on his threat to make me see "Rise of the Apes of Gargamel Hogwarts"or whatever...

The Undomestic Goddess Confesses

I've spent no small amount of time poking fun of the corner of the blogosphere caught up in the written schedule / life organization craze - by the way, I jest in fun, loving you adorable, if insanely OCD, planners as I do. Even the New York Times is getting into the obsessively organized fun. Truth be told, there's just enough former lawyer, Type A-Minus left in me to wonder whether you all and your Mom Life Schedule Agenda Planners of Obsessive Doom might be onto something.

Yes, that's right. Call it Stockholm Syndrome or just too much time out of the organizational trenches, but you've got me questioning whether my current scheduling scheme of the occasional note scribbled on a (monogrammed, obvs.) cocktail napkin & iPhone calendar is enough to be pulling my wifely weight here at Pretty HQ. Are my jests concealing jealousy at the scheduled lives those perfect planners imply?

Maybe. The thing is . . . this isn't at all a complaint, but - being a wife to the senior associate BigLaw firm-y Anonymous Husband requires a certain - ok, total - flexibility. I'm hugely proud of him & grateful for the many benefits of the job, the chief of which allows me to comfortably do this stay-at-home mom gig. I realize what a privilege this SAHM thing is, and I'm truly thankful - yes, icy hearted me, thankful - for it. On the flip side, the AH & I have no idea if or when we'll see one another from day to day; if a deal lands, there go our evenings & weekends, let alone family dinners, for the foreseeable future. An 8-5 gig it isn't, I knew that when I signed on to the marriage, and no amount of meal planning or other housewifely magic can change that.

That being said, under the pre-child Pretty administration, such flexibility was easy for me (e.g., the one not killing herself working a bonkers schedule) wife-wise . When I had those impromptu evening hours to myself, I could run off to the gym, a League meeting, or happy hour; I'll leave you to surmise which of those was more likely. Of course I missed the AH on the nights & weekends he had to work late, but I'm enough of a recovering introvert to have enjoyed the occasional night of Single Secret Behavior - ie, "Sex & the City" re-runs and mint chocolate chip ice cream for dinner - to myself. Plus, on the off chance he was able to make it home after all, it was easy enough for me or him to pop out to grab dinner at any hour.

Of course, with Master P life has irrevocably changed - for the better, naturally, but it isn't as easy to incorporate the AH's fluctuating schedule with a toddler's relatively static one (and can I get an "AMEN!" for said toddler finally being on a predictable schedule?). The grocery store runs - or, more frequently, takeout runs - that used to only involve two now must take three into consideration, one of whom may or may not be home to eat any of it. Any such trips, of course, now must occur sometime during my wee darling dictator's waking hours. And, lest you fear this wacky schedule means a nutritional deficit for Master P, let me assure you that no toddler in the whole of hippy-dippy Austin dines from a more organic, freely traded, cage-chemical-taste free menu than soy-milked he*. His fancypants food (ie, cruelty-free grilled cheese sandwiches) gets eaten, but if I get too ambitious planning on the AH being home for dinner, I'm unhappy to admit we then have groceries that go to waste.

*With glaring exceptions such as this morning, when my wee darling tot insisted on a breakfast of milk & oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (baked with organic dark brown sugar!). He may look just like "Dada", but he's all moi...

I confess there are times when my need to just take care of one other person at a time is lovely, the days when, after putting Master P to bed (to crib?), I can cuddle up with my laptop & selfishly revert to the aforementioned SSB. On the other, manicured hand, most days I'd prefer to be cuddling up to a live human husband - preferably mine, I hasten to add - with whom I can have a conversation. Missing adult chit-chat is one of the admittedly few downsides of this SAHM business, and at the end of my 12-hour mommy shift, I pine for it *even more* than mint chocolate chip ice cream. Usually. Sometimes.

Hence my day-to-day housewifery schedule is just that - day-to-day. While at times the fluctuating nature of our evenings can be frustrating, it's another part of the new normal I'm learning to embrace. I get the housewifey stuff done - the bills are paid (scheduled on computer within a day of arrival, ideally), the laundry is washed (if not well, it's done), the house is cleaned (with bi-monthly help, I gratefully add) - and try not to worry that I don't have it all perfectly planned out. Appointments go in the iPhone, and other errands & such manage to get done, usually without my having to scribble down reminders.  Life is simpler, and better, now.

