What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

Not so much with the Weight Loss Wednesday this week. But you already knew that.

When you begin your morning with two slices of cake, it's safe to say your weight-loss efforts are probably shot for the day.

The cake incident happened a couple of hours ago; yesterday I hopped on the scale like a good little soldier, totally prepared to post an entry about the logistics required to whip my body into shape, but then I was struck with an uncontrollable urge to wrap up every single unfinished project I've ever started, ever, in these last few days of maternity leave, and I've been running like Forrest Gump ever since. So far, I've updated my license, sifted through digital files dating back to 2004 for one hell of a Snapfish order, sat with Luke to select wedding photos, pulled out the engagement book I've been meaning to complete for the last two years, and revived talks of creating a will. You might remember seeing some of these featured on my prenatal Project Freka list, and since we've (thankfully) gotten through my unpaid FMLA time with a positive balance in our savings account, it's time to make them happen.

I've also managed to put together a mighty fine back-to-work wardrobe. Behold, the fruits of my fashion labor:

You're looking at two bras, black dress pants, six tops, one to-DIE-for sweater, and one fabulous purse (with matching wallet inside!). I ended up returning the Limited pants I bought last week because I was no longer convinced I could live with the muffin top and the Limited doesn't carry size 14 in the particular cut I wanted, thanks so much for making me feel like a fat ass. I hit gold at Express, though, which is where I got the sweater and pants, pants that are a size 12, pants that still leave a tad of stomach overage, but I like them better then the ones I had before, don't ask me why. Also don't ask me how much I spent, because it was so worth it, trying on all those pretty things and liking what I saw in the mirror again. Luke and I are visiting family this weekend, and while my mother oohs and aahs over the baby, I will be in my favorite Chicago salon, with Brenda, my favorite stylist, and treat myself to a long-overdue cut and color. The only thing left is to get back to Sephora and exchange my new LORAC foundation for something that doesn't leave flakes on my shirt and skid marks on my face after application. This has never happened to me before, so I'm inclined to blame the SPF for the less-than-perfect finish. Have you guys ever dealt with this, or do I have to submit a question to the Smackdown?

Anyway, now that you're caught up good and proper, it's time for me to hit "Publish" so I can get Kara ready for a trip to my work so I can show her off to my colleagues. You're totally jealous, I know.

Also, if you're interested in leaving a suggestion for tomorrow's BFF in the comments, I won't hold it against you.

Also also, drop by the house of h to learn about Lizzy's virtual baby shower. Because who WOULDN'T love to send a cute girly thing to baby Alice?

On the bright side, my socks still fit

First off, last Friday's BFF was so awesome that Luke and I were actually inspired to rent Raising Arizona. My first choice was Good Will Hunting, since the burger bit Fraulein N posted reminded me I've yet to see this movie, but it was out. Out! What are the odds? So Luke called me from Blockbuster and asked for a runner-up, and I pulled up the entry and read through the comments until the glory that is 1987 Nicolas Cage sprang up from the monitor, and there you have it. I hadn't seen it since middle school, and if I were the one sporting a diaper instead of Kara, I'd have changed it more times than I have fingers. (You know, because of the laughing.)

Second, I'll be taking these here Huggies and any cash you got.

Third, did you know 1987 was 21 years ago? GOD.

Anyway, last Thursday was my big back-to-work shopping spree, and it went...okay. First stop? Indy's fancy schmancy Fashion Mall, home to the state's only Sephora. It opened just shy of three years ago, meriting a feature in the city's daily newspaper, and the only reason I knew what it was at the time was Amalah. I'd only really started wearing make-up the year before, thanks to my friend, Kendra, who dragged me to the Clinique counter at the now-defunct Parisian's and got me done up all nice and purty like. I've been a Clinique fan ever since. (Actually, I'm a fan of ALL make-up counters, simply for the fact that I'm horrible at determining things like whether or not my foundation should be Nude or Shell and I'd rather pay twenty dollars on one I've tested personally then three due through trial and error.)

ANYWAY, Sephora. I've been in Sephora a couple of times before to buy primer and lip gloss, but I mostly stick to Clinique because the girls at the counter are always uber-nice and I'm not overwhelmed by thirty-seven million products. However, Amalah's Advice Smackdown column gives testimony to a variety of life-changing beauty essentials, ninety-eight percent of them outside of the Clinique family, so I thought What the hell and decided to branch out. Plus, my skincare regimen, which until three days ago consisted of a horribly drying Clearasil face wash and Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturizing Gel (the latter of which you'll have to pry from my cold, dead hands, it's that silky on my cheeks), was in desperate need of an upgrade.

Before embarking on my journey, I made a list of the items I planned to hunt down:

• "On A Clear Day" acne starter kit by Philosophy
• Sue Devitt 70% Seaweed Gel Foundation
• Foundation primer
• Eye cream
• Mascara

Originally I thought about investing in some new blush and eye shadow, but seeing as I barely take the time to wash my freaking face, I thought it best to focus on products that'll manage or at least camoflauge my skin problems. Plus, I was already worried about how badly this delightful little trip might dent my bank account. But am working mother! If I have to leave my kid, I'm going to look damn good doing it.

Walking in, I wasn't quite sure where to start, because the products are sorted by brand, not item category, so you can't just head to the foundation section, you have to find the foundation section of every product in the store. Since I was firm on the Philosophy kit, I found the acne gift set first and luckily was approached by a sales consultant who helped me take care of the rest. I told her about my oily complexion and frequent break-outs (which she could tell just by looking at me, how embarrassing), and she suggested Smashbox Photo Finish Light Foundation Primer and LORAC Breakthrough Performance Foundation, so I forgot about Sue Devitt and went with that, but not after frantically scouring through Clinique's partial display for appropriate substitutes, because oh my God, I never thought I'd pay thirty-six dollars for PRIMER, but Clinique doesn't make a primer, and while they do carry oil-free foundation, they don't include SPF, and SPF is a must for long-term skin care, according to Amalah and any dermatologist, and I'm not about to whip out my Banana Boat sunblock when I'm still wearing a winter coat.

After realizing I'd already spent a hundred and twenty bucks without yet buying a stitch of clothing, I almost flaked out on the eye cream, but then I remembered my new working-mother stance and thew in Clinique's All About Eyes because it was the cheapest one I could find. Apparently Clinique is to Sephora what CoverGirl is to Clinique. Fabulous.

End result: one hundred and fifty-seven dollars, but that's OK because I swear I'm already seeing a difference. Plus, I scored a free mascara for signing up for their rewards program, so I guess we know who came out on top there. Suckas.

On to mall number two, where my precious New York and Company awaited my return.

I had high hopes for New York and Company and thus felt no shame in throwing shirt after pant after sweater over my arm, wondering how much I could justify to Luke and also if tears would be necessary to earn financial absolution. But after an hour and a half of looking at myself in the dressing room mirror, sucking in my stomach as hard as I could, and seriously considering hauling ass to Motherhood Maternity, I ended up with three shirts and a sweater, and I returned the sweater and two of the shirts after a brief stint at the Limited, where I scored dress slacks and a collar shirt that gave my squishy mom bod more dependable support. It didn't help that I'd forgotten to wear my shaper from home, one I picked up last summer before Kara began to wreak havoc on my belly button (seriously. I don't think it'll ever look the same) and actually does what it's supposed to do (SHAPE) and not just serve as a cover-up layer for the season's latest boobie tops (hint, hint New York and Company). By the time I made it to Eddie Bauer, Luke called to see how I was doing, and I broke down a little bit right there in the dressing room. Oh, how I long for the days of size-ten pants and small-to-medium tees!

