Laef has finally returned from an 8 day trip to China. Yes, it was wonderful to have the TV all to myself. It was also nice to go out for drinks on a Thursday and not have Laef sitting across the table from me doing the math as to exactly how much each Appletini costs when you factor in the babysitter wage. Is Laef the only person who thinks that if Harper is sleeping, the hourly rate for babysitting should drop down to $1.50? (Sidenote to Liz: I’m in your corner. I got yo’ back).
But, we missed him. I not only realized this when I was taking out the trash, cleaning the litter box and doing the dishes, but when I was taking a shower. Or should I say, when I wasn’t taking a shower. The absolute best part of him returning was taking a shower for longer than 2 minutes.
He arrived home on Wednesday night, and because our day care provider happens to be on vacation this week, Laef had the opportunity to reconnect with Harper by staying home with her on Thursday and Friday.
The questions I always ask when daddy is in charge are:
1. What is she wearing?
2. What is she eating?
I got a text on Thursday morning from the park with the following photo:
Shorts, shirt, watch, no shoes: PASS
This probably means that she ate a Popsicle for lunch, but there’s no photo evidence so there’s no need to worry.
I arrived home on Thursday evening, however, and it was a much different story. This is what I saw:
No shirt, No pants, no shoes, pink backpack (???): FAIL.
I guess the fact that she was in the comfort of her own home, and it was a scorching day in LA should make it OK. There is nothing like seeing your daughter looking like the next lead character in a Jon Krakauer novel.
After surviving day 1 with a toddler and jet lag, Laef and Harper embarked on Friday. They decided to make a trip to UCLA.
Wearing this:
Cute skirt, shirt, SHOES THAT ARE TOO BIG SO THEY ARE MacGYVERED WITH ATHLETIC TAPE???: OK, fine. Pass. Barely.
Because right now I’m that lady I used to see everyday when I was driving to work. The one dressed in Lululemon from head to toe pushing a ridiculously overpriced stroller jaunting into Coffee Bean before making a quick stop at Whole Foods for a $12 gallon of milk. Then maybe on her way back she pops into Compartes for a selection of $2 truffles that are the size of a nickle. And, if time permits, and the baby is still happy, she might grab a quick Jamba Juice and two videos from RedBox.
(If Laef is reading this, that is totally some other Brentwood mom and not me).
If Laef is not reading this, fuck, that was totally me today.
Here’s the thing. Harper and I have spent the past few weeks walking around Brentwood killing time, being outside, hanging out together. We used to go to CVS every day and make up shit to buy. Like hangers or something. If we were feeling really brave, we’d go to the post office and buy a book of stamps.
Harmless stuff.
Now I’m just 2 weeks away from going back to work and I can’t even think about it. Because while I am looking forward to being able to eat my lunch with two hands, I can’t even begin to think about not spending my days with Harps. I feel this clock ticking, and every moment I have with her is a memory created. (At least for me anyway).
I am going to miss out on so many hours with her. Even if it’s just watching her lips do funny things while she naps. Or picking lint out of her toes. By the way, how come no one ever talks about how much lint is between a baby’s toes? Or is that just my nasty baby?
OK, so not that Harper knows anything about $2 truffles, but when we’re outside on the perfect August day, it makes me want to do bad things. Things that don’t involve picking lint out of her toes or wiping shit off her neck. Some days I just look at her and say, “Ok, sweetie. We gotta get out of here! Let’s go buy something fun at Lululemon, and then grab some sushi!”
She has no idea what the hell we are doing, but she loves this idea because it means she can suck on the baby bjorn until it’s soaked. I love the idea because I’ve never been home at 1 p.m. on a random summer day. I’ve only dreamed of being anywhere but at my desk. I’ve done so well until this point in avoiding the pitfalls of lunching with ladies or shopping or buying things I don’t need.
But we’re nearing the end of a long road. It’s been almost one year since I found out I was pregnant. My life changed completely for 9 months. Then it got really real for 6 weeks. The past 3 weeks have been like nothing I’ve ever known. This little peep has totally won me over.
