Sell Me This Pen!

It’s that time of year again…Imaginary Oscar Dress Decision Time!

Last year, it was Zac Posen and Bradley Cooper:

My dress will likely be a game-time decision (as will my date), but here are the candidates:

Going for Glamour

David Meister Signature ($2,650)

I love the slight shine and the satin belt.

Valentino ($25,000)

Pink, frilly, and girlie. To quote Captain Hammer, “Not my usual, but nice.”

Going for Sex Appeal

Stella McCartney ($5,200)

Sort of “Tron Meets the Prom.” No word on whether the belt doubles as an Identity Disc.

Jason Wu ($4,785)

If you’re going to wear black to the Oscars, it’s gotta be spectacular (more like “Jason Wooooo!”)

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The dress is even more important this year, as I am nominated in the following categories:

Best Song – for “impromptu shower performance of ‘On My Own’ from Les Mis (deemed ‘confused head tilt-worthy’ by the Household Canine Association)”

Best Imaginary Reaction – for “upon seeing girl running on treadmill with t-shirt pulled up for the sole purpose of showing off her abs, Mary hops on the treadmill next to her, pulls up her own t-shirt, and trudges alongside, her pregnant belly bouncing and wobbling out front.”

Fingers crossed!

This is no dream! This is really happening!

I’ve started this post in my head a million times. On any given day it is an angry post, a joyful post, a selfish post, a deeply personal post, or my usual “snarky tidbits.” I’ve decided just to toss something out there, so here goes:

I’m pregnant! It’s a boy, and he’s due at the end of May.

And that, basically, is all the information that I consider even remotely any of your business. Just as most pregnant women don’t want some weirdo randomly touching their stomach (seriously…you will LOSE that hand), neither do most pregnant women want some weirdo/acquaintance/relative randomly asking:

• Was this a surprise?
• What took you so long? or (my favorite)…
• How old are you? (asked with way too much incredulity)

 And yes, I’ve heard all of those questions.

So there you have it. Think it through first, people.

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In other news, I've spent the day huddled on the couch with my laptop, listening to the heat pump run and the power bill rise. There was a brief, frustrating conversation with the dog this morning:

Me: It's too cold outside to go for a walk. You'll have to hold in your poop until tomorrow.

What Tilly Heard:........go for a walk........poop.

She regretted her enthusiasm when I shoved her into a toddler-sized fleece hoodie in an attempt to keep her warm. We made it back unscathed, and she has spent the afternoon curled up on her dog bed with an afghan my Grandma crocheted. Her life is hard.

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So after a disastrous trip to Miami two years ago, and Jeremy consequently having attended 2 of Clemson's 3 worst bowl game losses in history, we put in place a self-imposed ban on bowl game travel. Naturally, the last two years have seen two pretty amazing victories. It could be a coincidence. Or it could be that Tiger fans everywhere should be thanking their lucky stars that J and I kept our butts at home (further evidence...our trip to Clemson during this year's FSU game. Oy vey.).

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I'm forever trying to figure out why I get so grumpy this time of year. Yes, the holidays are over. It's dark and cold. We're bombarded with messages and ads that make us think we have to be thinner, better, stronger, simply because a page in the calendar flipped over. And don't get me started on the phrase, "New Year, New You!" Whoever came up with that deserves some sort of public shaming ceremony.

However, I've long since given up making resolutions. And pretty routinely, J and I take a quick jaunt somewhere warm. I'm certainly not going to concern myself with getting thinner this year. So what's the deal? Is there some January-based adolescent trauma I'm repressing? (I mean, there most likely is, but the adolescent trauma was more of a year-round thing for me). Perhaps I'll never know...I'll just keep trudging along through January until I walk right into the soft cushion of day-after-Valentine's half-priced candy.

Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet.