In other words, best shopping spree EVER.

When I got home, Luke gave me a pep talk about how my body was only nine weeks postpartum and still needed time to heal, and I read your comments on this entry and perked up even more. I thought a lot about Christina's Clinton-and-Stacy-inspired remark about how nobody looks inside your pants and wondered why we gals let ourselves get so worked up on the number aspect of our clothing, especially since all the stores follow completely different sizing guidelines. None of the twelves at NY&C fit quite right, but the twelves at the Limited were almost perfect; just a tad of muffin top, but nothing a baggy shirt couldn't conceal.

Then I went to Old Navy and surrendered to a pair of size-fourteen jeans because the twelves were just too effing tight. I would've cried if they didn't fit me so well. Not only was there NO muffin top, they were even a bit roomy.

So today I'm heading back to the mall to exchange my new dress slacks, because I'd rather admire myself in pants two sizes bigger than my pre-pregnancy clothes then settle for the next size up simply because I can lock the zipper. Hell, now I'm questioning whether I was ever a ten in the first place.

Despite my liberating epiphany, though, I'm thinking it's time to revive Weight Loss Wednesday, so be on the look-out for that in a couple of days. Because that won't be depressing at all!

In other news, I finally broke my no-work-talk-on-maternity-leave rule and met with my supervisor for lunch on Friday. It was a nice way to get acclimated on what's been happening in my absence and mentally prepare myself for my return. Plus, I brought up and was approved for a new work schedule, so starting next Wednesday, I'll be pulling seven to three-thirty shifts with half an hour for lunch. I'm beyond excited about this. I'll miss traffic both ways and totally make it home in time for Judge Judy.

Seeing Kara will be nice, too.

Dusting off the saddle

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm almost, ALMOST, ready to go back to work.

Luke's last day was Friday, and since then the Frema-Useless Clutter household has seen a flurry of activity, what with traveling and spring cleaning and catching up on laundry and discovering that Kara's already outgrowing some of her three-to-six-month sleepers. It's been great having the three of us together again, but sometimes it seems like we're stepping all over each other. I'll be glad for the time when we can establish a more permanent rhythm, one in which we're allowed to master our new roles instead of randomly trying to accomplish tasks in between bottles, diaper changes, and faulty W-2s.

That's right. After cursing out Turbo Tax for more than two hours over the bright red "Federal Taxes Owed" box taunting us from the top left corner of the computer screen, I found a discrepancy in my tax form big enough to bring on the more financially-friendly green box, which means now we can't file our return until my employer's payroll company produces a new W-2. Because taxes aren't fun enough!

Anyway, to banish that lovely experience from my memory, today I'm embarking on my "I'm a savvy working mom who despite her coolness is still too flabby for ninety percent of her pre-pregnancy wardrobe" shopping spree. Before I go, I'll try on some more of the stuff I packed away last summer, but seeing as I could barely lock the zipper on my once gut-friendly corduroys, I doubt I'll have much luck with the tailored dress slacks. I'm not looking to buy out the mall, but it's about time I passed along the rest of my maternity clothes to my sister Samantha, who, unlike me, is actually with child, and it's illegal to go to work naked. I also hope to step outside the confines of my traditional beauty regime (read: away from the Clinique counter) in search of new products for my lingering skincare issues. I have a filled-to-the-brim make-up bag with items that haven't been touched since 2006 and half-used bottles of cheap facial cleansers that aren't doing anything for my acne, and now that I'm a mother, it's time to step up to the plate and reclaim the womanhood I left behind back in my first trimester. After spending the last hour and a half combing through Amalah's Advice Smackdown archives, I think I have just enough information to be dangerous at Sephora. Hopefully the consultants won't notice I've been wearing the same gray lounge pants every day for the last five seven days. Also, that I'm still sporting a nursing bra because it's the only one I have that can support my now-ginormous boobs.

Don't worry, I'll be sure to share the fruits of my labor just as soon as I can; until then, behold my gorgeous baby, who I promise to take to the dermatologist at the first sign of trouble.

Samantha and Kara, who's wearing the too-tight sleeper mentioned in my latest Parents entry. Dear dryer, why must you be so cruel?

Pregnant lady number two donning the same blissed-out expression as my sister. Clearly babies and gestating women go together like a horse and carriage.

OMG MY BABY IS ALREADY SAYING HER PRAYERS HOW PRECIOUS IS THAT.

Perfection at its most curious. Also, its most beautiful.

Frema and the Three Winter Coats

Once upon a time, in a Midwestern state far, far away, there lived a 34-weeks-pregnant woman (let's call her Frema) who was scheduled to deliver her first child in the chilly month of December. Over the course of the last several months, Frema had purchased a gazillion dollars worth of maternity clothes to accommodate her rapidly expanding waistline, and despite temperatures being low enough that she had to scrape layers of frost from her car before heading to work, she hesitated buying an item whose estimated period of use would be limited to six weeks or fewer.

In an effort to save a few pennies, Frema rummaged through her closet and unearthed the charcoal pea coat she'd worn the last three winters. But, not surprisingly, the coat was too small.

Not one to give up, Frema reflected back on all "the books" that recommended raiding a spouse's wardrobe for make-do attire. But Frema bets most pregnant women of petite stature aren't married to men with six-foot-four-inch builds. His coat was too big.

Finally, because Frema's husband was more concerned with her causing an accident behind the wheel due to wearing all that excess material and/or possibly catching cold than avoiding another charge on their Visa, he suggested visiting Old Navy's maternity section and perusing winter wear more fitting--quite literally--for the gestating variety. "We know we want more children, so a coat would be a worthwhile investment for future pregnancies. Plus, you have three sisters you can one day share your loot with," he said. "It won't go to waste."

Who is Frema to argue with such wisdom?

So off to Old Navy they went, and lo and behold, the beautiful, light gray ensemble fit just right.

So delighted was Frema with the newest addition to her wardrobe that she asked her husband to take an updated belly shot, even though three hours of shopping left her looking and feeling like ass on toast. "After all, the Internet, it likes the belly shots," she said.

And everyone lived happily ever after.

Apparently the camera's not the only thing that adds ten pounds

I delayed the inevitable for as long as I could, but it finally happened. At Luke's suggestion, this weekend we drove to an outlet mall about an hour south of Indy to spend mucho dinero on my first batch of maternity clothing.

Prior to Sunday, the only such items I had to my name consisted of a tummy tube I never really liked, a pair of lounge shorts, and forty dollars worth of Mimi underwear, the latter actually providing an immeasurable amount of relief to my underbelly, even if the waistbands do bunch up around my bikini line. Shirts hung off me like tents, and pants were a joke. It was like watching a ten-year-old attempt to fill out a 36DD bra.

Now, though! Now, I own a bathing suit, tee-shirt dress, three pairs of capris, one pair of jeans, four tops, and six more pairs of undies. And if Motherhood Maternity had featured any bras that weren't strictly designated for nursing, I would've grabbed a couple of those, too.

Who'd have thought a shirt with extra belly room could make such a drastic change to my appearance? Behold the evidence.

This picture was taken this evening, a profile shot of me at eighteen weeks along, donning a shirt found a couple of months ago on the clearance rack at The Limited. Sure, I look a little poochy, but a stranger with zero knowledge of my gestational status would just assume I'd enjoyed one too many bowls of Edy's cookie dough and move on with his life. (This stranger would be right, by the way, but now is neither the time nor place to discuss such delicate matters, and I'll thank you kindly to stay out of my personal affairs.)

