Hairy Hanukkah Harry and The Story of Hanukkah 2012

Hannukah candles

Forget elf shaming, try a little Hanukkah Harry Guilt! (Not gelt).

This post is a time machine back to the year twenty-twelve, but it’s the only one I have for Hanukkah.

That year I was all alone. Again. 

Happy Chanukkah or Hanukkah or Hannukah or Channukah 2014!

However you spell it, it’s eight days of prezzies! 


…or the continuing saga of my life.

As my first husband’s mother said to my mom, “isn’t it such a shame you wasted so much money on her education. She doesn’t really seem to do much of anything, does she?”

Looky here, readers, you all need to stop whining right now. Right now, I say!

I’ve peeked inside your private lives. Here’s a typical scenario:

8:00 a.m. You’re home with your spouse before leaving the house to go to work or he goes to work while you “stay home to take care of the kids” which really means you’re going to Tweet and shop all day and change a diaper or two, only if necessary. Not all of you, but enough to make it true. And I know it’s true ‘cos who do you think I tweet with all day?

Spouse: “I’ll home home at six. See ya.”

{Smooch goodbye}

crzy cat lady bathrobe

This is awesome.

Wife pulls the ratty bathrobe a bit tighter and rebelts it because an important message is acoming…

“Now you come right home after work, don’t stop anywhere; no bars, no strip clubs, nothin’. You come right home, ya hear me?  I’m making something special for dinner tonight.”

Spouse: “OK”

He walks out to the car. Five seconds after leaving the house, before the car even backs out of the driveway, he totally forgot everything his wife said. Typical, right?

6:00 p.m.- no hubby

6:15 p.m – no hubby

6:30 p.m. Here it comes…the power texting, phoning, emailing commences.

{no response}

burned dinner in oven7:00 p.m. Dinner burns. wife drank all the wine, spends time sharpening knives. Candles burnt down to nubs, the smoke of one burnt out candle with its acrid scent floats through the air.

The scissors come out to make a few strategic alterations in his favorite t-shirt.

She opens another bottle of wine.

8:00 p.m. His car drives up, front door opens, “Hi honey, I’m home!”

“WHERE. WERE. YOU.”

‘Wha? Why is it so dark in here?”

Where. were. you. I called. I emailed. I texted.”

“Ohhh…didn’t I mention I’d be late today? I -uh- thought I did.”

-End scene-desperate housewives

OK, I could go on and on but the point is that when 99% of you get mad at your significant others when they’re late; when work or whatever–delays their arrival at the appointed hour–you all need to STOP WHINGING AND WHINING about it!!

Since the world revolves around me, take a walk around South Coast Plaza in my shoes (not the Gucci ones, tho. I wear a 5 1/2 and your feet’d stretch ‘em all out.) I was expecting the captain tomorrow, Thursday. I cleaned the house, washed the windows, planned and anticipated the whole homecoming–even made a new welcome home sign–and he called and said he’d be LATE.

HE’S GOING TO BE A MONTH AND A HALF LATE!

HE WON’T BE BACK UNTIL SOMETIME NEXT JANUARY 201THREE!!

I’m not saying not to be pissed at your inconsiderate spouse–I would never think to deprive you of that joy–just think about ME next time.

OKAY?

Your “late” and my “late” are two different things altogether.

Ahem. Now, to give equal time to my cultural background as a full blooded Jewish American Princess, may I formally present to you my Hannukah installation….with the one and only Hairy Hannukah Harry holding the torah. Eight candles represent the eight days that I had to wait before I could spend more of the captain’s hard earned money.

Hannukah candlesForget elf shaming, try a little Hanukkah Harry Guilt!

Best Christmas Decorations EVER. Haters, Line Up! Yoo Hoo, #Pinterest, I’m Calling YOU!

 I hope you enjoy a repeat of one of my most clicked on posts of 2012 while I get ready for my son and DIL who are visiting for a couple of days and my tugboat man who’ll be home on December 23. 
…..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     

Don’t HATE…EMULATE!

