Nostalgia? Maybe just gas...

Every Thursday afternoon, this guy comes in toting a camera and notepad, and observant lady that I am, I eventually figured out that he was coming into the library to do his "Man on the Street"-type assignment for a local paper.

For you non-newspaper types, that means your editor gives you a completely lame and idiotic fascinating and compelling question to ask randoms on the street. Typically, this is greeted with dismissal, annoyance and one time even blatant rage (story for another time...).

Wistfully, I remembered my days as a reporter, the rush of seeing my bylines, of scooping the competition...and just as suddenly remembered the frustration of difficult sources, the typos I wish I would have caught on the 345th read through, the slave labor modest paychecks, the constant fear of losing my job because of budget cuts....

Today, as I watched him scurry about, being ignored and declined by patrons, I couldn't help but smile with relief.

Gah, I'm glad I'm not in the newsroom any more. Suckers.

How I almost came to hate shopping

If the Hubbs had it his way, he would wander through life in the same pair of pants, held up by the same ratty belt, day in and day out. Unfortunately, he a) exists in the *real world* and thus needs to be dressed appropriately, and b) has lost almost 30 pounds in the past few months.

So, begrudgingly, he agreed to make a trip to a local department store Saturday afternoon.

I have been out shopping on Black Friday every year since I can remember, spending 15 or more hours hitting the shops. My sister and I can spend a whole day just wandering through stores on a given Saturday, and yet, this hour and a half at Kohl's felt like The. Longest. Shopping. Excursion. Ever.

And we only walked out with one freakin' pair of pants.

Rationalization

Somehow, in my mind, eating four scoops of ice cream is negated by the boring tedium strenuous workout of doing laundry.

Is that wrong?

On being a bad wife, #1

I'm probably in the minority on this one, but I actually like cleaning. It's therapeutic, it makes me feel productive, and it keeps us from having our home condemned by the health department.

Since I work fewer hours than the Hubbs, (and since I know the difference between glass cleaner and laundry detergent) I usually do a once over during the week at some point, but the past month little while I haven't really felt up to it, between two sinus infections and a ton of excuses.

I knew it was bad though, today, when I get a phone call from the Hubbs while I'm at work, asking where the cleaning stuff was.

That's right, kids. I have become so negligent in cleaning habits that my gross, lived-with-four-guys-in-college, it's-okay-to-eat-that-the-dog-licked-it-clean husband was disgusted by our bathroom.

A new high, I tell you.

Nothing strange about that...

Recent conversation with my boss, about having a glam program for the kids:

Me: I can bring in a few pairs of opera length gloves and Pretty, Pretty Princess.
Boss: *Looks quizzically at me*
Me: Oh, and four...no, five...feather boas. I think I have a few tiaras, too.
Boss: I'm not going to ask why.
Me: Some of them light up.
Boss: *shakes head and walks away*

I can't help it. I'm fancy.

More Sesame Chicken...why not?

One of my BFF is getting married next month, despite my tales of married life and I'm so excited for her. I'm excited for me, too, since this will be my first appearance in a bridal party other than my own.

Unfortunately, because of schedule/location problems, I wasn't really involved in the bridesmaid-dress-picking process (or perhaps fortunately, since picking my own bridesmaids dresses almost resulted in jail time), so I was really intrigued to see what the bride came up with.

Since the BFF is such a thrifty doll, she found some great dresses, in her color of choice, on clearance -- only problem was, they only had a few sizes. What the heck, I figured, even if I do get it a couple sizes up, it will have to be altered anyway.


But not nearly as much as I hoped it would.

Marriage equals moo?

I've never been a beanpole, and no one would ever accuse me of being anorexic, but I was pretty proud of the fact that I squeezed in to a size 8 designer wedding dress that fit off the rack, no alterations needed, thankyouverymuch. I tried for months to keep from gaining any weight, and to some degree I was pretty successful (although, let's not count the fact that I had to take my corset off during dinner because I couldn't sit down, let alone eat).

So imagine my shock and awe when, weighing in at a doctor's appointment, I discovered that I had gained 15 pounds since my June wedding. Fifteen. That's like half an Olsen twin.

Later that night, as I got ready for bed, I asked the hubbs if he had noticed a weight gain.

"You look beautiful," he replied, which of course, I interpreted as "get to the gym you fat, fat cow."

So to the gym I went, huffing and puffing along with the slender, blonde-ponytailed she-devils, terrified my arm flab would knock one of them clear across the room if I so much as lifted a finger to wipe the sweat off my brow.

That was the end of January, and now I'm about 10 pounds down. So why do I still feel like I should belong to Heifers International?