Now I’ve got 2 weeks left before I go back to work and into my real world.
Excuse me if I’m avoiding reality by indulging in expensive chocolate.
The baby is due on Friday. Which doesn’t really mean much. She could come tomorrow or she could come next Friday. We are currently in a holding pattern.
My last day of work was last Wednesday. Laef’s last day of work for most of the summer is tomorrow. So, if we’re being honest, we are actually OK if she doesn’t come until her due date or maybe a few days past that. Whatever days we have now – to ourselves – will be the last days where we’re not worrying about something: Is she breathing? Is she eating? Is she going to hit her head on that corner? Is she going to be bullied? Will she be kind? Is she going to slut it up? Is she having sex? Is she marrying the right guy?
And so on.
I spent my first two days off from work acting like the end of the world was coming. First, I went grocery shopping. And I was the woman with two carts full of shit! I was the person who got the wicked side-eye from the checker, the bagger and the poor sap who thought grocery shopping at 11 a.m. on a Thursday was the best time to go.
To be honest, I don’t know why I did this. I mean, Ralph’s is .5 miles from our house. It’s not like we won’t be able to make a quick trip to the store after the baby comes. It’s not like the first-ever tornado is about to hit LA and we will be stuck inside for 6 months. (But, if we are, everyone can totally come over and enjoy some of our cereal).
I know.
The following day I went to Target. I’m just going to leave it at that because when Laef saw the receipt he got sick. However, I assured him that we will not have to buy toilet paper, deodorant, baby meds, anything breast-pump related, laundry detergent or kitty litter for a least a year.
So, we’re now completely stocked and ready. Over the weekend we put the Pack N Play together and it’s next to our bed. The crib is ready. The stroller is ready. The car seat is in my car. We are now just waiting for the baby.
They say sex can potentially help start labor.
By Sunday evening I had had a solid 4 days of quality me time and figured we could maybe get the show in the road.
Me: “Want to have sex?”
Laef: …
Me: “Is it the drooling?”
Laef: …
Me: “Is it the gas?”
Laef: …
Me: “Is it that I’ve been wandering around braless for two days in the same clothes?”
Laef: …
I’m pretty sure it is all of the above. Not working is great. You just have to remind yourself that it’s OK to put on a bra and comb your hair. And, who knew that pregnancy causes a shitload of saliva and will make you drool ALL OVER THE FUCKING place?
It turns out the truth of the matter is that Laef is looking forward to having a few days off from work before the baby comes so he’s not exactly looking to speed up the labor process.
I can get with that. Every second that I am watching the MTV movie awards or Real Housewives, or enjoying a pedicure or taking a bath, I remind myself to enjoy ever last minute of it.
Laef and I are off to a wedding this weekend in St. Louis (don’t try to use this a way to burglarize our house, Sanch will be home and he has a babysitter coming by. Often.) so I’ve spent the past week packing. Or at least trying to organize what I will need. Eventually, I just threw everything I own into the suitcase, figuring it’d be easier to have options.
One thing missing, however, was a dress for the wedding. I own approximately 5 dresses. 4 are black, and one looks like this:
So, yeah, I’m not wearing the fuchsia pink bachelorette party dress to a fall wedding in Missouri. While I was trying on the different options, I decided I’d work around my fierce 5-inch black heels. Sometimes shoes make your forget that your dress is old. At this point, Laef walked into the bedroom and basically bitch-slapped the shoes right off my feet.
Laef: “NO FUCKING WAY ARE YOU WEARING THOSE!”
Me: “Um. Yes, I am. They make me look almost as tall as you.”
Laef: “No. You are going to get hurt.”
Me: “Beauty is pain. Besides, they make this dress look cuter.”
Laef: “You need a new dress for the wedding.”
Me: “Really?!”