It was last year that I was inspired by other topnotch decorators who so kindly blogged about their DIY Christmas tree masterpieces.

In fact, I was so inspired and so thrilled to be stuck here all alone for the millionth time during the holidays that I created a masterpiece of my own, just for you, my loving internet family.

As I looked around my house, the elliptical seemed like it had the best “bones” to adorn.

Plus, it had a ready-made beverage holder!

I didn’t have any Maxi-pads or other feminine hygiene products–‘cos THAT ship has sailed–if you know what I mean. (Hey cool, a nautical reference jauntily tossed in. Damn, I’m good!)

I added a toilet paper garland, a couple of Sophie Kinsella novels, two glittery seashell ornaments, a bottle of wine in the beverage holder, a white plastic poinsettia, a few EMPTY gift bags, and a festive plush Hello Kitty toy.

You can’t really see it very good, but there’s a chocolate bar too, which I don’t have to share with anyone! I’m such a lucky girl! This is the best use I’ve found for the elliptical. Hanging freshly ironed shirts hanging on it is a close second.

Now you can carry on with your day; just take a moment to let it all sink in.

The moral of the story is that it might not be a good idea to leave Princes Rosebud alone for long periods of time.

Don’t HATE…Emulate.

Decorated for Christmas elliptical

Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife

decorated elliptical

Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife

Where Fashion and Function Meet and Marry

There’s so much RIGHT with this.

versaceamaretto

…from a marketing standpoint.

…from a branding standpoint.

…a marriage of two MAJOR brands.

…aspirational and inspirational, quenching my thirst on a couple of levels.

Follow along with the way my brain works, OK?

Do you know Lizzi at Considerings?

She very kindly (after I twisted her arm) shared her amazing recipe for Lebkuchen  — a traditional German cookie — that I plan to bake in honor of the homecoming of my esteemed (German) Professor Angel Boy, also known as the boy/man who can eat more food than anyone I’ve ever known — a Guinness World Record contender – which makes baking and cooking for him a total and complete joy.

The frosting calls for Amaretto, something we don’t normally keep stocked in the Enchanted Seashells liquor cabinet.

After a massive shopping excursion at Trader Joe’s, I walked down the sidewalk (in the same shopping center) to BevMo.

I picked up a small bottle of Amaretto (along with a few other items, as long as I was there, ya know.)

In the center of the main aisle, my eye were drawn to a bright blue box — one of those promotional boxes of booze they feature around the holidays usually boasting a value added option like glasses or a shaker.

Wait, hold on a minnie.

This was DeSaronno Amaretto, but a larger bottle than the one I had in hand, and it was packaged with two pretty glasses.

OK, I didn’t really need more glasses that I’d just end up breaking, BUT I do like a bonus.

Chanel notwithstanding, I am a thrifty gal.

Upon closer inspection, the final affirmation of purchasing perfection was my realization (in slo mo) that the amaretto bottle itself was DRESSED IN VERSACE.

DRESSED IN GIANNI VERSACE.  amaretto11

Picture me doing a double take.

Wha?

Yes! Yes! Yes! A DESIGNER CLOTHED BOTTLE OF BOOZE!

(And only a few dollars more than the naked/undressed/unadorned bottle and THAT satiated my price point.)

Oh HELL YES, I said to myself as I grabbed it off the shelf.

SEASHELLS AND CHERUBS.amareatto16

I’m all verklempt, fanning myself with my shopping list.

OY. VEY.

Come to MOMMA.

A perfect marriage, a perfect union of form and function.amaretto10

A truly  brilliant marketing design.

hello kitty

Water bottle and iron on patch.

I haven’t been THIS excited since my son sent me a water bottle from Yale that featured Hello Kitty.

At the time, I thought THAT was the pinnacle of marketing heaven.

Backstory: Versace and I have a sad history.

When tugboat man and I were newly married, his father and stepmother gave me a Christmas present in a beautiful brilliantly white Versace bag with the iconic lion. Read all about my disappointment HERE @
Lesson #1. Never do this to your daughter-in-law. Ever.

The only Versace I own is that white bag.

Up until now, that is.