...Here I am five minutes later, wearing one of my new Motherhood finds. Suddenly, the stranger who called me pudgy is now falling all over himself to open my door, carry my packages, and let me have his place in line, because clearly I am a Woman With Child. Also because this shirt lost two buttons after just one washing, so he'd have gotten a generous eyeful of my heaving, scandalous bosoms. A pox on Motherhood and its incompetent employees who can't properly sew.

Poorly manufactured fabric aside, it feels good to finally own my pregnancy shape and not feel so self-conscious about people commenting on my figure. I am a Woman With Child, dammit, and I'm not afraid to show it. Anymore.

Coming tomorrow: a mini-freakout as I wait to learn our baby's gender. Which is happening on Wednesday. Hopefully. Not that Luke and I are on pins and needles or anything.

What can I say? The baby likes to shop

Gasp! A post on a Monday? Can this be? What's the special occasion?

I'm so glad you asked:

For the next two weeks, I'll be spending the majority of my week nights acting as a production assistant of sorts as we shoot scenes at the lab for a handful of promotional videos, and seeing as HR is cracking down on the whole "no open-toed shoes at work" rule, I had every reason to run to Baker's in search of comfortable flats. Which I found yesterday. And dearly love. The sacrifices I make to advance my career, I swear.

(The last time I had ballet shoes, I was ten, they were beige, and I wore them with pink socks. To say this new look is much improved is a bit of an understatement, don't you think?)

Since I was already at the mall, I figured I may as well redeem the twenty-dollar coupon I recently received in the form of a heartfelt, emotional postcard from my dear friend, New York and Company. The end result? Well, let's just say I didn't cry on the way home.

Do you see those beautiful, work-appropriate, drawstring pants that do not require the suffocation of my stomach via tummy tube? (Can you tell I'm not a fan?) They're a little roomy right now, so I figure I've got at least a month before I'm too fat to squeeze into them. The other pair has little snaps I can leave undone when paired with a loose-fitting shirt. Plus, I can wear all these babies again this time next year because all the baby weight will have totally melted away by then, and if you try to insinuate otherwise I will totally ban your IP address.

Priorities

Last night Luke and I were plowing through the aisles of Super Target, accumulating items scribbled onto our first shopping list of the month, and it was within the first ten minutes of our entering the store that my loyalty to The Spreadsheet was tested.

We were strolling through the electronics section searching for possible gift ideas for my brother-in-law when, through a series of red-and-white sales tags strategically positioned at eye level, the TV kiosk announced that every season of Sex and the City was available for an impressive twenty bucks a pop. I gasped and clutched at my heart over the wool of my pea coat, so excited that I thought Luke was going to have to fetch the eyeballs that had just somersaulted out of my head. My fingers reached up to caress the case for season three, as I already have the first two and the second half of season six (purchased in a frenzy almost two years ago when Luke's VCR missed the last ten minutes of the series finale on TBS); the unedited unfolding of Big and Carrie's extramarital affair could be mine, all mine, for the price of Women and Money, Suze Orman's latest book, purchased the night before at Barnes and Noble. Ms. Orman is constantly inspiring me with her frank approach to personal finance, and the gems I gleaned from her Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke helped me to choose funds for my 401(k) account at work, and their average annual rate of return seems to hover around eight percent, thank you very much, thus cinching my undying devotion. Plus, I am a woman and I have money. It's like Suze wrote it just for me!

However, making a decision about the DVD was more difficult, because you see, Luke and I only allotted fifty dollars for miscellaneous spending this month, and my upcoming hair cut in Chicago will cost exactly that much with tip, so I was already kicking myself a little for buying the book but figured the difference could be offset through thriftiness in other areas of our budget. The cost of the DVD coupled with the hair cut would definitely leave March in the red.

There was one possible solution to this dilemma that would allow me to walk away with the book, the DVD, AND the hair cut: postponing the purchase of my salon-brand shampoo and conditioner and opting for a cheap knock-off brand to tide me over until April, at which point all budget lines would be replenished and I could blow the thirty dollars with a clear conscience.

(Yes, I realize how selfish I am for hoarding our miscellaneous dollars for frivolous indulgences, but Luke made out like a bandit for his birthday last month, and I have already directed the appropriate prayers to God asking for guidance in being a better wife. Together, the three of us have it covered.)

So, there they were, my two choices, each one threatening equally horrific consequences. Do I restock my ISO products and forfeit the chance to add to my sorely lacking Sex collection when I know damn well the next big sale might not be 'til I'm thirty-eight years old, or do I subject my hair to the pooptasticness of Garnier Fructis so I can spend my free time picking apart Charlotte's first husband?

It's unfair for any woman to find herself in the throes of such polarizing circumstances, and I hope it never happens to you, Internet ladies, because either way, such a woman is going to suffer.

But I know I made the right choice.

Sarah Jessica Parker would be so proud.

Of course it was all for naught, because when I came home and examined March's budget I found that seventy-one dollars and ninety-one cents had been unaccounted for. So I hopped over to Beauty First and bought the ISO refills after all.

(J/K, peeps. Totally waiting for April.)

While I had the camera out and about, for some reason I felt it necessary to document proof that I really am trying to be more budget conscious.

See that compact? I bought a new one last October, at a point when I thought this puppy was days away from crapping out on me, so imagine my surprise that the powder is still holding its own as I rub my cotton ball in circles over the metal face for ten minutes, determined to squeeze every last drop from a foundation that costs twenty-one fifty. If I wore make-up more often, it would've been retired to the garbage can around Christmas, but as I fight with various dermatological products to finally get my acne under control and weep over the massive afro poof that has become my hair, I haven't really been in the mood to subject myself to further prettification. I'm counting on you, Brenda, is all I'm saying.

As Shoe Like It

I'm a little late in sharing, perhaps, but there will be no installment of Weight Loss Wednesday today. There will be no Weight Loss Wednesday because all the greasy KFC, crappy Jewel cheesecake, melt-in-your-mouth-tender steak tacos, Baker's Square pies, and gooey cheese pizza I consumed over the course of the last six days guarantees a significant gain on the scale, the likes of which I have no desire to become more intimately acquainted. Luke's parents, who are both faithful readers of this blog and therefore well aware of my analog-scale woes, were kind enough to present to me a new scale for Christmas, so I'm holding off on a fitness update until the New Year, allowing me to fully utilize a fat-measuring instrument that won't tack on an extra three pounds to my rolly-polly midsection and maybe even show my face at the Y. Plus, Luke was able to get today off, so we spent last night in Merrillville and I totally forgot about hopping onto the scale until the drive back home, at which point I'd already wolfed down a hot dog and small fry from Portillo's and a chocolate-chip cookie dough Blizzard from Dairy Queen. No way was I sharing numbers with you all after THAT.

However, I will share the fact that I received a holiday bonus from work and it was three point five percent of my salary, which may or may not have played a role in the purchase of five pairs of shoes since Thursday, an act that originated from a simple quest to find the perfect brown boot.

On Wednesday Luke and I tackled the mall in search of new clothing for his parents' post-Christmas/fortieth-wedding-anniversary party, and while I found several darling items from Banana Republic, I left the joint still unsure about what to wear. On the way home I reflected on my favorite gray gaucho pants and a khaki-colored, knee-length corduroy skirt that's been collecting dust in my closet since the spring of 2005 because I normally pair it with a chunky brown turtleneck and sassy brown boots, both of which were no longer in my possession. I got to thinking it was high time to reclaim my right to own a kick-ass pair of brown boots, especially since I was finally able to replace the turtleneck during my shopgasm in the Republic. The next day after work I ventured into the JC Penney branch across the street from my apartment complex and discovered all women's boots were thirty percent off. (These babies were fifty. Bucks. Off. How thrifty am I?)