First off, can we discuss this latest Facebook recommendation for a second? I’ve written in the past about sidebar ads (did you know that wrestling a piglet into Wellies is one of the 365 things you must do before you die?), but the juxtaposition of zombies and Dumbo just opens up a whole new, disturbing train of thought. I found myself rewriting Dumbo wherein, instead of the “magic” feather to help him fly, Dumbo furiously clings to the brains of his enemies before jumping off the platform at the circus.

And speaking of creepy things, we have had two (2!) snake sightings in our driveway in the last couple of weeks. And while I keep flashing back to watching my Pappaw take an axe to a snake when I was a kid, the closest I’ve come to “decisive” action is squealing and hurriedly closing the garage door.  I’ve dubbed this plan of attack the “Fright and Flight” reflex. I’ll let you know how that works out for me.

And finally, there are the stinkbugs. So many that I told Jeremy if I saw one more, we were moving. They’re in the windows, in the fireplace, somehow in the upstairs bathroom, on fruit we bring home…I’ve had it. Last night one was flying and bumping into the ceiling above my head. I cowered under the afghan (see above re: “Fright and Flight”) while Jeremy disposed of it (my hero). Although after the stinkbug met its demise, Jeremy looked at me and—out of nowhere—said, “No, we’re not moving.” 


He’s just not being reasonable.

The ratio of people to cake is too big.

I have spent the better part of the last week as the sole effective communicator in an IT/Writer-Editor/IT sandwich.  An example:

IT 1: The apples are rotten. We need bananas.

IT 2: The apples aren’t rotten. We shouldn’t need bananas.

IT 1: Why do you refuse to buy bananas? That means I’ll have to go out of my way to buy kiwis to bypass the rotten apples.

IT 2: Kiwis are ridiculous. And the apples aren’t rotten.

IT 1: Well, I agree the kiwis are ridiculous. You really should just buy the bananas.

IT 2: I don’t see why we should have to buy bananas.

Mary: mutters string of curse words under her breath

 I have sent several emails that start with “IT 1, I think what IT 2 means is…” Future emails may include such wisdom as, “You know, sentences really should have both a noun and a verb,” and, “If you don’t pick up the phone and talk to each other, I’m going to find a way to upload really graphic pornography to your federal government website.” (Sidebar to the NSA on that last one: I wouldn’t actually do that).

Still, even on days like today, with the frustrating IT mediation, Starbucks being out of regular bacon sandwiches and having to settle for turkey bacon, and spilling my coffee in spectacular, if-this-was-TV-they’d-show-it-in-slow-motion fashion, I must remember that, when commuting to my old job, a hobo once hit me with a newspaper. Funny how quickly our threshold for annoyance adapts to our situation…

Crying: acceptable at funerals and the Grand Canyon.

Miss Kelly, perhaps you'd like this flower. I seem to have misplaced my buttonhole.

Our house is at the end of a pipestem, so although my home office faces the front yard, you wouldn’t think there’d be much to see. This time of year, at least, the flower beds out front (which were lovingly and skillfully planted by the lady who used to own the house, and which I am currently trying to not kill) are pretty spectacular, with something new popping up all the time. And while watching the flowers is great, mostly what I spend time watching is creatures trying to eat said flowers. The other day I looked out the window to see a bunny snacking on one of my tulips. I knocked on the window and the bunny froze, on its hind legs, with its mouth still closed over a tulip petal. You could almost see its little bunny mind churning, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation (“Um…this isn’t what it looks like…”). Tilly was not amused:

She’s quite a watchdog, when it comes to bunnies (humans…not so much). But as Tilly is stymied by the inability to let herself outside, I’d say the bunnies have more to worry about from the big-ass fox I saw prance through the yard the other day. My cat Samson once tussled with a fox. Some of you knew Samson…he was approximately the size of a wildebeest. I’m pretty sure he deadlifted the couch while the rest of us slept. And that fox nearly did him in.

We're talking about unchecked aggression here, dude.