So, apparently it is really important to Laef that I don’t break my ankle during our trip. Truthfully, I was having some concerns as well, but figured I’d have to get used to them at some point.
Anyway, last night I went dress shopping. I was by myself, enjoying some quality alone time (QAT). You don’t get a lot of QAT when you’re married, and sometimes you just want to wander around Nordstrom for three hours by yourself. I must have tried on no fewer than 30 dresses. I went in with an open mind, refusing to try on a single black dress. I tried on things that I normally wouldn’t, thinking that maybe it has a whole new life once you zip it up.
Here is where shopping alone can be a problem. Have you ever tried to zip a tight-ass strapless dress by yourself? It’s impossible. I tried to imagine what it would look like zipped all the way up, but eventually decided I was going to have to leave the confines of the dressing room and ask the sales lady to zip me. As soon as I walked out of the room, the door slammed behind me and locked.
Fuck.
I can’t find the sales lady, so I’m wandering around Nordstrom, holding up a dress and wearing my pink and white polk-a-dot socks. (BTW, another rule of thumb when trying on dresses: always remove your socks. OF COURSE the pretty party dress looks like shit when it’s paired with holey socks!). I pretty much wanted to die and decide to ask the random lady who is shopping to zip me. This is awkward because the dress is one size too small. I mean, it zips, but I would not be able to eat or drink anything during the wedding.
But, at least now I’m fully clothed and can begin my search for the sales lady. I finally find her, she let’s me back in to the dressing room and then the process of getting out of the dress begins.
Holy. Fuck.
I was sweating. Even if you get the dress unzipped (and, btw, it should be a rule that all dress zippers are on the side so that they are somewhat reachable), there’s the process of somehow removing your dress over your head (this requires you to bend completely over and do some kind of booty dance that will make you sweat even more).
Despite the fact that I needed a Clif Shot Block to finish the process without passing out, I was committed to the process, and by the end of it I found a dress that will work. It’s not black, and it has flowers on it. I never, ever wear flowers. It does, however, have black in it, so the black “hooker shoes” (Laef’s words) could still work. So, they are in the suitcase, and we will see what happens.
When I left Nordstrom, it was almost 9 p.m. Laef was home chilling with the Sanch, probably also enjoying some QAT. About halfway down Pico Blvd., I noticed a weird noise. Then my car starting veering to the right.
I was going to try and make it all the way home, but decided to turn down a very dark street and pull over.
Flat tire.
FUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Call Laef.
He comes.
Changes the tire.
And the whole time I’m watching him, I’m thinking: QAT is pretty sweet. But, sometimes, it’s really, really nice to have someone who can change a tire in 10-minutes flat.
I keep hearing when they’re your own, you don’t notice certain things. Maybe the poop smells like Absolut Citron. Maybe the boundless snot glistens like rare diamonds under the moon. Maybe the whining sounds like Dave Matthews Band. Maybe you don’t even hear your own child’s whining.
So, the other day, I’m in CVS thoroughly enjoying the bajillion aisles of make up, bubble bath, hair accessories, magazines and candy. I finally decide that I should get the fuck out of there before I spend $200 on purple nail polish. I end up in line behind the dude in highwaters who is buying condoms and gum. (Is he buying the gum so that he’s got something else on the conveyor belt? Or his he buying the gum because he is on his way to a date-thing, in which condoms and gum are equally necessary? No, seriously, I was analyzing it in my mind for 2 minutes). I am in front of the lady who is returning a tube of toothpaste.
Said lady is with her son, who for some odd reason has a beige rubber band around his head. I don’t know if this rubber band is affecting his mood, but he is fucking moaning and whining and bitching about standing in line. He is at least 8 years old, which in my book puts him about 5 years past being allowed to whine. He starts off by complaining that it is taking forever. His mom sooths him by telling him that they are next, right after the lady with 4,231,534 bottles of nail polish in her cart.
