Taking a Royal (-ly Silly) Stand

The need to identify oneself as "for" or "against" something or someone seems to gain traction every now and again here in the Blogosphere - for example, you're either entirely for or against the President, and then there was that tete-a-tete involving a certain clothing brand Lilly Pulitzer here in Port au Prep . Maybe it's just the mommy blog / mommy blogger conventions / mommy blog takeover I see mention of now that I'm a mommy myself. Whatever the reason, it seems as though the pressure to "brand yourself" as a blogger, be it a Prep, stay-at-home-mom, Democrat, etc. is alive and well.

It's not just us naughty bloggers, either - witness the enthusiasm civilian people put into cataloging their interests in places like Facebook, "I Change Diapers!" being my recent favorite. There's a drive shared by blogger & non-blogger alike to wear certain interests on your web sleeve, as it were.

It takes me back to those storied junior high years, when young (ahem) ladies were forced to keep actual written diaries vs. the glorified digital versions we now keep here on the internet. Back then, I lived to Brand myself, to let the world - as defined by my family, a few friends, and dreamy Matt in Pre-Algebra - know where I definitively stood on vitally important topics such as the environment (yes) and Christian Slater (yes times pi)(whatever that is)(someone may have been reading "Sweet Valley High" under her desk during Pre-Algebra)(Parentheses).

My yet-to-be published memoir cover - as created & written in the 7th grade, that is. Apparently I stood for the environment and pre-crazy Tom Cruise. Yes, my parents remain proud.

Having grown up a smidge since then, there aren't as many things I see in black & white anymore, hence my usual hesitation to enter the occasional blogosphere quibble. There are the Pretty fundamentals about which I will say my piece, of course - my faith, thank you notes, my membership in the Tory Burch cult of leather goods, for starters. Otherwise, I fancy myself old mature enough to know what I like, to acknowledge that I may be wrong* & many won't agree, and have little interest in adding to the drama over whose preference reigns supreme.
*Unless in reference to the Crocs issue, because . . . no. I'm right.

In short, I don't miss junior high - at  all, though I never met a "Saved By the Bell" rerun I didn't adore. Fake junior high I miss.

There comes a time, however, when a blogger must choose a team. One can only remain on the sidelines for so long while one's heartfelt beliefs are being bandied about on Twitter like so many fascinator feathers (hint: foreshadowing).

Let me make it clear: I'm a feminist, albeit one of the pearl-wearing sort, who's also an ardent believer in stuff like representative democracy and tradition only within reason. I harbor no illusions of being nor desire to be an actual princess, frequent overuse of the Royal "We" notwithstanding.

Photo credit: Simon Spicer, with thanks to the IWOM for sending this utterly perfect card.

I am also . . . on Team Royal Wedding. There, I said it!

I, Pretty, - the one who was up at 3 am not long ago, quite involuntarily, thanks to dear Master P - have programmed my DVR & am considering setting the alarm & the Keurig for that same time this Friday. I, a person allergic to collectible anything (books & shoes don't count, because I said so), am awaiting a shipment of the tackiest royal wedding "tat" pounds can buy from my dear UK-based friend, the International Woman of Mystery.

Fire away, Team #icouldntcareless, but this Episcopalian never met a Pomp nor a Circumstance she didn't adore, fancy-pants weddings especially included. Or much involving England, for that matter, but my Anglophilia aside - it's just a compelling love story. Royals or no, that just doesn't get old to this Austen fan. A hard news story? Not even remotely, but I'll take this felicitous distraction over the usual La Lohan fluff.

So let's live & let watch, or not. Besides, it's an improvement over the Christian Slater years - right? Right???

Valentine's Gifts, Anti-Martha Style

You might be surprised to learn that I, mistress of bemused detachment, am a Valentine's Day believer.  It's true.  My icily cool demeanor is nicely counterbalanced by my being generally high-maintenance and specifically fond of being spoiled.  So I find February 14th, like all of its Hallmark brethren, to be a most festive occasion.

In a futile stab at self-defense, I will confess that I don't demand that these holidays entirely conform to Hallmark stereotype.  For example, I prefer tulips or orchids to red roses.  I'm the very model of modest expectations, no?

I also muchly, greatly, snark-asidely enjoy buying gifts for other people.  And while the Anonymous Husband has called his gift-worthiness into question as of late - I still can't quite get over the fact that none of you dear blogfriends exist - he's legitimately had a stressful week or five, hence my determination this year to find him a worthy Valentine's Day present.