Now I have a stylishly dressed up bottle of booze.

Life is good, y’all!

P.S. I have the world’s worst in laws — world’s WORST. The Versace bag incident was the tip of the iceberg. It’s been downhill ever since. I have NO IDEA how my tugboat man turned into such a wonderful, loving, caring human with ‘rents like that. Truth.

“Selfie”: TV Review

MV5BMTc0MzgwMjc1MV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwNjExMTE5MjE@._V1_SX214_AL_“Having haters online means that you made it!”

“But having haters in real life means people hate you.”

“Selfie”.

How could I NOT be intrigued?

I’m not a professional reviewer. I’m not on staff of a newspaper (do they even exist anymore?) —  I don’t write for a trade publication like Variety, I don’t have a horse in the race, so to speak.

Simply put, I watch a little television from time to time.

I’m a VIEWER, not a REviewer. 

Some of my all time favorite shows are outside my demographics; for instance, I LOVE LOVE LOVED Gossip Girl and mourned the day the series ended.

Oh Blair! Oh, Chuck! Oh, Serena! Oh, Dan!

And I like(d) New Girl, but now I’m almost — but not quite– over it. Except for Schmidt. LOVE him!!

Love Sherlock; watch Downton Abbey but sometimes it’s a snoozefest.

I’m not enamored of the “vampire” genre, nor do I enjoy crime or hospital dramaz. Too much blood and guts, not enough sex and snark.

The only reason my opinions are made public is that I’m a BLOGGER.

Bloggers are inherently self-absorbed and narcissistic, don’t you agree?

Here we are, as a whole, writing down our thoughts and observations and sharing various parts of our lives and putting it all OUT THERE for the world to see and appreciate —  IF we’re doing it right.

See how it always circles back to being about me? See what I’m saying?

I’ve strayed a bit off-topic…

The teasers for Selfie were so adorable, I hoped the show would live up to the preview, and for me, it has.

Created and executive produced by Emily Kapnek for Warner Bros. Television stars Karen Gillan as Eliza Dooley and John Cho as Henry Higgs. P.S. Karen Gillan is AMAZING.

From the website: 

“Social Media superstar Eliza Dooley (Karen Gillan) has 263,000 followers who hang on to her every post, tweet and selfie. But after a workplace mishap goes viral, she quickly realizes that being “instafamous” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and being friended is not the same as having actual friends.

She enlists co-worker and marketing guru, Henry (John Cho), to ‘rebrand’ her self-obsessed reputation and teach her how to connect with people in the real world.

At first, Henry wants nothing to do with Eliza, who is the epitome of all he deems wrong with the app-addicted world.

But soon, Henry takes pity on her.

What Henry doesn’t anticipate, however, is how much he’ll learn.  As a workaholic who rarely makes time for socializing,  Henry eventually begins to realize that his little “project” just might have something to teach him. After all, keeping life at arm’s length is great for taking a selfie, but not so much if you want someone in the picture next to you.”

I’m hooked on the snappy wit and often seriously funny dialogue.

It’s so refreshing to discover a TV show that is NOT a retread of an old idea — CSI ad nauseum. Not a fan, soz.

The situational humor is for the most part believable, not clichéd nor contrived nor forced.

Might Selfie be ahead of its time?

It’s possible that some of us aren’t quite ready to hold that mirror up to ourselves and examine certain behaviors, but I’m a fan.

Selfie: As a society, we have become so connected to our technological devices that we’ve become DISconnected to human interaction and communication.

This is true.

Hey here’s me — a blogger — using several social media platforms to share my opinion about a TV show that conveys an important message in a gently mocking way.

 DO YOU GET IT?

Yeah, it’s a fairly overt reference to Pygmalion  and My Fair Lady — with the proper guidance, anyone can be a lady, only in this case, Henry is determined to teach Eliza how to interact as a human, not as a hashtag.

It’s truly a twist with a modern POV.

In fact, it happens to me IRL (in real life) on a daily basis.