In other “WASP-y Suburban Highlights,” our bathroom renovation is finally complete. Most days, I tried to work from the couch while Alfredo-the-bathroom-guy (probably not his real name) worked noisily upstairs. Occasionally, a guy I called “The Dude” (not because of a resemblance to Jeff Bridges, but because it was clearly his favorite word,) would drop by to 1) help carry something heavy, and 2) repeatedly refer to me as “Maria.”  It was a weird 6 weeks, but worth it in the end (yes, there’s something vital missing from this picture—can you figure out what it is? I seem to have deleted all of the “final” bathroom pictures):

I hope they have pudding.

I’m currently in Phoenix for a conference. I’ve never been here before, and won’t really get to see much before my 5:30 am (GASP) flight tomorrow morning. Main impressions: it’s hot, it’s sunny, and if I lived here I’d have to bathe in SPF 50 every morning. I did have a good local beer called the “Kilt Lifter” last night…and that’s pretty much the closest thing to an “Arizona experience” I’ve had here. Otherwise it’s been meeting rooms and typing notes. Very glamorous. Plus I have this "awesome" view :

Tomorrow morning, at the butt crack of dawn, I head to Asheville (via Chicago…because that makes sense) for Brevard’s White Squirrel Festival (it’s become somewhat of a tradition…read about past years here and here). I am much looking forward to seeing my parents and the WNC mountains, where things such as “shade” and “temperatures below 80” exist. I’ll wear nothing but t-shirts and shorts, and ride around in my dad’s pickup, and enjoy small-town life for a week or so…but for now, I must slap on some Ann Taylor blandness and sit in the back corner of a windowless conference room. At least I won’t need sunblock.

Those are nice, huh? And they're not real, so they'll last forever.

I spent most of the day finishing an uninspiring project that had been hanging over my head for a long time. I needed to do something silly this evening…so here it is: What should I wear to the “Oscars in My Head” (was going to name them the ‘Mental Oscars,’ but realized that carried negative (yet probably apt) connotations)?

Unfortunately, I am limited to Ready to Wear for my selections (for some reason, designers aren’t scrambling to design an expensive dress I can’t afford for the Oscars in my Head), although I did find some vintage one-of-a-kind jewelry that I may mentally borrow.

Try not to let the creepy Photoshopping sway you (I’m just grateful that Jeremy didn’t come home early and find me in full makeup and pajama pants, taking pictures of myself without a shirt).  Also, for a sizable fee, I am more than willing to advertise your business on my forehead.

Option 1: Zac Posen Silk Faille Mermaid Gown ($4,990). Love the springy color, and the way it hugs my imaginary body is amazing.

Fred Leighton vintage c. 1880 Rose Cut Diamond Floral Clusters Convertible Necklace Tiara (since it is such a special piece, I’m imaginarily sure they would only let me borrow it…so it’s free!)

Tango Stiletto Pumps by Valentino ($1,395). These are so amazing; I’d wear them everywhere (keep an eye out, Target patrons)!

Option 2: Crepe V-Neck Lela Rose gown ($3,995). A more classic look, which opens the way for flashy accessories. Also has a flattering mid-torso gather, to give my imaginary size 0 body some curves.

Kendall Beaded Platform Pump by Jimmy Choo ($2,995).  They look heavy, but it would be worth it. And after the Mental Oscars, I’m sure that imaginary Bradley Cooper would be willing to give me a foot massage (even if he wins the Oscar, he’d give up the Vanity Fair after party for the sake of my feet. He’s that kind of imaginary guy).

Harry Winston NightLife diamond necklace ($168,000) and Open Lattice diamond cuff (price on request…and I didn’t).

Option 3: Monique Lhullier ($10,590). A bit badass. Which, you know, is totally my flavor (right? RIGHT????).

Diva Crystal Cutout Sandals by Jimmy Choo ($1,495). A pity you wouldn’t really be able to see them…but I’d know they were there. And so would imaginary Bradley Cooper.

Parentesi cocktail ring by Bulgari ($9,500).

So, what do you prefer? And more importantly, what do you think imaginary Bradley Cooper would prefer?