What are you looking at?

Tuck it in, tuck it in *(belly, not baby)

Six weeks and six days ago, I had a baby. Here he is.

The Beach Boys and hottie John Stamos aren't the only ones who want to go to Kokomo.

At six weeks and six days, Liam:

• Has been diagnosed with and declared healed from umbilical granuloma
• Indulges in self-torture by way of pulling his own hair
• Screams after said hair pulling but requires Momma to free him from his iron grip
• Smiles when you plant puckery kisses on his mouth
• Is drawn to light, especially when it's shining through half-closed blinds
• Cannot maintain a dry diaper for longer than eight seconds
• Is settling into a feeding pattern of four ounces every three hours and is already showing signs that he's ready to ditch his middle-of-the-night feeding
• Spent a half-hour awake and smiling in his cradle swing today. THIS IS HUGE.
• Has perfected several facial expressions, including Zoolander's Blue Steel
• Is already losing his hair. Maybe, son, it's because YOU'RE PULLING IT OUT BY THE ROOTS
• Will probably grow up answering to Luke's and my primary nickname of choice: Nathan

Harbored behind those bright blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks is an ocean of wisdom.

Meanwhile, this is me.

At six weeks and six days postpartum, I:

• Drink a lot of coffee, as evidenced by ninety percent of my Facebook posts
• Call milk and cookies my evening poison
• Sit almost five pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, despite my brand loyalty to all things Oreo
• Lay claim to one (1) infection-free c-section scar
• Have hosted a lengthy visit from the nefarious Aunt Flo
• Heard the phrases "tummy tuck" and "plastic surgeon" uttered by my OB/GYN during last Thursday's postpartum follow-up
• Feel super awesome about this!

Let me explain.

Early on in my second trimester, I was diagnosed with having diastasis recti - the separation of your abdominal muscles into left and right halves. It felt like a pretty big deal at the time, as I cried out in pain whenever someone so much as brushed against my stomach, but by my third trimester, the discomfort was gone and I assumed I was out of the woods. Prior to my c-section, though, my OB/GYN promised to be mindful of my abdominal area and do what she could to tighten things up during surgery, if such tightening were necessary.

The first few weeks after Liam was born, I was in such hell from my c-section and then so focused on recovering that I didn't think much about the diastasis recti, until a fellow Hoosier blogger posted about her own dance with the condition. I wasn't feeling any of the pain Casey talked about, but my stomach protruded in a similar fashion, albeit saddled with eight extra tons of Frema flab. Now, I've never rocked a six-pack, or even a one-pack for that matter, but maybe at least some of the flab could be attributed to this? I decided to ask my doctor about it at my six-week check-up.

The exam itself went great. Incision healed, vitals normal, birth control taken care of (thanks again, honey), physical activity approved.... All good news. Then I brought up the diastasis recti and waited to hear the recommended course of treatment. Ab splint? Physical therapy? Whatever it is, I said, I would do it. Bring it on.

My OB/GYN was silent as she rested her hand slightly below my breasts.

(Get your mind out of the gutter, you.)

"There's still a slight separation I can feel right here," she explained, her hand still in place, "but most of what we're dealing with is stretched out skin."

Hmm. Not exactly the verdict I was hoping for. "Since I'm cleared for exercise, would that do anything for me?" 

She tilted her head as she considered the question. "It could help some, but typically excess skin, once it's there, doesn't go away without surgery."

Enter abdominoplasty/tummy tuck conversation here.

Before you start railing on my doctor, please note that she did not in any way, shape, or form suggest that I need to have this done. If you had been a fly on the wall for my entire check-up, it would have been obvious to you that the thought of carrying around this amount of skin for the rest of my life made me more than a little uncomfortable. She also went on to say that during my c-section, she added some extra stitches to tighten things up around my abdomen and pointed out that internally I am not completely healed. "It's too soon to make any decisions right now. See what you can do with diet and exercise, and after some time, if it still bothers you, I can give you a referral for a plastic surgeon, and you can schedule a consult to get more information."

So, there you have it. One more bullet point to add to my list of "Things I Used to Scoff At Before I Became a Mother."