My Mom Life Planner Agenda Schedule of End Times may happen yet, once the AH logs a few more years at work & Master P gets a little older - and assuming my inner lawyer rears her unduly organized head again. Until then, I'll continue to be here inspiring you with my . . . um, my, uh . . . impressive pile of to-do stuff? Sparkling wit - or some other word ending in "-it"?

For those reading my to-do list here: yes, learning how to operate the damned Apple TV on those Single Secret Behavior nights is a task I've yet to master. The AH installs the technology, and I call him repeatedly to learn how to use it.

Choose Your Own (My Own) Adventure: The Smug Marrieds Celebrate

This November will mark five years of connubial bliss for the Anonymous Husband and me, which not only makes us experts on the subject of matrimony, but also entitles us to jet-set off for a Big Damn Anniversary Trip someplace exotic. Obviously.

(Or, you know, a long weekend getaway somewhere a short flight away & not too terribly expensive, as made possible by the kind assistance of the Anonymous Mother-In-Law babysitter.)

Either way, we're headed South of the Mason-Dixon for a celebration weekend, and here's where I'm hoping you, darling readers - all three of you - might be willing to lend a Pretty hand. We're trying to choose from three excellent choices, and if any of you belles could give us travel advice, preferences, etc. narrowing down the following field, I'd be ever so grateful:

Charleston...

                                                                               Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Savannah...

                                                                                Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

New Orleans . . .

                                                                             Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Any advice - aside from "Get a life, overprivileged whinypants!" because, believe me, I've tried - be it hotel, restaurant, or must see attractions, would be lovely. Also, are there any problems with / advantages to visiting one of these cities given the time of year? I'm partial to options #1 and #2 given that neither the AH nor I have been to either, but of course New Orleans seems a good a place as any to show off our Smug Marriedness.

One, two, three - jet set, and thank you in advance! Exclamation point!!

Travel with Toddlers, Part Deux: Again? Really?

"Good idea?" is the catchphrase I vividly remember from my California Bar prep course lo these 8 - OMG - years ago. Our criminal law lecturer, nattily dressed in seersucker & enough sarcasm to quiet even a room of 300 terrified students, would invoke that phrase after telling us the facts of a particularly well bungled crime.

Though I do my best to forget Bar prep - and the practice of law altogether - I've never been able to shake that "Good idea?"voice when I go about the business of bungling whatever (non-criminal, I hasten to add) bit of life I'm up to at the moment. And so it was this weekend, when the Pretty family embarked upon a 24-hour round-trip journey to an out-of-state wedding.

Yes, 4 plane rides in 24 hours with a 13-month-old. All together now, you crim law professors & veteran moms - good idea? Other spectacular details of said weekend travel included:

- This was a "dry wedding" to which we were heading (I put that in quotation marks because, naturally, there is no direct translation of that concept in my language)(As if)(Parentheses);

- 3 out of 3 of us were in various stages of having a cold;

- 1 of us was recovering from surgery;

- 1 of us had just worked an 80-hour week;

- Someone - ahem - forgot to pack my toiletries & Master P's favorite stuffed animal (ie, the one without which he will not sleep);

- Said flights included a 3-hour layover, in which Master P attempted to board a flight to a different state only 3 times

- 3: the number of times I considered bolting solo to the nearby Key West-bound plane.

Good idea? No, but. . . it was a family wedding. We had a fun time despite the chaos. More importantly, it was for family, and for family you show up. Next time, however, we're bringing a nuptials flask, because that, friends, is a Good Idea.

Travels Without Baby: A Round Trip to Bliss / Guilt

Life is full of dualities - for example, the presumed bliss that comes with dating George Clooney, which must also accompanied by the knowledge that your stay at Villa Handsome will be all too brief. Being married to the far more fabulous and commitment-minded Anonymous Husband, however, my challenging issues tend to fall more along the oh-so-exciting stay-at-home-mom lines. I've now taken three overnight trips away from Master P, and I've been struck each time by how desperate I am pre-trip to get away for some personal time (e.g., the ability to go to the restroom unaccompanied) - followed immediately by how desperate I am to get back home to his sweet, if drool-encrusted, face once I'm actually away.