After realizing that the “it’s gonna take foreverrrrrr” line isn’t working, he moves to the “I have to go to the bathrooooooooooooom.” So, at this point his mom calmly says, “OK, there’s a bathroom here. Go to the back and use the bathroom.”
But he doesn’t want to use the CVS bathroom. He says he can’t, and wants to wait until they’re home to use the bathroom. At which point, I sort of start to relate to this little rubber band-wearing punk, because, really, who wants to take a shit in the CVS bathroom? I get it. So, I tell his mom to go in front of me, and she is super appreciative, and really nice. She goes in front of me, but her punk-ass son is still behind me becasue he didn’t hear the conversation – the one where I tell him to go ahead of me – over his whining. He finally realizes what’s going on and whips past me, still mouthing off.
This is what should have happened next. His mom should have pointed out the gesture, and had him say thank you.
Here is what happened next: Rubber band boy whines, and his mom says, “OK, see, she let us go in front of her, and now we will be home soon so you can go to the bathroom.” And then rubber band boy says, “I don’t have to go the bathroom. I just wanted to get out of here.”
At this point, I wonder: Does the proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child” mean that I can bitch slap this little ass hat in an effort to help him learn some fucking manners?
This was one of those incredibly vigorous work weeks, which can be both fulfilling and exhausting all at the same time. There’s nothing better than feeling like you’re a part of something big, and that perhaps your small part contributes to the overall success. At the end of each day this week, I definitely felt like my cocktail and bath were both well-deserved.
Sidenote: This is why I did not recap Top Chef. I watched the first half on Wednesday, and finished it last night. All I can say is: Gross. These people are gross. Plastic on a toilet bowl? Really? I’m struggling to pick out whose restaurant I’d actually want to eat at.
Now that it’s Friday afternoon, and the week is wrapping up, I am looking forward to a weekend where Laef and I can spend two days doing whatever we feel like doing. And, if what we feel like doing is nothing, then so be it. Since moving into our new place 3 weeks ago, it doesn’t seem like we’ve had a single day to put up our feet and relax. We’ve spent every weekend since the move getting our place in order. Saturday’s are filled with trips to Target, IKEA, furniture stores, more trips to Target and even more unpacking. Sunday’s seem to be filled with grocery shopping, putting together furniture and doing laundry. Basically, we’ve spent almost a month getting caught up.
I think we’re finally caught up (barely), and this might be the first weekend where we won’t have any pressing house issues. We don’t have any boxes left to unpack, and I think I’ve bought everything there is to buy at Target. There’s nothing on the schedule.
I think I just got a heroin high from typing those words.
Between work and moving, I am exhausted. But, let me tell you about the good news! Our new place has a bathtub! It’s a minor thing, really, but now I’m wondering how I got through long days without the essential 2Bs, 1C (Book, Bath, Cocktail). Upon arrival into the house after work, my routine is such:
1. Drop my shit in the middle of the floor.
2. Run the bath water.
3. Make a cocktail.
4. Make sure the cat is breathing. And fed.
5. Make sure Laef is breathing.
6. Get my book.
7. Disappear for 45 amazing minutes.
Our place also has hardwood floors and one of our new pastimes is throwing The Sanch down the hall on his back (think of yourself doing it in your socks, only it’s a cat.) We also have a balcony, which The Sanch has decided will be his new hang out. It gave me a heart attack at first, but as Laef so gently put it, “Probably he will land on his feet if he falls.” He seems to have mastered it, but the problem is when he sees a bird fly by he gets anxious and contemplates jumping a little too hard for my liking. To which Laef says, “Probably he will land on his feet if he jumps.”
So, anyway, summer is coming to an end. We are one month away from the start of college football and inching closer towards college basketball season. While I do miss Laef when he is traveling, there is a whole new crop of restaurants and shops in Brentwood that are screaming for me to explore.