The term "find", versus "make" or "create via my internal design genius", is a deliberate one.  As this post title might suggest, much as I sincerely adore that cranky matron of Good Things, I am the anti-Martha.  It is entirely beyond me to come up with adorably adorned Valentine's creations like the fabulous Mojito Maven did.  Unfortunately, I break out in spiritual hives in crafty stores like Hobby Lobby, although I did once use an Exact-O knife to cut the foil from a wine bottle.  To conclude - a domestic goddess I'm not, but I strive to overcome that with stunning good looks, vodka, and the occasionally cool present in various uncool states of gift-wrap.

*****THIS IS A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY AH "DO YOU ACTUALLY READ MY BLOG?" SYSTEM!  ANONYMOUS HUSBAND, DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER UNTIL FEBRUARY 15TH! NOT THAT YOU READ THIS ANYWAYS - I DON'T THINK - BUT, ANYWAYS!!********

So for my Valentine this year, I decided to go with something catering to travel and electronics fun, both being high on the AH list.  Thanks to new blogfriend Maggie, from whom I happily stole this idea:

The Bose noise-cancelling headphones are pricey, but also supremely wonderful if you spend any amount of time on planes. Because you can no longer get leg-room, pretzels, or customer service on a domestic US flight, but you can drown out that chatty seatmate who wants to set you up with her nephew's pharmacist.  I can also vouch for the incredibly quick service on the Bose website, and this has absolutely nothing to do with my procrastinating this year and waiting until two days ago to order a present.  Nothing at all, la la la la.

And since Smug Couple types shouldn't have all of the Valentine's fun, here is my Valentine's favorite from my single days & to send to friends now when I get my Pretty act together (ie, not this year):

These wee cards are the opposite of homemade, but they are the very sort we all used to give and receive in grade school, and they therefore thaw my arctic heart.  A little.

Awesome, right?  Hopefully my mystery Valentine's Day - which will include such highly romantic things like car shopping - turns out just as unicorns-and-rainbows filled.  For those of you who also believe in these types of Hallmark shenanigans, what sorts of fantastical things do you have planned for Valentine's Day?

A Lawyer's Lament, TV Edition

You might have noticed a distinct lack of j-o-b talk here at the Pretty. The reasons for this are myriad, but chief amongst them is a selfish one. As I suspect your blogs do for you, this little space comprises my mental recess, my brain playground in which things like bullies and 100 page commercial leases do not exist.

Another motivation to keep the j-o-b talk to a minimum is my sincere wish not to besmirch the glorified, As Seen on TV version of the lawyer life (insert jokes here), that vaunted unicorn-and-rainbow universe filled with stirring speeches and defending the Constitution and bespoke suits. Not that I think you wise people really believe any of that, but it appears American TV writers do. Whether it be Tom Cruise bombastically EMOTING at Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men" (admittedly not TV, but appearing on cable enough to merit an exception) or the wacky dramedys like "Boston Legal" or "Ally McBeal", those odes to eccentricity that seem just incidentally set in law firms, I'm usually willing to overlook the outlandish errors and misrepresentations* in order to keep our rep (stop laughing) intact.
*Except for "Law & Order". Don't even go there.

There are times, however, when credulity is strained such that I cannot remain silent. I'm talking ridiculous on the level of, say, that Jonas Brother attempting to claim he doesn't use a flat iron** ***, or Cameron Diaz asserting that no, she actually didn't have time in the 6 months prior to the Golden Globes to get her roots done/ dress ironed/ makeup on. And so I bring you the next legal drama in the pipeline as starring . . . Hilary Duff:
**Men? Flat irons?? NO.
***Why, why do I know who the Jonas Brothers are??

(Credit: Entertainment Weekly)

Here's what Reuters - yes, that Reuters, as in the news service - has to say about this (following excerpt all credit to Reuters):

LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter) - Singer/actress Hilary Duff is attached to play a young lawyer in an NBC sitcom that might be described as a legal version of "Doogie Howser, M.D."

The network has ordered a script for "Barely Legal," a comedy based on the true story of Kathleen Holtz, who in 2007 passed the notoriously difficult California bar at age 18 to become the state's youngest lawyer.