This last weekend, in which the AH & I took off to the Great Midwest to attend a wedding, was just the most recent example of this desire for freedom / desire to run right back to Master P. Rather than wishing this push-pull away, I've come to learn that it just Is. These dueling desires are just a part of my new parenting normal. 

The AH & I will continue to have the occasional trip for just the two of us, because we believe our marriage needs them, and I will continue to miss Master P while we do, because because.

What 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep & an Instagram photo filter can do for Smug Marrieds.

Operation MILF - The "Natural" Date Night Look, Draft Ed.

Of the many kind, outrageous lies our significant others tells us, "I prefer how you look when you wake up first thing in the morning" must rank up there with that old chestnut, "No, those skinny jeans don't make your assets look fat" or "I watch Halle Berry movies for their cinematic splendor."

Knowing this "I like you without makeup!" thing to be a ruse - absent a minimum of makeup or a map, you can't locate my weensy eyes or cheekbones, let alone admire them - I've nonetheless fallen into a regular pattern of less-than-my-already-minimal spackle. On many Mom days, it's an absolute necessity - but I'm finding I've forgotten how to do a more pulled together look when a date night or Vegas trip arises.

Plus, there was that thing the AH noted a few months back - you know, back before Big Law Firm Life took over all his free time & we still did Smug Married-style date nights - when I was discussing the Mom-ouflage & he observed, "You know, not everything about your look needs to be practical Mom-stuff." Uh-oh.

(Also, I see his comment as implicit permission to resume buying wildly impractical shoes, which I will no longer link to here as the AH is apparently reading my drivel here again. Uh-oh indeed.)

Anywhoodle, I'm inspired to get my war paint together; let's call it the "natural" date night look to keep the spouses happy, though we'll know better. Sparrows & Sparkles, one of my favorite Invisible Internet Chic Mamas, pointed me in the direction of this Pixiwoo video which gives us mere mortals techniques & tips on the Kate / Catherine / Duchess (ie, my ideal "natural" pulled together face) look.

I should repeat here that I do not believe myself to be, nor do I desire to be, the Duchess of Cambridge. I've already had a job requiring pantyhose, and I've no desire to go there again. Not unless, say, a title & unlimited wardrobe budget were also part of the deal. That being said, girl knows how to get her "natural" spackle on:

And so, Master P's schedule permitting, I'm off to STOP READING RIGHT NOW ANONYMOUS HUSBAND NO REALLY I MEAN IT the mall to assemble my (still minimal, I promise!) war paint, with a few changes here & there to suit my (pasty, be-wrinkled) complexion. I've already obtained & love the bronzer, so so far, so Pretty.

**Edited to Add: Since posting this I've also tried the following products from above video & highly recommend: (1) Chanel Pro Lumiere Foundation in 20 (oil-free, semi-matte, blendable, gorgeous) and (2) Chanel Poudre Universelle in 20. Will update more as time & budget permit me to test more of these products.**

If only I could get (1) Big Law Firm Land to allow us a Date Night to debut my new spackle - er, I mean, to spend time with the AH; and (2) obtain my old-school Caboodle to house it in - remember those? Here's hoping Kate / Catherine / Duchess trots one out & gets the trend going again...

Any other date night look tutorial help? Suggestions for overcoming my CopyKate tendencies?

Sisterhood of the Traveling Wedding Guest Dress

Subtitle: "Thursday noon service at the First Church of Materialism, Reformed"

Sub-Subtitle: "I really like subtitles."

You know the ideal of your perfect handbag, or shoe, or fiance - whatever the accessory  - you dream about while flipping through "In Style" or your other sartorial p0rn of choice? The one you fantasize about owning one day when you win that multi-million dollar contingency case or lottery, not necessarily in that order?

I recently came into possession of my dream, designer demure daytime dress (and whatever other adjectives begin with "d") entirely by accident and via the good graces of a dear friend & reader (hi, L!) looking to resell a frock. It - the dress, I hasten to add, not the friend - is flowery. It is sleeveless. It has an a-line skirt, which is exactly the cut my certified-as-child-bearing hips appreciate. It has pockets - POCKETS! - for the concealment of mini-quiches or lip gloss. It's just so . . . Charlotte. You know what I mean.