  • In the line at the gym waiting for the next class to start, whether it’s Yoga, Pilates, PiYo, Boot Camp, or Shadowboxing – no one TALKS any more. NO ONE. Everyone stands there, cocooned in their own little world, and doing what? Scrolling through FB push notifications? Texting whom? About what?
  • And here on my flight to SF, sitting next to me is a woman about my age, (with a really superb specimen of a large carryon Louis Vuitton travel bag btw) head down, no eye contact, scrolling away on her smart phone
  • Across from me is another woman playing Solitaire on her phone, and next to her is a guy watching a movie.

All around me is dead silence except for the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard.

Wait, that’s me, haha. I’m isolated too, observing and writing it all down.

It’s eerily quiet. No chit chat, no verbal communication but for an occasional “excuse me” to go to the bathroom.

Selfie is a cautionary tale told with humor and insight.

I give Selfie five Louboutins out of five. LOVE it!louboutin

 

 

Princess Rosebud’s Brief Adventure

Image

“Shut up, shut up, shut UP!”

This is directed to the ultra-loud professional in the euro-style suit leaning on his rolling suitcase about six inches from my seat.

“Guess what, MISTER METRO, I  don’t need to know the details of your previous important meeting and how that will impact your next even more important meeting.”

NO, I DO NOT.

I am NOT impressed.

THE WORLD DOES NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU.

(It revolves around ME.)

I’m at the airport.

I’ve been here for hours, waiting for a 5:15 p.m. flight.

For me, travelling alone is SO stressful, even though I’m anally organized, that it’s really no fun at all.

I’ve called my tugboat man several times already.

“What time should I leave for the airport?”
“How much cash should I bring?”
“Should I leave a light on inside the house?”
“How much should I tip the guy who drives the shuttle?”

In answer to his question about how I’m getting from the airport to my son’s home…

“Yes, he’s picking me up, and we’re taking BART and then walking.”

Look at all my crap stuff for two days.  HAHAHAHAHA

airport

Quinoa-Protein Bars, Brownies, Oatmeal Raisin Cookies — as well as assorted food items like lentils ( I know, I know, they most likely stock lentils in San Francisco), a variety of teas, my own French Roast coffee, and wasabi seaweed snacks.

Like ten pounds of food.

I am aware that I packed WAY TOO MANY outfits, and I know there are clothing stores in walking distance, but I have an irrational fear of not having the RIGHT OUTFIT for any proposed activity.

Even though we’re probably just going hiking in a local canyon so I can look for coyotes, and I’ll be spending a certain amount of time cleaning their house (like I always do), I like to be prepared. That’s why I brought my own yellow rubber gloves. For reals.

Security was HELL. I got “randomly” selected to go to secondary. They were concerned about my cell phone or something. Like have they never seen a phone that is NOT a smart phone? Geez. So they tested it a few more times and finally released me.

Good to know I’m not a threat.

Two more hours…

A lady sat down next to me eating something that smells so GROSS.

I need a drink.

 

BREAKING NEWS: “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” Cancelled!

Honey_Boo_Boo_eyes_on_you_animated_gif“There goes Honey Boo Boo”  — that should be the new title, ha ha.

NEWS: TMZ reports that TLC has cancelled “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” in the wake of allegations that June Shannon, aka Mama June,  is dating convicted child molester Mark McDaniel.

According to the TMZ, the network has already shot an entire season of new episodes, but will not air them due to the allegations, as they believe that Shannon is putting her children at risk.

In a world that ignores and covers up domestic violence and child abuse in professional sports, where whole networks are dedicated to hunting and killing animals, I am skeptical of TLC’s swift action to cancel “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo”.

Is it a ploy to placate those of us who are outraged?

Is it just another spin — will HCHBB be reinstated after a short period of time, like that other stupid show, “Duck Dynasty”?

Or is this another kind of spin to garner more publicity and gauge the pulse of the public with regard to just exactly how much we’ll tolerate?

Were the advertisers outraged?

This is all speculation on my part because I don’t watch the show.

And why not, you might ask?

Yes, it’s offensive on a myriad of levels, but the major reason is that it pains me to my core to watch so many horrible fashion choices.