One week from today I will be 36. I can’t believe it. I truly don’t feel any different at 36 than I did at 30. Things aren’t as tight in some areas as I’d like, but I think it has more to do with wine consumption than age. Yes, I am the person who will make whole wheat pasta for dinner, do my best to eat a small portion, skip dessert, and then cap the night with two glasses of wine. Any complaints about my non-six pack bring the evil squirrel side eye from Laef – “Well, maybe if you didn’t drink 1,000 calories in wine you might have abs”.
He’s right. So, I’ve stopped complaining about it. At 36, things are pretty established for me: I like wine. I HATE doing sit ups (I don’t even want to think about or know what the P90X thing is). From time to time I considered cutting out wine, but realized I do enough (um, hello, running a marathon) to be healthy. I’m not giving up EVERYTHING. You gotta enjoy a little vino from time to time. And chocolate. And cheese.
Anyway, I feel great despite now being closer to 40 (stomach punch) than 30.
However, I am starting to notice some things on my face. Lines that definitely were not there when I was 30. I’m trying to think of every possible reason for what is causing these lines. For example, there’s a new frowny wrinkle between my eyebrows. I woke up the other morning to Laef gently massaging the space of skin in between my eyebrows.
Laef: “Do you feel OK? Are you having a bad dream?”
Me: “No. Why?”
Laef: “Oh, nothing. You had a frowny face. I was smoothing it out.”
Well, shit. Of course I got up, stared at myself in the mirror for 5 minutes trying to smile, loosen up the frown line. But then smiling shows the eye wrinkles that are being born. It’s fucking exhausting. Because you can’t control age and the changing of your body and face. And, I’m sorry Demi Moore, but I know drinking water and having great sex is not the reason you look amazing. I, too, drink an insane amount of water and am married to a younger guy.
I was thinking that I was getting the wrinkle because I wear glasses, and therefore can’t wear sunglasses. So I squint a lot. Now I wear sunglasses over my glasses when I’m driving. YES. I am that girl. And, it’s all in the name of combating wrinkles. However, I don’t know what to do about my elbow wrinkles.
I mean, seriously. WHAT are those lines? Thankfully, it’s hard to see your elbows unless you are posing in the mirror with the hand on the hip pose trying to look extra cute. I have stopped trying to perfect the Paris Hilton pose so that I never have to see my elbows.
Botox is out of the question seeing as I’m a regular person, and not a movie star. I know how the conversation would go with Laef if I tried to broach the idea of Botox.
Me: “I want Botox.”
Laef: “Hurry up and start your period so you will stop having PMS. It’s making you insecure. You’ll be fine in a week.”
It is true. PMS doesn’t help in the confidence department. Especially when it gives you acne worse than what you ever experienced as a 15-year old.
So, at the peak of my frustration with my skin, I trekked over to Sephora last night to browse skin creams and beauty products that make all sorts of promises. Specifically, I wanted an overnight cream that would make me look like Jennifer Aniston in the morning, and eye cream that would make me look all bright and cheery.
Had I been a tad more fed up, I might possibly have put both on my credit card and kept a little white lie from Laef. But, I was too disgusted. Yes, I know you can buy creams at Target, but I am hesitant to do that because I tried that, and I had a horrible allergic reaction to which my face is still recovering. I know there must be reasonable priced products out there, so I’d love to hear ideas.
I left the mall and thought about what the fuck I was doing. And what other women must be doing. No doubt people drop hundreds of dollars on beauty supplies all the time. The price to make yourself feel pretty is ridiculous. Hair color, make up, lotions, creams, body washes, perfumes. I have always done what I can to cut back on costs in those departments – color my own hair, buy cheap make up, and I don’t even own perfume right now.
But sometimes I want to pamper myself with fancy lipsticks and salon hair color. And these companies know our weaknesses. I mean, I almost paid more for face cream than I paid for my wedding cake all because I wasn’t feeling pretty. Or youthful. Well, the giant zit on my cheek does make me feel like a teenager, I guess.
I love that Brandi Carlile tells us that the lines on her face tell a story, yet her face has zero hint of any lines.