That explains shoe number one.

...And shoe number two, because it was Christmastime, and my boots were members of the Brown family, and how could I keep family apart at Christmas? Also, buckles! Who doesn't like buckles?

Another Penney's find, discovered in the Merrillville mall the day after Christmas, after deciding my black boots needed updating, too, because the ones I had were super cute but also a half-size too small, which didn't pose to be too much of a problem until Luke and I found ourselves wandering downtown Indianapolis in search of our car after his company Christmas party and the boots and I had to walk the equivalent of ten city blocks. I found four pairs of shoes I liked, including two boots, but these were the only ones available in a nine and they were twenty dollars. I would've been a fool to walk away from that deal, I tell you, a fool, a FOOL!

After another two hours in the mall, during which time Yankee candles, Clinique goodies, and a jumbo Cinnabon were added to our list of credit-card purchases, Luke was eager to check out the DSW that just happened to be on the route back to his parents' house, so determined was he to add a new black boot to my shoe collection. How could I say no? What kind of wife would squelch her husband's dreams and walk away empty-handed?

Just to make sure he knew how much his thoughtfulness meant to me, I bought these, too. Nothing says "I love you" like black patent leather Steve Maddens.

These are the Simple shoes I received for Christmas--a nice contrast to all the heels I'll be sporting for the next eight billion years. Thanks, Santa.

That was way more interesting than a little ole Weight Loss Wednesday update, right?

Two Thumbs Up

Last Friday, my good friend Lost A Sock tagged me for a "Favorite Things" meme, and since then I've been trying to pinpoint what those things might be. People are not things. Pastimes are not things. Possible careers and feel-good ideals are not things. We're talking about material items here, and it's hard to narrow them down to one short list.

But I'll try.

Liz Phair's Whitechocolatespaceegg. I have Luke to thank for introducing me to her music via a mixed tape back in college. Though she's currently sold her soul to commerical pop, at the height of her career she was both an edgy Sarah McLachlan and watered down Tori Amos, a musician who turned everyday ideas into larger-than-life entities, who could make you squirm uncomfortably in your seat with her casual use of the "F" word and bring tears from your eyes in the same three-minute span. This CD was produced after she'd given birth to her son, and her vulnerability is embedded in several of the tracks, particularly "Go On Ahead." Other songs of note include "Perfect World," "Baby Got Going," and "Uncle Alvarez," which reveals a new layer of meaning every time I hear it. If it's not in your collection yet, add it to your Christmas list. You'll thank me, I promise.

Edy's Berry Rainbow Sherbet. In effort to satisfy my sweet tooth without adding new layers of fat to my @$$, I turned to sherbet during my stint with Weight Watchers, and it did not disappoint. My current nightly ritual involves indulging in a bowl while watching TV, and since I'm not stingy with the servings, I often diminish my supply in less than a week, whether Luke has some or not. (He usually doesn't.)

ISO's Hydra Cleanse and Daily Condition shampoo products. This is the product of choice at my Chicago hair salon, and I don't blame them. It's light weight, smells good, and...it smells really good. I bought some last October when the economy-sized bottles were on a two-for-twenty sale and I kid you not, the stuff lasted until June. Also, did I mention the smell? So savvy. So pretty. So sophisticated! I can practically feel the positive self esteem that goes along with using a high-grade salon product soaking into my head.

New York and Company's stretch bootcut jeans. Mine are one to two years old, so they're not identical to the ones pictured on the Web site, but they're close. Whoever invented stretch jeans deserves a three-layer chocolate cake, because that material is crucial to fitting my gut into a size-ten waist. Plus, NY&C appears to be one of the few remaining stores that sell pant cuts in styles other than low rise, allowing me to keep the muffin top at bay a bit longer.

Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturizing Gel. When I was younger, I despised lotion of any kind. Most of what I had been exposed to was thick, heavy, and greasy; for cryin' out loud, it wasn't until the end of my college days that I finally succumbed to the seduction of Bath and Body Works; I didn't even attempt a facial moisturizer until I started purchasing acne washes that dried out my cheeks, and it was just as I'd feared: thick, heavy, and greasy.

In 2004 a coworker introduced me to the wonder that is Clinique, and this gel is my favorite from their skincare line. It glides on with minimal rubbing and feels like silk on my face, so I don't mind spending twenty-three bucks for four-point-two ounces of it, even though I wouldn't dream of shelling out more than six for a brand at Target. Clever advertisers!

Quaker's Oatmeal to Go Bars. Remember last fall when I learned about my high cholesterol? It was about that time that I tried to make myself like oatmeal. I tried it with blueberries, I tried it with brown sugar, I tried it standing on my head, but no luck. What's there to like? The lumps? The bland favor? That was my opinion until my sister-in-law stuffed one of these into my purse one night on my way home; then, suddenly I loved oatmeal, so long as it was chock full of artificial flavoring and packaged in a darling square shape. I'll usually take one to work on the mornings I run out of time for breakfast. Banana Bread is the best.

The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter. Both the stories and the artwork are timeless. I can't wait to read them to my own children.

Peace Frog pajama pants. They GLOW IN THE DARK, people. How cool is that?

For some reason I never wore pajama pants until college, and that was only because my sister bought me a Winnie the Pooh-themed pair as a going-away present (which are holding up fabulously, by the way, Sissy, thank you very much). As kids, if we wanted something warmer to sleep in, we usually just threw on sweatpants, which were probably a lot cheaper to buy in a house with five kids. Target sells them for seven bucks a piece. Now, though? Now I can't imagine my life without them. It'd be emptier somehow, less fulfilling, devoid of color. Just like a world without Kiefer Sutherland.

So, what do you think of my favorite things? More importantly, what are some of yours?

In Frema's Gym Shoes

I worked in a shoe store once. It was my sophomore year in college, and I was looking for another job to supplement my part-time position at the local Sam Goody. (Actually, it was On Cue, a franchise of the Musicland Corporation specially designed for small-town populations, but my discount was applicable towards Sam Goody, and I was transferred to Chicagoland Sam Goodys for summer and Christmas vacations, so it may as well have been.) It was a pretty boring job, as my routine consisted of aligning the sole of each left shoe toward the inside of the box, gossiping with the assistant manager over bad Chinese food, and alternating my Dixie Chicks and Faith Hill CDs in the disc player. Rensselaer has no more than seven thousand residents, and for six thousand nine hundred and eighty-three of them, their daily agendas did not include updating their edition of the little black heel or pimping out their eight-month-old baby with fifty-dollar Nikes. When the remaining seven did grace us with their presence, they didn't ask a lot of questions, opting instead to pull box after box off the shelf to play Cinderella with pair after pair of Carhart steel-toe boots. We had those silver insert-your-heel-here foot measurements seen in department stores and reruns of Married, With Children, gathering dust behind the cash register, but nobody requested such service, and I never thought to offer.

I mention this because I was in a shoe store last weekend, and for the first time since my age could be expressed in single digits, both of my feet were examined by an industry professional.

At first I thought the visit was pretty self-indulgent, having purchased a pair of cross-trainers two months ago specifically for exercising at the Y, a pair Luke argued were eerily similar to the ones I was already sporting, but I think he exaggerated. See for yourself.

See the thicker blue zig-zag, the extra mesh on the new shoe? Totally different!