The label, CH Carolina Herrera, isn't terribly important - though it's way up there on my Platonic wish list of designers - as much as the dress' lineage. I'm a sucker for story as well as coveting things well out of my price range, so it's surprising I've only just started buying vintage and secondhand like this. This dress was originally bought in a panic by said friend, who had managed to convey herself, husband, and shiny new baby to a destination wedding, but not the dress she'd thought she'd packed. Enter Carolina:

Comes w/ grosgrain violet sash at natural waist; will model once I get brave / foolish enough for this OOTD business

And the story continues as the dress will travel with me this summer to four (! why, why all at once!) weddings & their respective rehearsals, brunches, and other Smug Married ceremonial necessities.

[Ridiculous OOTD photo redacted]

Mildly important sidebar: I don't know how you legitimate fashion bloggers have the stomach for these "Outfit of the Day" photos. There is no way to do them without feeling and/or looking insufferably (a) self-absorbed; (b) constipated; (c) like you sit around all day posing for photos [see sub (a)]. Many of you do it skillfully, and I just can't .  . . I just can't go there.

Anywhoodle, to me, this is such a happier result than the way I'd envisioned eventually finding such a dress. Trolling the interwebs for a sale has nothing on a frock from a friend - a dress with a Smug Married pedigree of its own, no less. Maybe someday I'll lend it to another wedding attending friend, and so on.

If only I could find such a friend for the shoes I'll need to pair Dream Dress with . . . anyone wanting to send me these? What if I pinky swear not to post an OOTD with them?

Photo Credit: Nordstrom

Smug Marrieds Read & Other Excitement

"I forgot to bring a book," the Anonymous Husband sighed wistfully as we prepared for bed recently whilst on an in-law visit.

"Yes!!!!" I hissed in return. There may or may not have been a fist pump involved.

Confused? So was the AH, but here's (at long last) my point - I was smugly thrilled that, after nearly five years of connubial bliss, my one redeemable obsession habit, reading, appears to have rubbed off on him. I may or may not have dangled some gateway drugs - emo teen vampires might have been involved - to lure him down my literary path, but the bookish ends justify the means, right? *cue "Reading Rainbow" theme song for us oldsters*

Apologies for the recent spate of wedding photos, but we have no recent, decent ("redecent"?) photos because we never, ever remember to take photos of stuff aside from Master P. Also, because I'm blonder / thinner in these than I am than redecently.

Then I paused to chew on the ways in which the AH has influenced me for the better, and my self-satisfied reverie quickly subsided. I credit him with teaching me the following:

• Football starts with "f" but isn't a four-letter word; 
• How to order that funny sushi that doesn't come in a roll; 
• How to use a power drill; 
• To give people the benefit of the doubt, at least at first (unless they're in Crocs, in which case they obvs. aren't to be trusted) (I may have made that caveat up.)(But it's clearly necessary.)(Parentheses.)
• That Texas is near the South, geographically and spiritually, but not of it
• That street smarts sometimes trump book learnin' - babies, anyone?

Uh, safe to say, I suspect the AH wins - or loses, actually, depending on how you look at this. At least I have my "Hunger Games" collection to keep me warm when my obviously more interesting husband leaves me one day, right? Right???

What stuff have you taught your Smug Married other, by hook or by crook, and vice versa?

The Mom Reaction

We've devoted no small amount of time here at the Pretty to what We - yes, the Royal We will be in effect for the whole of the royal wedding week - look like, most recently in our attempts to get our Operation MILF behind in gear.

On the flip side, I'm discovering that there's a Mom Reaction others give me when I'm out & about with Master P. It's less cut and dry than the Smug Married Genuflection I've discussed here before - to review, that's the once-over young married women give one another that inevitably goes (1) Hair; (2) Shoes; (3) Engagement Ring; (4) Handbag (with emphasis on step #3).

I may have to re-title my tagline ". . . ever so slightly more blonde than nature intended."

First & foremost, I've been surprised with how many more people approach me when I'm out with Master P. I'm not sure what I had expected - the given, visible horror of airline passengers seated next to a baby, perhaps, or at very least the "If I don't make eye contact that mom won't sit next to me lalalala I'm not heeere" Southwest Airlines tactic.