Happy Friday, y’all!

I’m Guessing The Honeymoon Is OVER

Source:Found on Pinterest

Source: Found on Pinterest

Here’s why.

This is what it’s like being married to a professional mariner who’s also a surfer.

My erstwhile and often absent tugboat man is trying to program his work schedule for the rest of the year based solely upon future winter swell forecasts, and NOT about being home for the holidays.

On his regular daily call, I was forced to listen to a thirty minute diatribe (while he’s studying a calendar) about these pressing issues:

“If I come home now, I’ll miss the next swell but if I stay a bit longer, it’ll put me in the perfect position for that potentially big December surf.”

Nice to know I’m such a high priority in his thought process, right?

Welcome to my world, friends.

And don’t even think for ONE MOMENT that I’m not contemplating either jewelry or a new dress that will look FANTASTIC with those new Loubies I’m getting because of his previous infraction.

(Hee hee)

Tormenting Husbands is FUN

When my tugboat man goes out to sea, communication is limited to email and cell phone, and even that depends upon what part of the world he’s in. Sometimes, there’s no cell at all and I’ll only occasionally receive a call from the vessel’s sat phone. And sometimes the boat’s computer stops functioning and I don’t get email. And that’s when I start to worry.

Since he’s a fairly quick learner after twenty-plus years of training,  he tries to call or email at least once a day, the obligatory “I’m still alive” type of thing. Read more about that HERE (if you don’t call, I think you’re dead, and that’s why I’m getting a pair of Loubies)

Every so often I attempt to spice things up and venture beyond the boring…here’s a verbatim transcript of pretty much every call,

“Hi, honey, what’s up? How are you today, did anything break down, is the car OK, anything come in the mail for me, anything I need to deal with, what’s the surf like, and oh, by the way, I miss you.”

it’s  a definite struggle to maintain that thread of mystery and personality in a three-minute call or a few words tapped in black on a sterile white background.

A lot of the time, one or both of us’ll say, “I got nothing else” and the other will say “I got nothing, too” and then my tugboat man’ll end with “Lock and load” which is our secret code for “don’t forget to turn the security alarm on before you go to bed.” always ending with “Love you” and “Love you, too”

So far, this this time he’s been away for about thirty days —  he’ll HOPEFULLY be home before Thanksgiving, which totally sucks ‘cos I thought he was gonna be home by Halloween. Nature of the biz and all that.

To try to inject a little fun into our convo yesterday when he called, I asked him if he was sitting down ‘cos I had something really serious and important to tell him:

“You might want to sit down ‘cos I gotta tell you something that might shock you and I don’t want you to faint.”

(It was a total set-up.)

He gets this super cute, super serious tone in his voice,

“What is it. Is everything OK?”

And then I hit him with the shocker:

“I washed the car today”

Maybe y’all don’t get how earth shattering that news is, but you have to trust me that it could cause hub’s heart rate to skyrocket and blood pressure to explode.

In shock.

I don’t like to spend the $$$ or the time to take it to a car wash and I don’t EVER wash it — I mean EVER — but there I was in the driveway with a bucket of soapy water and a hose.

With neighbors watching in case hub needed witnesses to this miraculous event.

He laughed so hard it was totally worth it to wash that stupid car.

And then there was more.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Yes.”

“For reals? Where are you?”

“In the wheelhouse, but we’re tied up at the dock right now.”

“‘Cos there’s more.”

[Pause]

“I went to a gas station and filled the tank with gas.”

“Oh. My. Gawd. Stop the presses. Was it running on fumes? Had you depleted the Reserve tank like you usually do?”

“Nope, I had about a quarter tank, but I drove by a gas station with cheap gas, and thought it’d be a good idea to take advantage of it.”

“Shocked, huh? Speechless?”

“I’m more shocked that you actually thought to fill it up before you were stranded and  forced to call triple A; that’s the part that’s boggling my mind. But good job! You go, girl! I’m proud of you!”

And that’s how we keep our love alive around here, or in other words, how we torment our husband and have a little gentle fun at his expense.