While the shoes cast a lean look on my ginormous nine-and-a-half stompers, after ten minutes of wear my baby piggies were pushing against the outer walls much like the way a quarterback charges through an opposing team's defensive line. (I said that correctly, didn't I?) Not exactly inspiring for a health-resistant twenty-something who doesn't need any more excuses to pull off the road to wellness. Turns out the problem's been related to my shoe size this whole time, and was only resolved due to the clerk's insistence that I try on a ten. A TEN, people. I've worn a size nine dress shoe since high school and eventually upgraded my gym shoe to a nine and a half to allow a bit of breathing room for my toes, which never seemed to be comfortable, but I had refused to entertain the possibility that my feet were as big as my waistline. So I couldn't remember what it felt like to wiggle my big toe. Who needs the damn things anyway?

Now, thanks to my SIZE TEN SHOES, OH MY HOLY GOD, I offer humble apologies to the largest little piggies of the bunch. They've been quite useful during our fitness excursions, stabilizing my balance on the treadmill and in step class, blissfully unaware of the swelling, crushing, and crippling pain that once dominated their past. How my heart sings for all three of us! Behold the monsters that made this new courtship possible.

On first glance, these were my least favorite pair, and the last ones I tried, because for some reason my subconscious associates pink sneakers with nineteen eighties L.A. Gear. However, they were the only ones narrow enough to support my arch and long enough to bestow upon my toes some much needed personal space. So far I've worn them twice, and each time I fall a little more in love. I even like the pink. When I'm grunting like a dog in heat and sweat is coagulating in the crevices of my sports bra, their implied femininity couldn't be more appreciated.

I guess size really does matter.

For more soleful goodness, see parts one and two.

Apparently I'm Recovered Enough To Spend A Hundred Dollars At The Mall

Lately it's so easy for me to feel down about myself: less-than-stellar haircut, fifteen extra pounds in my trunk, ugly circles under my eyes from pushing bedtime to midnight or beyond.... Who knew all those bad feelings could be cured by spending some Benjamins?

(Say hello to my father-in-law, whose charming smile graces the (stage) left side of my new FREE make-up bag.)

Thanks to a little help from my friends, suddenly everything seems much brighter: my hair, which is actually growing out quite nicely, thank you very much; my skin, which is appearing to benefit from my mother's household stash of Proactiv; my weight, which wears much better when it's not being squeezed into clothing that emphasizes my mid-section.

OK, so these purchases don't exactly fit in with my quest to save money, but in my defense, I had an NY&C coupon that gave me thirty bucks off a total of seventy-five or more, resulting in five tops for under fifty dollars; plus, it was Bonus Time at Clinique. Who can resist the lure of delicious free samples for a minimum purchase of twenty-one fifty? Obviously not Frema. So what if I spent forty-five? I was still seven dollars shy of the amount I told Luke I would spend when I informed him this morning of the shopping trip that was sure to take place that afternoon.

(Edited to add: I have one gripe about Van Maur's Clinique counter: when I inquired about make-up removers, the girl tried to sell me a bottle of something that was already included in the Bonus Time package, a detail she failed to confirm until I carefully examined its contents and pointed it out; a detail that totally pisses me off. I'd already signed on for the All About Eyes and the Stay Matte Sheer Pressed Powder. You're getting my commission, woman! For cripe's sake, I'm shelling out twenty-seven Wendy's crispy chicken sandwiches for eye cream! Did you really need to extract another fifteen bucks from my debit card?)

Life is good. I'm feeling much better, I made it back to step class for the first time in two weeks, dishes are done, the checkbook is balanced, and once I hit "Publish," my blog will be updated. All I need is some sleep. I woke up at four o'clock today to deliver Luke to the airport in time for a seven o'clock flight, and since the lab is just another few minutes away, I decided to clock in two hours early. Of course, I left two hours early to make up the time. Such the dedicated worker bee am I.

And for the month of November, I hope to become a more dedicated blogger. When I heard about National Blog Posting Month from Kerflop a few days ago and the accompanying challenge to post once a day every day for the entire month, I hesitated to register. I can barely manage to update once a week; how can I possibly find something interesting to say thirty straight days in a row? Will writer's block resign me to cheesy literary devices like memes and sequels to my 100 things list?

There's only one way to find out.

People, I'm gonna need your help. Are there any topics you'd like me to address? Issues in my personal life you wish I'd explore more intimately? Embarrassing pictures you want to see? Then bring them the hell on, because OH SNAP. THIRTY STRAIGHT DAYS. GOD.

I have to pick up Luke from the airport now, so we can end this day and go to bed already, but before I do, I wanted to share some pictures I took during the Lost A Sock family's trip to Indianapolis this past Sunday. They are among the elite few who have dared to step foot in the Frema-Useless Clutter apartment, and their visit gave me a wonderful excuse to dust my picture frames and bleach my floors. In return, they provided two more reasons for me to speed up the childbirthing process. Thanks for making my ovaries ache, kids.

Doesn't Molly look fabulous? I'm drooling at the mouth over her hotness.

...And the utter coolness of KJ's glasses. My nine-year-old self is so jealous.

Blog, Resurrected

Let me start by saying that I am so mad at myself for not blogging on Friday the 13th, mainly for two reasons, the first being that Luke and I had started talking about my favorite horror scenes at Steak 'N Shake last Wednesday and the timing couldn't have been better, and the second being it was exactly one week since my last post, and I do so enjoy having a method to my madness. Now this entry has to do quadruple-duty on topics that could've managed just fine without any additional help, thank you very much. But both of us are up to the challenge.

Remember back in June when I talked about returning to my natural hair color without the assistance of professional dye products? Here's how far I got before I wanted to poke my eyes out with a pretzel rod, just to avoid being subjected to the train wreck that was my head. I like to mentally refer to this picture as Das Root:

 

This was taken on October 14, a mere hours before my cut and color at Enve--yes, the Chicago salon; yes, I've abandoned all hope of finding reputable hair care in Indianapolis; yes, I no longer care about exposing potential fetuses to harmful chemicals and dyes; YES, I AM OK WITH THAT. (But not really on that last one, since a number of Internet mommies informed me the probability of that happening is next to zero.) However, I did go the more practical route in terms of selecting a dye color, one that brought a little sexy back but wouldn't rat me out if I spaced out the length between touch ups. Here is the final result, which I'm pretty happy with, except the cut is still too short thanks to Magda the Racist Hairdresser and her equally bigoted texturizing comb.

Things around here are relatively tame. Last week I helped my boss write a book chapter for some chemistry association, and now I'm focusing on design for our client newsletter. Seeing as I spend the majority of my time at work devouring threads on AMC's message board, this recent flow of activity is a welcome improvement. I've also been on the verge of coming down with some sore throat/primal hunger/hot flash extravaganza that part of me hopes is an early sign of pregnancy but intellectually realizes is just a bug. Our Chi-town visit was fun, as we celebrated my father's forty-sixth birthday and hopped around the neighborhood to visit family and friends.

(Us kids chipped in to present my father with a gift certificate to his favorite Harley store, because he now loves that bike more than life itself. The poor man was accosted this weekend by Geo, who coated the inside of his ear with blue frosting, and Ryan, our hairdresser in training, who couldn't keep from running her hands through his Fantastic Sam's haircut and lamenting the unevenness of his ends.)

Here I am with Brooke and little Michael, now four months old. Though he was busy preparing for his baptism, he was still gracious enough to bestow a series of gifts on my right shoulder. In reply, I smelled his head and Brooke's arms received a well-deserved rest. Everybody wins!