On the contrary, apparently babies are the gateway drug to small talk, and here I'd been thinking it was vodka this whole time .  . . in any event, this new conversational prop is a welcome development for me, a recovering introvert. 

The Mom Reaction isn't as easily divided along gender lines as I would have suspected - while a few more women gurgle in Master P's direction than the men, it isn't by much. 

And if you're guessing that it's the women who follow up the Mom Reaction with offers to assist with things like getting the stroller through a store entrance - no small feat, by the way - you'd generally be wrong. While there have been a few incredibly kind women - generally of grandmother look & age - who go out of the way not only to coo but also to help, it's the menfolk who are doing the literal heavy lifting. They look with less interest than they once did, but with more chivalry; though I miss the former in my weaker moments, the former more than makes up for it most days. 

As for the men in the non-chivalrous minority, their reaction can only be described as "flight" - their furtive darting down the nearest, b-a-b-y free aisle is nothing short of comical. I want to reassure them, "It's ok; I'm almost positive the baby isn't yours," except that my approach would only guarantee further panic in Aisle 10.

Lest you think it's only those few boys darting away from the b-a-b-y, a few of you ladies are also very visibly afraid. It's ok - I was there a few years ago myself. I promise to try & not laugh as you look at Master P as if pregnancy might be contagious.

Overall, it must be said that I've been happily surprised by all of this. Though it threatens my lifelong philosophy of not liking people a great deal, I admit this mom business is softening my rough edges a bit, social graces included.

(Emphasis on "a bit" - I still enjoy the terrified look in a fellow passengers' eyes as Master P & I board a plane. If only they knew I'm more scared than they...)

Attempting to Remain (Smug) Married While (Smug) Mothering

My boys (Photo credit: Our 365 Newborn Photography)

They say - you know, the ubiquitous "they" who like to dole out pithy quotes as advice; let's credit Dorothy Parker, who seems to get attribution for 98.3% of popular quips not otherwise attributed to Coco Chanel or Mark Twain - they say that your first year of marriage is always the most challenging. I propose that those Dorothy Parkers never had a kid.

I recall my first year of marriage as a halcyon time of honeymooning and playing house and feigning embarrassment as I liberally sprinkled conversations with as many "my husbands" as I thought I could get away with. Sure, we had a squabble here & there, but the most worrisome problem I had was remembering to sign my married name on checks - remember "checks", boys & girls?

No, it was the impending arrival & actual appearance of Master P that gave us our true first marital challenge. Not - not not NOT! Nanny nanny boo boo! - to say MP isn't also our greatest blessing, but it gave us a Life Change in the way that getting married just didn't. With the specter of baby's arrival, the Anonymous Husband got those chilly feet he didn't seem to before we married; nothing terrible, mind you, but my social, work-hard play-hard fellow suddenly got a lot more social and upped the work/play ante for a time. I was too busy Googling "OMG What do I do with a newborn????" at the time to worry too much. We comforted ourselves by nervously swearing we'd still do weekly date nights and have a life outside our of kid, but looking back, I suspect we both assumed the marriage would take simply care of itself while we figured out baby.

Once our sweet, sweet wee Master P arrived, the alternate excitement/frustration evolved as the AH & I embarked upon the journey of figuring out our roles as parents. Since I was the one on maternity leave, I naturally assumed the primary parenting role (which largely consisted of figuring out which end of the diaper went where), but we struggled to figure out how to work Dad into the picture. When the AH came home from a long day at the office, I was in such need of a mental & physical break I nearly pitched Master P to him football-style as I sprinted to the bedroom for a 10 minute nap, barely pausing to acknowledge him - but the AH needed a break too.

Hadn't he been out working all day? Who's to say who was in any more need of a breather? But didn't anyone realize that I need to sleep at some point? How ungrateful was I to feel tired and stressed when I finally had the family I'd always wanted? Most importantly, who was grabbing takeout that night? Questions, oh how the questions swirled, but for the most part they remained unspoken; we were just too tired to actually communicate.