Just another day in the life of Princess Rosebud and Her Tugboat Man…

 

 

 

Pap Smear With Benefits #Midlife Version

In the spirit of October’s Healthy Living Theme, the entire body will be in the limelight. LOL. Don’t miss Friday’s post!


V-jayjay Exam.checkmark

Botox.

Check and double check.

Time management at its finest.

Just like most females who endure that yearly gynecological wellness check, which may or may not be another sip of the Kool-Aid that we’ve been conditioned to believe is essential for good health and cancer detection, I too brave the silvery stirrups every twelve moons or so, although at my advanced #midlife status, it’s acceptable to wait a couple of years between these physically invasive exams.

My pre-check routine is to bathe and shave (this might be oversharing, but I don’t wax ‘cos I’m allergic to it and I really have an aversion to strangers hanging around “down there”) and make myself and my lady parts as camera-ready as possible.

If I could bedazzle or drape a scarf around it, I would, as I do loves me some accessories, so I attempt to spruce it up all up for the big reveal. I mean, you never know when you’re going to be discovered, right? Always ready, that’s my motto. As Norma Desmond said, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close up.”

A momentary pause for a brief rant:

 I gotta comment on the feelings of being post-menopausal and sitting in the same waiting room with full-to-bursting, fecund, FERTILE women.

It doesn’t feel very good. To be past — as in beyond — childbearing age.

It’s not that I want to have another baby even if I could– I’m no Michelle Duggar — the truth is that I only wanted one perfect child (which I have), but to be sitting amongst those who still have functional baby makers made me feel kind of dried up and old.

“I’m in the club”,  I whispered to myself. “I was just like you guys. I puked for four months and then ate my weight in blueberry pancakes and endless jars of gefilte fish (and I mean eating them straight from the jar and even drinking that disgusting jelly-like liquid) and couldn’t see my feet for the last two months before I went through the hell of a twenty-four hour labor and eventual Caesarean section delivery.”

I wanna pull up my shirt and pull my pants down just enough to proudly display my C-section scar, those battle wounds, my daily reminder of  the painjoypainjoy I endured to become a mom, which is all I ever really wanted to be when I grew up.

“My memories might be thirty-two years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Screw it. The solution should be separate waiting rooms. I can’t deal with the assault of fruitfulness slapping my aridity in the face.

Rant status: OVER.

Just like we all have to do whether we are the elite or the hoi polloi or even Kim Kardashian or Kate Middleton, I changed into the most unflattering shade of pure and blinding white scratchy paper gown with the narrow plastic belt/tie/thingy. The great equalizer. It was barely long enough to execute a proper bow. Or maybe it was a hairband? Now I’m not sure. Whatev. Is white paper the new black? The new orange? Nope. It’s still nothing that will ever be trendy or urban chic.

Great, the next step is the inelegant hop up on the also white paper-covered exam/lounging table. I must admit I’ve become so spoiled by 800-thread count sheets that I was quite offended by the scratchy but slippery texture. At least it’s sterile — and that pleases my OCD.

The doc finally sauntered in with a pleasant smile and bouncy hair, switching on that godforsaken bright light that serves to highlight each and every darling cellulite dimple that I’ve accumulated over the last few decades. ILOVEMYCELLULITEILOVEMYCELLULITE. NOPE. SERIOUSLY. I HATE MY CELLULITE.

“How often do you do a self-exam breast check?” Doctor Z asked as she was doing just that. “Never” I said, with my most winsome smile. “There really isn’t enough there to check…” She laughed at my little attempt at levity to lighten the atmosphere while she’s kneading and pinching and probably thinking about what she’s going to be drinking later on that evening — anyway, that’s what I was doing. White wine? No. Pinot Noir? No. Straight vodka from the bottle? Winner, winner, winner! 

That wasn’t soooo bad, but then we reached  the dreaded part of the visit where the doc always says, “Can you scoot down a little more?” And then, “How about a little more?”

Ignominy. That’s the only way to describe it.