We also saw my Uncle Chuckie and cousins Kenny and Stacey, who are on the cusp of experiencing their first month without my Auntie Debbie. It seems like my family can't get a break on the cancer front: my Auntie Donna, my mother's youngest sister and one of my favorite people in the whole world, was diagnosed with both brain cancer and breast cancer in the spring and is about to undergo seven weeks of radiation, five days a week. I keep thinking I need to address these topics with some lengthy, meaningful observations, but that whole post could be summed up in two words. Be kind. To yourself, to each other, to this unpredictable world we live in. Please keep them all in your prayers.

Still with me? Cuz there's more!

I have decided my relationship with Blogger should meet a timely and not-soon-enough demise, allowing me to explore a more emotionally satisfying connection with its for-profit counterparts. However, I refuse to initiate a courtship with Typepad until I can register for an account using a domain name that I thought of and paid for all by my own damn self. Except not really, because after months of scribbling on old drafts of my lab's clinical directory, I have yet to be inspired by a site name that's smart but not cheesy, funny but not embarrassing, original but not long, and relates somehow to my online persona or blog title. Thus, I have no choice but to call upon your own creative juices to name. my. BLOG!

(Insert TV game show theme song of your choice here and tell me which one you went with in the comments.)

You're up for the challenge, aren't you? Not only because you're savvy and charming, but also because Frema will put together a winning care package featuring a plethora of interesting and not at all Goodwill-worthy items straight from What're you lookin' at?'s headquarters? If I could, I'd arrange for some type of Deal or No Deal format wherein I fly twenty-six of you to Indianapolis, each of you armed with a case that bears your obviously fabulous submission, and I pick one of the cases for my very own and narrow down the list that way, but I'm pretty broke to be shelling out a trillion dollars on airfare for people I've never met, and besides, I'm nowhere near as captivating as Howie Mandel, whose newly bald head alone earns him a spot on my top five. If I had I top five, that is, which of course I don't, I'm a married woman for cripe's sake.

I'm counting on you, Internet. You're my only hope.

Official rules to come later, preferably when it's not one-thirty in the morning.

In Frema's Shoes, Part The Second

Good thing I broke up the whole shoe series with a little post about pee, because apparently I have shocked some of you with the quantity currently in my possession. Which, COME ON, people. Two pairs were flip-flops that barely meet the criteria of footwear, and a couple of others were ones I've owned for two years or more. Plus, I work in an office, which justifies--no, necessitates--the many pointed heels.

To ease you back into this, though, I present to you first The Only Respectable Product I've Ever Seen Sold From A Fashion Bug, as promised. Also, before you gasp in the superficial materialness of it all, they were three dollars. As in one two three. Anyone who passes on buying shoes that get you change back on a fin should be taken out back and poked in the belly button.

The year was 2004, and I was desperate for a neutral wedge to compliment this red seashell-print skirt I found at New York and Company for eight bucks. (Another sale. Am occasionally shopping genius!) I heart them because they give the illusion that my legs start directly below my breasts and carry on straight to the center of the earth, and yet I loathe them with an equal passion, because the cork has no problem maiming my ankles with deep red gashes. I wear them about three times a summer, and seeing as this is our third summer together, all three of us, I believe I've more than made my money's worth. So what if I cry out in pain when I walk to the printer?

Another old friend, also from 2004. Out of my whole shoe collection, these bad boys are my most expensive pair at a whopping seventy bucks, purchased online at the Simple Shoe Web site. They have also become Frema's Most Worn Shoe Of All Time because of their versatility. You can wear them with any color except black and almost every pant style. Capris. Shorts. Khakis. Jeans of the pant and skirt variety. The leather has held up surprisingly well despite the many hiking trips they've taken through state parks all over Indiana. I'm guessing leather isn't meant to be saturated with water and sweat, but I, I am a rule breaker, and the sandals are powerless to protest.

Your basic black boots, purchased at Bakers last September so I could wear my comfortable, just-like-sweatpants gauchos from NY&C. The heel is thick enough that I don't trip over cracks in the sidewalk, and the toe is square enough that my toes don't throb from lack of circulation. Everybody wins!

Pair three of four from my Nine West spree, which I wear all. The. Time, as evidenced by the fraying straps. I have stripped my entire apartment in a frantic search for pair number four, which makes me think I passed them on to the folks at Goodwill. I must've reasoned that the heel was too high and the toe too pointy to wear them for more than twenty minutes without limping and using complete strangers as a human crutch and thus had no real purpose sitting in my closet. Like that's any excuse to part with a sexy stiletto.

Wedges I bought in April during my honeymoon shopping spree, which I happen to be wearing right now, and which I happen to be madly in love with. Jeans, skirts, capris--they're so darned adventurous!

Working for the institutional advancement and marketing office of a private college means you work a lot of fund-raising events, and during my three-year tenure as publications director for Saint Joe, I was obligated to attend the college's annual scholarship dinner, a fancy schmancy black-tie affair for potential donors hosted at the Sheraton in downtown Chicago. For dinner number two (according to these shoe posts, 2004 was a VERY good shoe year for me), I purchased a fiesty black cocktail dress that needed a fiesty black heel. So I bought these.

...And these, because even though the bow pair is cuter and better matched the sheen of my dress, this ankle-strap pair was easier to walk in. That night I ended up going with the bows, but these have also gotten their fair share of the night life. When I HAVE a night life, that is.

Another Payless find from That Fateful Year, which I usually pair with capris during the summer, but seeing as the soles of the shoe stick to my foot sweat, creating the Sole Bunch dreaded by women everywhere, I don't wear them that often.

My gym shoes, which have definitely seen better days. I have a hard time selecting an athletic shoe because they're either Too Wide or Too Narrow or Too Tight Around The Toes, but these Sauconys are perfect in every way. They've been especially patient with me as I experiment with aerobics classes at the Y. Last Thursday I finally took the plunge and attended hip-hop aerobics, only to find that the hip-hop aerobics instructor was out due to a Family Emergency, so the substitute taught us basic step instead. And not just Richard Simmons, twenty-minutes-of-sweatin'-to-some-oldies stuff. Pam is a Vietnam vet and has the muscle mass of a pre-governor Arnold Schwarzenegger with the body size of Nicole Kidman. It was a great class, and when Luke and I were in the weight room last night, she approached me on the treadmill, saying she was subbing for another instructor again and would be teaching basic step two and would I be interested in joining?

Turns out I was interested; however, completing forty-five minutes' worth of routines with no sign of matt time in sight was my first clue in figuring out "basic step two" actually meant "intermediate." Plus, I heard her use the word "intermediate" when describing the session to another member. Another big tip-off. I almost passed out from the sweating and puffing and moaning and medicine-balling (am I the first one to realize that the rhythms of vigorous exercise and sexual intercourse are exactly the same?). Damn sneaky vets who want me to work up to my potential. I hope to see Pam again tonight, for the real basic step, during her regularly scheduled time.

Finally, I leave you with the flops that died a quick but painful death outside of Don Pablo's last month. Even gobs of medical tape weren't enough to keep them from passing into The Great Beyond.

My mom is an Avon fanatic and saw these babies advertised as two for three dollars and calls them Zsa Zsas because they glitter just like Zsa Zsa Gabor. She offered to buy me a set, and I accepted, only Luke hates the shoes and their name and probably isn't as sorry as he says he is for stepping on my heel and breaking the strap. The black pair is still going strong, though, so we'll see who has the last laugh in the end.