Two incidents distinctly stand out to me during that period . . . the first being one night when I awoke to Master P wailing for yet another middle-of-the-night feeding. Clearing the sleep from my eyes, desperately wanting not to hear the plaintive mewling from the nursery, I glared at the still-slumbering AH, who had the nerve not only to be sleeping but to look joyful about it too. "Resentful" isn't a strong enough word. It brought to mind the anecdote told by one of our wedding priests (we had two, operating under the well-known spiritual theory that "more is more") in which we were warned not to consider divorce, but that the concept of murder might appeal every now & again.

Second was the time - also around 3 am, if you're beginning to detect a theme here - when I'd been up to nurse Master P, who then steadfastly refused to go back to sleep. The poor thing by all appearances wanted to but just couldn't and was wailing his dear, now beet-red chubby cheeks off. After a half-hour or so of bouncing him around the living room, there were two of us bawling uncontrollably. Feeling awful about it but knowing I simply had to sleep, I woke the happily snoring AH - again, notice a theme here? - and begged him to take a turn (or 50) around the living room with MP. He did without hesitation despite having worked a long day himself, tucked me into bed, and was eventually able to get baby off to sleep as well. I vividly remember feeling so grateful that night as I was finally able to drift off for a few hours.

So if you can now picture that cocktail of exhilaration and exhaustion, shaken and stirred, a third ingredient came around the six-week postpartum mark when our OB gave us The Talk. Loathe as I am to discuss those 3 things my grandmother (or was it Dorothy Parker?) warned me One Doesn't Talk About in Polite Society (religion, politics, and s-e-x; let's refer to the latter as "Dorothy Parker-ing" to keep things appropriately uptight here), the uninitiated moms-to-be amongst you should be prepared for your heretofore trusted doctor throwing you under the marital bus a mere six weeks after delivering an entire human baby; that is to say, he - yes, he in my case, and I believe that may be a relevant fact here, Your Honor - will beam happily as he gives you permission to start Dorothy Parker-ing away just as soon as you're ready, wink wink!

If, like a certain blogger, you go to such an appointment having forgotten about the likely Talk to come, but also in the company of your significant other, approximately 50% of your marital team may feel as if the appointment has gone surprisingly well. The sleep-deprived, personal-time-free, possibly lactating feeling-like-a-dairy-cow, questionably showered other half could not feel less interested in the proposed Dorothy Parkering. As in, Not. At. All. If I had it to do again, I'd go to the appointment solo or show with a stack of $20's to buy my poor ladybits another month or six.

As with all things save Demi Moore's face, time marches on, and everything progressed as a result, that Thing We Don't Talk About included. Around 3 months of age, Master P started sleeping more, and his days became slightly more predictable. I also made the decision then to stay at home with him, which eased the burden on me & AH of pondering that and allowed me to proceed with figuring out this new line of work. At that same time, those date nights the AH & I had talked about suddenly seemed important again, so I found a good babysitter*, and we set about occasionally getting out of the house sans baby.
*Easier said than done, by the way. I've had root canals less intensive.

And now, with Master P nearly 10 months old, it all feels like the new normal. The AH & I regularly have date nights alone, though we'd agree that our favorite times are when we're home with Master P just loafing around - to the extent that a near 10-month-old loafs, which is to say only when he's forced to sleep. We've learned to communicate better when we need alone time; for example, when I'm thinking "What does a girl need to do around here to get an hour away for a pedicure?" I coyly ask the AH, "What does a girl need to do around here to get an hour away for a pedicure?" Most days I just feel fortunate to have such a husband and kiddo. Stupid fortunate (which is a fun alternative from the usual "stupid stupid").

As for the Pretty Pug . . . well, he is not amused by this new normal. Not. At. All. I'm not sure even Dorothy Parker has the answer for this one.

(Insert Dave Matthews Song Here)

(Subtitle: Because I Can't Quite Bring Myself to Name a Post After a DMB Song Title Like "The Space Between", Even Though I'm Secretly Still Playing DMB Like It's a 1995 Kegger & People Still Say Things Like "Kegger")

T-Minus 1 weeks: I begin working from home to await Grand Master P's arrival (thanks to hideous commute many leagues from hospital);

T-Minus 5 weeks: Grand Master P is theoretically scheduled to arrive*;
*Note to Anonymous Husband: "Theoretically scheduled" does not mean "put it in your Outlook as a firm appointment". Feel free, however, to pencil in "shop for Push Present" in as "permanently busy" for the next five weeks.