For starters, I would like to call bullshit on The Hangover and Swingers. Both of these Vegas-related movies revolve around dudes road-tripping to Vegas. In The Hangover, said dudes rush back in time for a wedding after spending the weekend in Vegas. In Swingers, the dudes are shown stopping along a desolate highway on their way back to LA.
I am here to let you know that if you drive to Vegas you will not be able to 1) rush back in time for anything and 2) there is nothing desolate about the insane amount of cars jockeying for position on the 2-lane highway between Las Vegas and Los Angeles.
We drove because we weren’t sure if we’d be able to go this weekend until the last minute and flights were not cheap. We decided to suck it up and drive so that we’d have extra money for gambling. While it is awesome that we can hop in the car and go to Vegas on a whim, I vote for flying if at all possible.
Anyway.
We arrived on Friday around 1 p.m. This gave me time to place a few bets on the Friday evening games. I won’t even get into how stressful it is to watch games when you have money riding on it. Nor will I go into just how hard it is to pick games. It’s one thing to pick your bracket. It’s an entirely different thing to navigate the spread.
I can tell you that I made 4 bets for my brother, one for my mom, 2 for a friend in Eugene and 8 different bets for myself. That’s 15 bets on games. I won on 3 tickets. THREE.
Part of it is my fault in that I went ballsy by only betting parlays, meaning that I placed a bet on 3 different teams and all 3 would have to be right for me to win.
Unfortunately, after the Friday games were over I somehow convinced Laef that we should go to the club. Let’s talk about how NOT fun a Vegas club is for a sober married couple. First of all, there’s no way that it wasn’t some kind of fire hazard. Once we got inside we were unable to move. We managed to get a drink and then stood awkardly on the dance floor wondering why we were there.
We left around 2 a.m. and decided to play blackjack. Because there were only $15 tables, Laef went out quickly. I went up about $60 and decided to put all of my money on one hand.
FAIL. Luckily we left our Saturday money in the room.
Before going to bed though, I made my bets for Saturday’s round of basketball games.
We headed to the pool on Saturday morning. The highlight of the trip was my Saturday parlay of Saint Mary’s, Baylor and Kansas State. While at the pool, I watched Saint Mary’s beat Villanova. My parlay was intact (I can’t tell you how fucking annoying and frustrating it is to have the first game of your parlay fail. At that point your ticket is meaningless and you are left watching the games for…fun? No. Not fun, which means you bet more on the games. Sigh.) Later that afternoon, Baylor won so my parlay was now riding on Kansas State.
K State won, I collected my money and per my brother’s recommendation, we went to the fine establishment Ellis Island. There’s no way to really describe it other than to tell you that it’s one block OFF the strip, it’s connected to a Super 8 Motel and it sells $1 hot dogs.
However, they have $5 blackjack and craps. Laef started at the blackjack table with me, but after losing $40 in about 2 minutes he disappeared. About an hour later I became somewhat worried so I did a quick glance around the casino. I saw him high-fiving a random guy in a Michigan shirt at the craps table. At that point I figured things were going well.
We were both up, and despite several beers each, we made the smart decision to walk away and head back home. Between my parlay victory and the success at Ellis Island, Saturday was a lot better than Friday.
However, on Sunday, I decided to do one last parlay with Cornell and Maryland. Thank you to Cornell for following through. And, a big fat F YOU to Maryland for sending me home on a low note.
But, here’s the thing. The bookmakers had Maryland favored by 1 point. The bookmakers know their shit. So even when Maryland was down by as much as 15 points, I figured they’d have to make some kind of run. With about 6 seconds left in the game, Maryland went ahead by ONE POINT. Michigan State and one last shot, and as we all know, the Spartans made it to win. If Michigan State had missed that last shot, Maryland would have won by 1 point despite trailing the entire game. I thought about it the whole way home. The fact that the bookmakers are so spot on is absolutely baffling to me.
Today is Monday and we are back home. I have been trying to figure out a way to get back to Vegas for the games next weekend.