In Frema's Shoes, Part The First

Before Luke moved in with me last year, I knew I had to make some changes to my then-current state of living. Using both sides of the closet to divide my clothes by season and function. Filling all four shelving units with my boxes and boxes of shoes. Not only did I donate about thirty percent of my wardrobe to needy family members and the folks at Goodwill, I also bid a sad farewell to almost half of my shoe collection. Back then, I thought I had a lot of shoes. Today, while photographing the "leftovers" for this exercise (yeah, I'm a little late, wanna make somethin' of it?), I realized something.

I still have a lot of shoes.

This entry is labeled Part the First because Blogger crapped out on me after uploading pair seven. There are still at least ten more, including a pair of "f- me" heels (trademark Number Twelve from this post) that were discovered to be missing just minutes ago thanks to this here project. They're in a Nine West box. You know, in case there happens to be an extra pair of Nine West shoes lying around your house.

And on with the show.

These shoes were purchased last summer and are one of four obtained at Nine West before I started work at the lab, in an attempt to adorn my feet with pretties that radiated Adulthood. The shoes were on sale for half off, so each pair cost me thirty-five bucks. Honestly, it's like I was ripping off the damn store. My mother thinks they're ugly. She calls them my Wicked Witch of the West shoes, which I wore straight through to October. This year? Not once.

Pair number two from previously mentioned shopping spree (number three is sitting on my home desktop waiting patiently for Blogger to pop a Midol and get back on the wagon; number four is somewhere with the missing Nine West box). These shoes look fantabulous with skirts and capris, but the heels of my feet have a bad habit of falling out of them when I walk, so I end up taking near-spills onto the ground. They're worth it, though, because they make my size-nine monsters look like wee, dainty things.

 

I first saw these in Bakers last July for forty-five bucks and cried my heart out, because I couldn't justify spending the money on a pair of shoes I had no outfit for. In September they were on the clearance rack for twenty dollars. I took it as a sign from God, hauled @$$ to the register, and didn't look back. They look great with jeans, when I feel sassy enough to wear them. Having a hard time pairing them with skirts, though. What material would appropriately balance out the darlingness of the darling little broach?

One of several finds from Payless that I'm surprised I've held on to this long. These guys are probably four years old and fit like a glove. Another great Jean Shoe. I've also matched them with a brown skirt and tights. I get compliments on these babies every time I wear them. I can't figure out why, because while I like them very much, I'll be the first to admit they look horribly out of style. Rounded toe! Chunky heel! Questionable stitching! But they're mine, all mine, and I will have them nailed to my chest when I'm eighty-nine years old and lying dead in my coffin and you can't stop me.

Well, maybe you could. Cuz I'll be dead.

Moving on.

Another pair that makes me scratch my head in wonder. When I first saw them in Bakers (aka The Poor Man's Nordstrom), I was looking for a casual brown shoe with no heel that I could comfortably wear with khakis and a collar shirt or sporty tee. The tops of these shoes fit my description perfectly. But WTF is with that sole, man? Are they heels or not? And all that rubber padding? The hell? Apparently, these issues weren't dealbreakers, though, as I bought them anyway, and I love them just as much as my other footy children, so there.

Flip-flops from JC Penney that I bought because I had a twenty-one dollar credit and I'm not the type of person who can walk into a store with free money and not spend at least a little bit of it. That was last year. I think there's still eight dollars left. I'm not a big fan of JC Penney, and you're probably not a fan of seeing my sweat stains, so let's keep going.

We're all big fans of Payless, though, aren't we? How could it be othewise when you know you have a fifty/fifty chance of unearthing the find of the century for a measly ten bucks? These things--they barely qualify as shoes, I know--these things went for nine dollars on clearance, and like a bad car accident, I could not turn away. Don't they just scream "Beachy Sherpa Gap"? No? Then maybe "Toss Me In The Garbage Already Because Your Big Toes Are Gonna Make Love To The Pavement Any Freakin' Day Now." Definitely that one.

I'm almost embarassed to say I wear these to work at least once a week, with khakis. I should be totally embarassed, now that you've seen I have more appropriate attire in my possession. Last year was all about making a good impression; I donned eighty-dollar slacks from The Limited and made my face up with foundation, blush, and eye shadow every single day. This year I'll wear the aforementioned khakis three days in a row and barely remember to take the shine off my nose. What do you think? Progression because I'm brave enough to brake the ties that bind me to the corporate world or regression because I don't value my feet enough to wear shoes with an actual shape? You be the judge.

Stay tuned, as Part the Second includes boots, a sandal that might be the only respectable product I've ever seen sold from a Fashion Bug, and approximately one zillion variations of The Little Black Heel. You're about to wet yourself with anticipation, I can tell.

The Sacrifices I Make For This Family, I Swear.

As part of our quest to save money, Luke and I recently examined the ways we spend our time, thus examining the way we spend our cash. Our biggest discretionary expenditures by far were our frequent trips north. With gas climaxing at three bucks a gallon, we were racking up more than a hundred dollars a month on fuel, tolls, and food to sustain us on the road. Not only that, but we were feeling disconnected from Indianapolis--you know, the city we actually live in, missing all the downtown festivals, the free concerts, the opportunities to build on friendships with those who reside within city limits. For both our checkbook and our sanity, it was decided that we needed to focus our energies on building social, productive lives in our very own zip code.

There was just one thing holding me back.

Brenda, My Windy City Hair Goddess. Yes.

The break started out gradually, with me downgrading my post-honeymoon cut and color to a simple trim. Our budget couldn't afford all the attention my hair was getting, and because I keep it relatively short, all the red should be gone by Thanksgiving. So I went for the trim and gave Brenda a thumbs-up, even though I was crying a little inside because the flippy tresses I knew and loved intimately for many, many months were still gone, even though she's followed my very precise yet admittedly vague instructions (hence the word "flippy") to the letter during my last two cuts. Isn't that the way with hair styles, though? You find one you love, and you think it's going to stick around for good this time, but one wrong snip from an incompetent who claims to have gone to beauty school yet breaks into hives because she doesn't know what a blow-out is (geez, bitter much?) and it packs its bags, never to be heard from again. Maybe our hair cuts were never meant to be permanent but instead designed to provide a foundation on which to make important, life-changing discoveries about texturizing and diffusing, with intentions to pack up after the wind changed in order to share its secrets with other lost souls who shamelessly self-trim and purchase Aqua Net hair products.

Or maybe I'm a freak because I align my hair cuts with Mary Poppins. Who's to say?

Anyway, my plan was to continue visiting Brenda's salon whenever I was in Chicago, and if that meant skipping a trim or two, so be it. Last month, I scheduled my next appointment for Saturday, July 21, and went on my merry way.

Then Luke and I invited Samantha and Dan to spend a couple of days with us in Indy, and the only weekend that jived for all four of us fell on the same weekend as my hair cut. No worries, I thought. I’ll just save it for next time.

But that was until the divide between my top and bottom layers became so large that a small child could've been swallowed by its gaping gapeness. There was no Chi-town trip scheduled for July. I could not wait until August. Once again, I had to explore my options "in-house."

I was not excited. My previous two experiences left me wishing I'd followed the advice outlined by Glamour's beauty editor, who insists on arranging a consultation with your stylist-to-be before trusting them with sharp objects around your head. And I seriously considered it this time, but my raise wasn't so high that I can afford multiple visits to a salon with nothing to show for it. I finally decided on a place across the way from our apartment complex and stopped in this past Friday. I figured, sometimes even a bad hair cut is better than no hair cut at all.