T-Minus 0 weeks, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds,etc: I deduce that this is both too soon and too far off, all of it, and panic about how to live the time in between.

When I say "live", I mean to say to appreciate the time the AH & I have as a family unit of two blah blah blah. "Patience" is both a glorious song of yore and about as abstract and unlikely a character trait to happen upon me as it is for Axl Rose* himself to make a comeback. How to focus on what I have now when what I've always wanted - the whole picket fence chiche and all - is just around the corner?
*Dating myself in this post with not one, but two circa 1990s music references. I feel as ancient as when "Glee" referred to U2 as "classic rock" this week. There is no Botox dosage large enough to cure this feeling of old, is there?

Friends have warned us in ominous tones to enjoy this time as if Armageddon or Justin B*ieber (assuming you recognize a difference between those two) lurks just around the corner. While I'm happy to stuff as many dinners out & pampering opportunities in as possible, surely - hopefully - maybe? - the birth of Grand Master P doesn't actually signal the end of Fun As We Know It?

I recognize that things are changing.

I recognize that Fun As We Know It will cease for a short while - but won't the AH & I, with luck and effort, eventually emerge on the other side as somewhat the same people we were before?

Any advice, wise ones? Would it help if I throw in an unforgivably gratuitous puppy photo? I owe you a bump update, but failing that, please allow me to distract you with the candid Pug stylings of my nursery design assistant (Twitter friends, you'll recognize this one):

Smug Marrieds: Getting Rid of His Godawful Bachelor Crap Ed.

*Subtitle: Whoa, Does This Mean She Remembers How to Write a Post About Something Other Than Babies?

Rumor has it that us ladies want nothing more than to ensnare a good man, only to then lobotomize his personality & happiness, including but not limited to ridding him of his godawful bachelor crap strewn about the house.

Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. Tired & sexist cliches aside, I suspect what I desire of the Anonymous Husband is similar to many of you - to not change a hair on his nearly-perfect head, nor an iota of his sparkling (but supremely macho, I hasten to add, just in case AH is reading this) wit & personality, while also ridding him of of his godawful bachelor household crap.

Enter this past weekend, when the AH & I set to reorganizing some rooms here at Pretty HQ in anticipation of . . . uh, that person arriving which we're not going to discuss today because CAPS LOCK OHMIGOD I suspect we all could use a break from the P-word chat. Soooo, around the house we went, Smug Marriedly discussing which furniture to keep and books to toss, the AH helpfully organizing rooms as we went, until I stepped out of the guest room / office for a moment . . . and . . . and, well, this somehow appeared on the desk . . .

(Photo Credit: What do we think - "Architectural Digest" or "Maxim"?)

Seeing my look of what we'll call surprise, the AH helpfully explained that this was not your average Heineken can, converted dorm-room-style for decor purposes. Oh, no - this was a classy Heineken desk cup specially designed to hold office supplies. You can imagine my relief upon hearing this.

Through 3.5 years of marriage, I've steathily, ahem, "forgotten to display" countless college-era posters, endless sports memorabilia, and the like. I'd thought I'd done a reasonably thorough job of "re-homing" or "losing" much of it. While I suspect the AH knows exactly what I'm up to & generally goes along with it - hence that sparkly personality I'm not out to change one bit of - there is a certain bachelor sensibility that must never die.

That, or this is the AH's sneaky revenge for my having persuaded him to paint the, uh, room we aren't going to discuss today, all by his lonesome. In which case, Sir, well played - and I owe you a Heineken (of the tasteful, "Better Homes & Gardens" variety, naturally).

Any godawful bachelor crap you're just itching to get rid of?

Guest Post - Newlywed Advice

My pets, the kind Muffy Martini asked me to pen a guest post while she's off doing some little thing like getting married. Given that I've been in the nuptial way for nearly *THREE* entire years myself & am therefore an expert Smug Married, of course I eagerly offered my crackpot services.

Please go check out my blatherings expert advice here, and wish Ms. Martini a happy marriage & honeymoon while you're at it. As in, right now. Smootches . . .