Quack quack

Quack quack

A Pap smear, also called a Pap test, is a procedure to test for cervical cancer in women by collecting cells from the cervix. That first involves the insertion of an instrument of torture called a speculum. FYI, the modern speculum was invented (by a man, of course) in 1845.

I can share with you after having gone through about a dozen gynos over the years, Doctor Z is the BEST. And I prefer a woman gyn. I don’t think a man can understand what our issues are, no matter what. Only a woman knows what another woman feels and experiences.  Doc Z has perfected a painless method of scraping the cervix and she’s never accidentally pinched that very sensitive area that makes you want to convulsively kick their faces across the room. FYI, that’s the real reason why the have those little wheeled stools so they can roll away FAST before they get punched out by a valiant v-jayjay.

The most dreaded part of the exam is over; time to stuff the paper gown in the trash and get dressed.

But this visit’s not quite over because Dr. Z has joined the ranks of a new breed of doctor; combining a medical specialty with the value added option of a little cosmetic rejuvenation in the form of Botox and fillers.

Ergo the Pap smear and Botox.

I consider it my reward for enduring the humiliation of exposing my inner workings. While we chat about being vegan and a new vegan restaurant in Encinitas called #Native Foods,  Doc Z prepares the botulism that will be injected into my face; to paralyze the correct muscles and stem the flow of aging —  if only for a few brief months.

But that’s good enough for me.

Maybe I can no longer have babies growing in my belly –but my glass is still half full; I no longer have to worry about “that time of the month” and my empty nest (and womb) affords me the opportunity for a little well deserved pampering.

What’s your experience with your OB-GYN (if you care to share, that is!)
Do you have a male of female doc?

if you don’t call, I think you’re dead, and that’s why I’m getting a pair of Loubies

(If you don’t know what Loubies/Louboutins are, scroll down to the end for a pic.)


We are officially at Tugboat Man Minus Two.

In other words, two more shopping days ’til I drive to the airport and pick up a man.

That’s funny, but it’s true.

I go from SASSY single girl to a coupled MARRIED woman at the whim of a flying machine.

Well, after a good amount of time ‘scaping and scraping and all that jazz.

Got a totes adorbs dress at the Banana Republic @Carlsbad Outlet today.

Fifty percent off! Kinda Pucci-like, don’t you think?bananarepublic

I’ll pair it with skinny jeans or black tights.

And those LOUBOUTINS I’m about to receive as soon as hub comes home and catches up on his lost sleep.

Sleep loss is a real health hazard of the professional mariner.

But enough about him.

Here’s why I deserve those scandalous, over-the-top, uber extravagant and gorgeous shoes.

Settle in, this is a good story, albeit a tad convoluted, but not if you follow my way of thinking about things. If you’re like me, you’ll soon nod your head in agreement.

Remember a few weeks ago I shared with you that hub got a new surfboard? Do you also recall how i was the ultra supportive wife who encouraged him to buy it (and that I figured it behooved me to be “all in” so that I could expect the same reaction when I suggested a trip to Chanel for that iconic pearl necklace?)

OK. That’s the first part.

What you don’t know is that after my 50+ year-old tugboat man acquired his new toy, there was a slight swell (that’s surfer talk), a bump in the surf — and he became OBSESSED with surfing. Surfing in the morning, surfing in the afternoon, surfing until the sun went down. Normally, I’m pretty cool with that — he loves to surf, he’s gone a lot — when he’s home, he deserves to follow his bliss, right?

Now it’s time for you to understand that I’m the type of person who thinks if I don’t hear from you, you’re dead.

A to Z, black and white, dead or alive. No gray area.

I was am that way with my son, too. If he does’t call or text or email, I get so worried that I believe the WORST POSSIBLE THING HAS HAPPENED.

At any given time, I’m THAT close to calling the police, hospitals, FBI, State Department, and boarding a plane to wherever.

With my son, it’s not as if there isn’t some history…for example, one year he rode his bicycle alone from Carlsbad to Utah and had a pretty bad accident in Moab; more recently there was his life threatening illness and life-saving surgery — oh and let’s not forget that time he was riding his bicycle home from school at Johns Hopkins (where he received one of his two Masters) and a carjacking took place RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM and the car RAN HIM DOWN and mangled his bike. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt at all. LUCKILY.