My appointment was with an older woman who reminded me of Magda from There's Something About Mary in the sense that her skin gave the appearance of a permanent tan. But she was very nice and patiently listened to me describe my previous experiences and agreed that places who spell "curl" with a K should never be trusted. She used a texturizing comb on my ends, a tool Brenda never relied on, but every stylist is different and I'm not the one with the cosmetology license and I didn't want to be That Girl so I kept my mouth shut and let her do her thing. When she was done, I told her not to bother with a style as I was going to the gym and would wash it out, anyway. She made me promise to call her once I'd had a chance to play with it and let her know if further shaping needed to be done.

I'm usually of the school of thought that pretty stylists make pretty hair. Brenda is very pretty. She has a great body and a mass of blond curls and probably buys her clothes from boutiques like The Limited and Ann Taylor. Magda is old enough to be my mother and had on one of those knit scooped-neck tees you find on the clearance rack at TJ Max. But I’ll be damned if she didn’t give my layers a good talking to before whipping those bad boys into shape. Plus, she was ten bucks cheaper. I just may have made my first Indianapolis friend. (By the way, I'd love to show you a picture of the new 'do, especially since I risked life and limb to take a picture of myself in my office when I forgot to shut the door, barely escaping an awkward conversation with our billing specialist as to why I photograph myself at work, but Blogger's gone all premenstrual again. I am thisclose to making fremanitis.com a reality.)

Sadly, though, what I saved in hair care was ultimately canceled out in cosmetics, as two weeks ago I finally coughed up the twenty-one fifty at Sephora for this product, which Real Girl Beauty boasts as the best solution to solving that pesky crease problem I've been griping about for months. While it doesn't last all day, I can put it on at seven-thirty the morning and trust it to last until a couple of hours before bedtime, which is understandable, seeing as I usually don't hit the sheets before eleven-thirty, and fifteen hours is a long time for any product to last. The bottle is teeny tiny, but you only need to tap the stuff once lightly with your finger to get enough for each lid. Good times.

In other news, I'm a little nervous, because tomorrow I'm attending a clinical chemistry conference in Chicago to scope out the other labs out who peddle their services on unsuspecting academics and see how we measure up, marketing-wise. At first I was stoked because corporate travel eventually turns into a mileage reimbursement check, and at forty-five cents a mile, those checks help you look at pain-in-the-@$$ day trips in a brand-new light, especially when the location of said trip enables you to visit Mom and Dad on the company's dime. However, I have been invited to make the drive with another coworker, a guy who seems friendly enough but with whom I've had little personal interaction, but since there's no real reason for me NOT to go along—I don't have to stay overnight or get back by a certain time or anything—I figured it wouldn't hurt to show my sociable side with another employee. But how to fill up all that travel time? Do I bring music? Cup cakes? Wedding proof books? What topics are safe to cover? What if he's not a big talker? What if he turns out to be some weirdo who starts forest fires and kills puppies?

He's picking me up at 7:30, so you still have plenty of time to suggest possible ice breakers or activities that don't segue into religion, politics, or the weather.

Celebrating Blogger's Return to Normalcy

In light of all the thought-provoking text that's been dumped on this site lately, I thought I'd give your eyes a rest by providing some mindless entertainment.

At long last, some actual pictures from Luke's and my honeymoon in Niagara Falls. The below shot was taken from New York State Park's observation deck, and it's one of my favorites. The Canadian side of the falls is so touristy; we counted about six variations of Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum, including one that featured wax replicas of beloved American gangsters. We also saw a Burger King with a mounted head of Frankenstein who was, of course, eating a Big Mac. A perfect addition to the one of the country's most romantic hotspots.

 

 

Luke took this during our Maid of the Mist boat tour. If I were wearing my glasses, I bet I'd be able to open my eyes, too, but as it was, we were so close to the water I pulled a Helen Keller and simply allowed my body to be overtaken by the w-a-t-e-r.

This is one of the photos I referred to in the post about my journey through Weight Watchers and current layover in the Land of Plenty (Plenty of Fat, that is). Clearly this is the before shot, taken at some ungodly hour in my office at the college because as usual there was some sort of urgent admissions matter to take care of on the Web site, because low deposits are the direct result of a prospective student's lack of knowledge about the institution's flexible meal-plan options.

This picture is kind of embarrassing for many reasons; not only does it mark the beginning of my "too much junk in the trunk" period, it also reminds me I wore wear sweatpants to work. WHEN PEOPLE WERE AWAKE. AND HAD ACTUAL CONVERSATIONS WITH THEM. To be fair, it only happened on the days I had off for school and I would sneak into the office to catch up on paperwork, but still. When I possessed enough common sense to even walk into a New York and Company in between scoping out Wal-Mart's clearance rack for business casual attire is beyond me. Look at my boobs, for cripe's sake! They're so droopy it's impossible to tell if I'm even wearing a bra.

When a coworker nonchalantly remarked that sweatpants are a sign one has given up on life, I should have realized he was talking about me.

The picture also reminds me of the various trials and tribulations I've weathered through with my hair; this stage may have been the worst, as I was so freakin' busy gaining weight in my computer chair there was no time to manage the rat's nest attached to my head. Clips for the bangs and a scrunchie for the length and I was good to go.

Well, maybe not quite the worst, as evidenced by an example of what can only be described as A Perfectly Valid Reason For Luke Not To Have Married Me:

I was a junior in college when this picture was taken and too broke to scrape up the dough for an eight-dollar trim at Fantastic Sam's. Yet I continued to iron and scrunch accordingly because even though I had finally come to terms with my spiral curls, I refused to believe that anything other than straight, "wispy" tresses would attractively frame my face. Also, I was afraid a new style would mark me the latest target of campus ridicule, which is laughable now considering they must've been doing that anyway. Lesson learned: when your bangs start tickling the sides of your neck, they are no longer bangs and therefore must stop being treated AS IF THEY ARE STILL BANGS.

I continued with this look until the spring before graduation, when I got a cut that took off about five inches of length and sixteen frillion inches of bang. During the winter of 2004, I told the woman I wanted a hella-cool style like the one Winona Ryder had in Reality Bites. The woman barely spoke English and therefore had no idea who Winona Ryder was (which in hindsight may not have been a bad thing), but the end result was one I was willing to live with.

The cut is only about a month old in this picture, which you can probably tell by the fact that I have not yet given up on The Sexy Bang Fantasy. Thankfully it wasn't long before I stopped treating my front layers as a separate entity and gave up flatironing altogether.

As an aside, this is the very first apartment I had all to myself, and it remains my favorite to this day. The living room slash dining room slash computer room had charming hardwood floors and intimate lighting, perfect for late nights cuddling in front of the fireplace. If I had a fireplace. Who cares if the lock on the back door in my bedroom didn't work? My bad-@$$ spaghetti-making self can overtake any intruder with just a splash of hot water, just a splash, and a sturdy pair of dollar-store tongs. Was genius, except for the color coordination of my outfits with the stove.

Ah, much better. You can see my roots, but admit it. I look damn cute. Until...

This was taken about two weeks ago, right before my last hair cut, and the lack of shape (and make-up, while we're at it; could I not have spared twelve freakin' seconds to throw on some pressed powder?!) frightens even me. Pondering life's biggest questions had apparently beaten the crap out of me with the fugliest ugly stick The Universe could find. The second my toes entered the boundaries of Brenda's station, I demanded she start cutting, and cutting, and cutting, and cutting, 'til she couldn't cut no mo. Which brings me to the present day.

[11/21/06 edit: the "after" picture was lost in The Great Blogger/TypePad merger of 2006. Woe!]

So I hadn't quite banked on The Little Orphan Annie Comeback of 2006, but seeing as Luke and I are counting every penny and there is no longer the excuse of pending nuptials to justify spending over a hundred