Spring-ish cleaning

Shopping with my 21-year-old, 5-foot-8 and 110-pound sister is often more like a lesson in self-esteem destruction than a fun afternoon out. But every now and again, I subject myself to the resulting self-loathing, in hopes that either her skinniness, her height or her style will rub off on me.

The good thing about hitting the shops with Dear Sister is that I usually get pretty good advice about what to try. The bad thing is no matter what it is, I either end up looking like a pregnant milkmaid, an out-of-work stripper or the ultimate in soccer mom chic, and resort to buying my 35th cardigan or my 410th plain tank top.

Keeping this in mind, I was more than a little apprehensive when Dear Sister offered to help me clean out my closet.

Dear Sister: Come on, it will be fun. And you will look like you are 26 again.
Me: I'm only 25.
DS: But you're still pushing 30.

I tried on every. article. of. clothing. I. owned.

DS: Um, you need to get rid of all the Mr. Rogers sweaters. You look like a librarian.

M: I am a librarian.

DS: But you don't have to look like it.

It was an uphill battle, and needless to say, I now have a half-empty closet. At least she couldn't touch my shoes.

Marriage is compromise #1

This is a sign that I need to brush up my cooking skills.

Hubbs: What should we have for dinner, macaroni and cheese or pizza rolls?

Me: I was just going to have cereal.

Hubbs: Ooh, let's have Golden Grahams.

Me: Done.

The sad part is, it is not the first time we had this conversation. This week. And it's only Wednesday.

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.