AND that one occasion DIL and I were together while Angel Boy was hiking in some godforsaken remote location. I’ll never forget and neither will she…we were eating fish tacos at Rubios prior to her flight back home (she travels more than anyone I know) and we were waiting for a CALL from Angel Boy to let us know he was off the mountain. No call; she power called him until her fingers were sore, but it went straight to voicemail. Finally, she called one of the guys he was hiking with and we learned that the rest of the group had met up at the arranged time, but not our Angel Boy. In fact, the rest of the group was becoming worried and had contacted the rangers, and there was talk about forming a search party. Can you imagine how worried we were? We’re in the car, on the way to the airport, very upset as you can imagine, when he finally called. As thankful as we both were that he was OK and now I can’t really remember the reason for his delay, we were SO MAD AT HIM. And now it’s kinda ruined Rubios for us, because it brings us right back to that place of panic.

Now’s the time you should be nodding your head in agreement that there’s some justifiable basis for the way I am. RIGHT?

Back to my tugboat man. His job is a very dangerous one, no matter that he’s the captain and is inside the wheelhouse mostly driving the boat; it’s inherently rife with danger. At any moment, I could receive a call from the company with some bad news. AT ANY TIME. So much to worry about.

And surfing is dangerous too, right? My son’s childhood friend disappeared while surfing in Hawaii, and there are always horrible surfing accidents on the news that further support my crazy.  In fact, a few years ago, through no fault of his own, hub was involved in a freak accident out in the water where he was stabbed in the lower calf by the tip of someone’s board – he drove himself home — I took one look at the injury, which was open all the way to the bone (MAJOR GROSS), and we made a trip to the ER where they sutured it.

End of story?

Nope, just the beginning. Suturing was a bad idea. The wound became horribly infected because of FILTHY OCEAN WATER; he had a fever of 105 degrees, contracted an antibiotic resistant staph infection, was in incredible pain, but LUCKILY recovered with no limbs lost — just a small divot in his calf and an ugly scar.

As you can see, I’m not ALL that crazy. Sorta cray, but not ALL the way cray.

OK, back to the present (literally). Hub’s been taking Spanish lessons when he’s home, I think mostly so that we can go to Costa Rica (to surf, duh).

Anyway, here’s where it gets hinky.

He loaded his new surfboard in the back of his truck, and said he’d MAYBE go surfing after the class was over.

Class was over at 6:00 p.m. No phone call. 6:15. No call. 6:30. No call. I started power calling his cell. No answer. 7:00 p.m.-7:30 p.m.

He NEVER doesn’t call.My almost-always-perfect hub UNDERSTANDS the importance of a two-second courtesy call or text.

On this particular day, one of the hottest in history, a call would have been especially nice if he had asked if I wanted to meet him at the beach to cool off and take pics or video of the big surf.

7:45 p.m. No call.

One by one the ingredients I had prepped for dinner were put away.

What ifs were peppering my brain.

What if he got hit with a board again? What if he cut himself on glass?

WHAT IF HE’S AN INCONSIDERATE JERK?

He rolled in a few minutes before 8:00 p.m., happy and hungry.

Me, not so much.

I proceeded to explain to him the thousands and thousands of ways he failed me as a loving husband by selfishly not caring enough to make that phone call. It’s worse ‘cos he KNOWS how crazy I get. He said he was sorry, that he thought I understood he was planning to surf…blah, blah, blah.

I tossed a couple lettuce leaves in his direction, telling him to enjoy his dinner, while I flounced off to not speak to him for the rest of his life.

The next morning I went to the gym while he went surfing AGAIN.

When I got home and pulled into the garage, there was a handwritten huge banner staring at me; “I’m very, very, very SORRY, how can I make it up to you?”

Louboutins, my friends.

Louboutins.

And don’t EVER do that again. ‘Cos I’m crazy,

And when I’m cray, YOU pay.

louboutin-black-leather-high-heels

#Louboutin #Loubies