That sound? Is the remaining live bit of my soul crinkling up like so much tinfoil. What crazy legal hijinks do we think Lizzie McGuire here can get up to in her 1/2 hour time slot? Romantic rendevouz (rendevousez? rendevouzeii?) behind the file clerk's office, with Jonas Brothers' music sweetly playing in the background?

Raise your hand if you and your j-o-b (unpaid jobs included!) suffer the same TV-fied fate. What are the most laughable misrepresentations you've seen? Bonus points if your answer involves flat irons or boy bands . . .

Relationship Re-Programming**

**From that title you're probably thinking I'm sending you to some scary cult insurgency camp in darkest Idaho, aren't you? Fear not, pets - I'm unfortunately far too fearful of camping and people like Tom Cruise for that sort of thing. Thank you for your understanding**

I was all set to wax fashionista tonight and dissect Michelle Obama's Narciso Rodriguez "victory dress", until this evening's Junior League project sucked the superficial right out of me. Well, most of it. Actually, it so happens that most of you other fashionable blogettes like The Preppy Princess and Ms. Mindless AND, you know, the LA Times beat me to the Narciso punch, so I'm afraid you're briefly stuck with me and my Deep Thoughts du Jour on this whole newlywed thing and how one has to adapt to new ways of thinking. I promise, this navel-gazing will be blissfully short and hopefully not as painfully "duh"-level obvious as it sounds. Besides, as a married lady of all of nearly two, yes two years, I figure I'm an expert by now, no?

So back when I was one of those sparkly "new" newlyweds with unicorns and rainbows prancing about my still-to-be-unwrapped wedding gifts, any new ways of thinking tended along the more superficial. The money and housing sort of Grown-Up Stuff wasn't really an issue. For little ol' me, it was that I took the Anonymous Husband's family name and, as a result, couldn't for the life of me politely introduce myself for our first marital year without: (1) feeling completely show-offy, as if I were braying "Hello, I'm Mrs. Legallyblondemel. Legallyblondemel, that is. What's that about a first name? I much prefer the formal Mrs."; and/or (2) forgetting whether or not an explanation of shiny new last name was even necessary in the first place. Being shamefully bad enough with other people's names, both first and last, it seemed reckless to take on a new one of my own, and it certainly took time to get the brain-to-mouth motor skills working on its behalf.

As the AH and I round the corner from years 2 to 3, I find the brain re-programming to be a tad more taxing in nature; lately, it's the taking any potential marital issues to my actual Anonymous Husband first prior to vivisecting them in excruciating detail first each time with the Girlfriend Committee ("GC"). Although it must be said the GC has the benefit of good champagne, the importance of which cannot be overemphasized. But back to the point assuming I have one - none of this is to say that I don't absolutely rely on the GC's counsel in almost all situations, but after twenty-some years of making most decisions by group vote, I am trying to be more mindful about, say, actually discussing them with the AH first when appropriate.

This is absolutely, definitely not my arguing that the GC shouldn't be consulted about some things - just that there are also a few bits that are best left in the marital circle, if for no other reason than many friends or family members (if they are anything like the Pretty, that is) remember every last *$&^ thing and will hold it against the Offender until the end of time. As well they should in many situations, of course; for example, I take great comfort in the fact that my family to this day loathes my 4th Grade Archnemesis for the unforgivable trickery she pulled at our end-of-the-school-year party (which involved embarrassment, Dainties, and an adorable boy). But seriously - I'm learning that there are times when it seems best to just do the spouse-to-spouse emotional warfare first, and that sometimes the good stuff is in figuring things out together. I know, this sounds unforgivably hokey - not to mention entirely impossible at times - but hopefully every solid marriage sees the unicorn-and-rainbows aspect even in the problem areas?

So what say you, internet GC - does this sound familiar to anyone else, singles and dating-s and affianced included? Any advice from the Marriage Experts out there? Please try to ignore the tremendous irony in my asking for your GC thoughts, after having just said it isn't something I should always rely on . . .

We Pause for a Hallmark Moment

I was itching to prattle on further about Good Paper and the teeth-achingly darling notes I ordered this very day, until I recalled the tags passed along to me by some other very kind blogettes. These delightful forwards alternatively called for me to share fun facts about myself or state some things for which I'm grateful. In predictable fashion - just ask my family- I've altered the rules a bit and bring you just one thing for which I'm grateful; rigid as I am with enforcing Pretty Laws on other people, you'd be surprised how moral relativism appeals when applied to self.