I must be growing up. The old me would have typed “Fuckin’” in the title of this post. Now I will just write it in the first sentence.
It’s that time of year again where something like $1.8 billion will be lost in the work force because people will spend hours filling out brackets, watching games online and pacing for the world’s longest 2.2 seconds of the dreaded 12-seed vs. 5-seed first round matchup instead of filing their bosses reimbursement. (Not that I know anything about that).
Sort of.
As usual, I will do my friend Derek’s pool, which I actually did well enough in last year to win some money. I think that might have been the first time I ever won anything on a bracket. I don’t usually care all that much if I’m winning money or not, but I will admit that it was quite a bit more fun when I was in the running.
It was also a lot more stressful.
This year, Laef and I are going to Vegas for the first round. I would say that betting money on the games is going to be stressful, but let’s not kid ourselves: The maximum bet Laef will allow me to place will be $10. He is not allowed to gamble on sports whatsoever, and if you’re wondering why, you can read all about Rick Neuheisel here. So, I will spend our money gambling and drinking while Laef watches Siena versus Purdue just for the fun of it.
I never feel educated about picking my bracket for the tourney, but this year I feel even more skeptical. I tried my hardest to follow college hoops because of Laef’s new gig at UCLA, but I didn’t see much outside of the Pac-10. Which might be why I was not loving college basketball this season. It wasn’t the greatest year for Pac-10 ball, but at least there are two teams in.
Other than that, I usually base my choices on random things or hunches, but I don’t really have any hunches this year. I picked Ohio State to go pretty far because I love this blog, written by one of the teams walk-ons. Funny guy. Funny blog. So, I picked them. Awesome strategy, if you ask me. (Talk to me in a week and we’ll see how it worked out).
I’ll try not to bore everyone with my tales of bliss and misery regarding the tourney, but there might be some cursing on the blog over the next month.
From time to time, my husband travels for entire weekends at a time and I get to do whatever I want.
Doing whatever I want usually consists of me being able to roam about the house without getting the “sex” eye or the “Let’s watch The Hurt Locker” statement.
However, over the past couple of weeks, I was in a funk. I can’t pinpoint why, but I think it had to do with a combination of getting back to the grind of traffic and the stress of work after a splendid 2-week break for Christmas. It rained quite a bit in early January so I wasn’t running nearly as much as I usually do.
Not to mention, I noticed that I was sporting a mustache that I swear I never noticed before. Also, my brows were clearly trying to meet in the middle of my forehead in an effort to remind me of the most important part of marriage: Always meet half way.
True.
You gotta meet halfway.
Which is why over the past 5 years I can’t remember a time I went to a spa for a facial or a wax. I have gotten a few massages here and there on special occasions, but basic feminine maintenance?
It’s hard to explain to men that a fucking facial costs upwards of $100. I could barely understand it.
But my face was looking tired and Lindsay Lohan-esque, I was growing hair that I can no longer hide or comb into a pretty shape.
So I deemed this past weekend a “me” weekend.
I woke up on Saturday morning, went on a 6-mile run in great weather, and then headed out for my facial and waxing.
Now I know why facials are so expensive.
It was 60 minutes of bliss.
I felt refreshed.
Which gave me the energy to go to the mall and browse around with nothing to do and nowhere to be.
Then I decided to treat myself to a $3 cupcake. Between facials and cupcakes, I am pretty sure I’m in the WRONG business. The bake shop was packed with people willing to spend $3 on one cupcake. I could have made 12 cupcakes for $3.
I am now thinking that I should open a salon that sells cupcakes. The Bill Gates of pampering, bitches.
Anyway, I sat outside and ate my cupcake, savoring every bite and realizing how happy one little cake can make a person.
After that, I headed home to watch a movie and lay on the couch. I did that until I fell asleep. At 9 p.m.
On Sunday, I ran 10 miles and it felt great. By the time I got back, I was feeling back to normal and out of my funk.