Please allow me to apologize in advance for the perilously high Unicorns-and-Rainbows level of sentimentality that is to follow. Unfortch I'm going to have to bore you with a bit of a love story, which is admittedly rather nauseating and precious of me, but it simply must be done. Fasten your seatbelts, ladies . . .

Have you ever had to have one of those conversations with your significant other? The one where your stomach is churning and your hair hurts from thinking about it and if only I could make a bargain Upstairs and get out of talking about this and man now my teeth hurt too and did I forget to wear deodorant today because I'm sweating a little and did I mention how nervous I'm feeling and how I wish we were in the "Mad Men" days where I could have a dirty martini before noon so I could drown my thoughts just temporarily and maybe if I eat some more candy corns that will help and how do I talk about this with him and this is icky and where is my comfy blankie and pjs when I need them and oh God now my hands are clammy and I probably smell bad but I can't leave the office today and shoot I forgot to change the load of laundry this morning which is further proof of why I'm a bad wife and person generally and why oh why isn't vodka allowed in the office again?

(((deep, cleansing breaths)))

Just to be clear, I'm talking about news that isn't necessarily terrible - say, in the case of my own Anonymous Husband ("AH"), something like "ESPN is folding so professional sports will no longer be broadcast on television" - or even really my fault, but something that certainly isn't fun, or fits the prettily picket-fenced yard image of the tidily perfect home and life you imagine in your mind, complete with 2.5 kids and tail-wagging dog, and hope others believe in kind.

(((deep, cleansing breaths)))

So I summon my Big Girl Words - sans vodka, thankyouverymuch - and deliver the news to AH, and . . . grace. AH digests the news and immediately gives me a hug (a good one, big arms and all) and tells me things will be fine and that it isn't a big deal. And, suddenly, it isn't. I literally can breathe again and turn my tired brain to "off" and just wallow in the inexplicably kind man I have the privilege of calling my husband. (Gag, I know. Please bear with me here.)

David Sedaris, the completely genius author you should all be reading right now instead of this rubbish, wrote something about meeting his partner, and how he determined to trick this person, who he saw as more handsome, kind, intelligent, etc. than himself into liking him. Thing is, I immediately knew what he was talking about. I'm not being falsely self-deprecating or begging for compliments here, although it's entirely understandable if you think so given the usual Pretty modus operandi.

One of the few - and I mean few - fabulous things about getting older is realizing how little I know for certain. Knowing that your spouse is a much, much better person than you are, and if you're lucky, you'll get the chance to try and trick that person into liking you for the next 50 years or so, and perhaps pick up on a few of his many good traits yourself, is a tremendous thing to be certain about. And that's news of the grateful, Pretty kind to me.
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If you're still with me after that schlock, please remember (if you're so inclined) to enter into my supercalifragilistic Tori Spelling giveaway. I'm almost through it myself, and what a read - the HIGH VOODOO PRIESTESS (I don't often encounter this sort of professional , so I figure she merits Caps Lock treatment) is merely one of many highlights. My BF-J, who is briefly pausing in Texas this weekend between world travels, and I will judge entries over a bottle or five of champagne in utterly non-subjective manner; the lucky winner will be announced on Monday.

Unicorns and Rainbows and . . .

. . . why is it in movies and television that women, when finding themselves in Spontaneous Romantic Situations, always, but always have on their person or in their impossibly expensive handbag a dainty-yet-alluring nightie or equally unbelievable matching bra-and-panties set?

I noticed this again while at the gym last night, where my television viewing was limited to a closed-caption “Two and a Half Men”. As if (1) being at the gym; (2) while starving; and (3) watching Charlie Sheen preen about in Tommy Bahama shirts and closed captioning weren’t painful enough. It must be said that The Best Television Show Of All Time (“SATC”, naturally) oft committed the same Crime Against Husband Expectations, so I begrudgingly give some leeway here, but still . . . can’t we all just admit that many of us, sadly, are forced to have day jobs and hence cannot be lounging about the house in our La Perlas awaiting Anonymous Husband’s arrival home?*

*Important Note to Anonymous Husband: Immediately upon your acceptance of my open offer to retire, I hereby promise to commence wearing untenable dainties at any and all hours of the day. Marital compromise at work!