Seriously, though, I'm not sure what to think. On one hand, even before having kids, I've always had a bit of a belly overhang that kept me from effortlessly shopping for clothes, being naked in front of other people, and having sex without feeling at least a little self-conscious. After Kara, that bit of overhang turned into a tire gut, and after Nathan, graduated to the dreaded "mother's apron" (a term I just today learned from Shape of a Mother, thank you very much), and now? Well, let's just say even the worst "Before" pictures on Wikipedia's abdominoplasty page don't do my midsection justice. Yet, all this time, I've never before entertained the idea of having it surgically removed. Girl power, love yourself and all that jazz. And now as a parent, in particular a mom to a daughter, I worry about the kind of message I would be sending about self-love and acceptance by submitting myself to unnecessary plastic surgery. How can I encourage Kara to embrace who she is, AS she is, if I'm having my own imperfections hacked off with a scalpel?

On the other hand, it's not as if I'm in danger of becoming the next Heidi Montag. Overall I quite like my body and thank God for all it's been able to do, including but not limited to carrying three healthy babies and running a half-marathon. I have no problems walking out of the house sans make-up, even to work, and I can take or leave coloring my hair. Getting a tummy tuck would be a specific answer to a specific problem that's frustrated me for years. And unless I changed my zero-tolerance policy on bikinis and tube tops, the only person besides me who would even notice the end result is Luke. Which is fine by me, since I would only be doing it for me.

As for Kara and the boys? Well, I may be relatively new to parenting, but even I know enough to appreciate that this one choice wouldn't negate years of consistent teaching and role modeling when it comes to loving yourself as you are. Plus, while I believe in the importance of self-acceptance, I also support making your own happiness and not closing a door out of fear for what others might think. 

On the other OTHER hand, cosmetic surgery is not something to be taken lightly, and after three c-sections, going under the knife a fourth time to basically improve my self-esteem hardly sounds appealing. Also, I'm nowhere near convinced that the benefits outweigh the risks when I've barely scratched the surface when it comes to improving my commitment to physical fitness. I may never eliminate my gut entirely that way, but who knows? I might come close, all on my own, and that may be enough.

Also, dudes. Tummy tucks? Not cheap.  Even if I was resigned to having it done, we couldn't afford it until Luke was back at work, which could be another five years away, and even then I'd have a hard time justifying the cost when the money could be deposited into one of our retirement accounts. 

Maybe one day Liam would take pity on me and HE'D pay for the surgery. We could call it the Mother's Day gift that keeps on giving. You think?

Luckily, this is not a decision I have to make (or can afford to make!) tomorrow. What I can do is run over to Wal-Mart, pick up a new Jillian Michaels video, and draw inspiration from one Marty McFly: "If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

Now for what YOU can do: Ripped in 30 or 6-Week Six-Pack?

* ETA because I didn't even think about the title indicating that this might be a sleep entry.

She trims her bangs, her bangs

Last week, I was all set to sacrifice a proper salon experience for the sake of my family's budget. It would be an adventure! I told myself optimistically in an effort to calm my fears. And good blog fodder to boot! I OWE IT TO THE INTERNET AND ALSO THE COMEDIC GENRE TO GO TO GREAT CLIPS. This was happening.

Then I talked to Gina, my girlfriend since kindergarten who back in high school introduced me to Brenda, My Favorite Hair Stylist Ever, and who appreciates the ability to do good hair even more than I do. When I explained to her my financial dilemma and adventurous plan over a two-hour chat Saturday night, I could practically hear her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "Breain, you can't go to Great Clips. You just can't," she said, and eventually convinced me to call my regular salon and ask about a bang trim, since they were the primary frustration reason I had for scheduling an appointment anywhere. And you know what? It was SIX DOLLARS. So I booked a visit for yesterday after work, and ten minutes later I walked away eight dollars poorer but also two free samples richer AND mentally a million dollars happier. Apparently, friends don't let friends go to Great Clips. Thanks again, friend.

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Another happiness boost: today is payday, and this morning I realized with a start that it marks the third payday of not having to dip into our savings account OR having to charge anything to our Visa. Step by painful step, our plan to live within our means, pay off our credit card debt, and save for the future is working. It works partly because I am no longer fighting the word "no" -- no, you can't run to Chipotle with the girls; no, you don't need eight subs AND pizza for Kara and Nathan's party, even if you do feel like a cheapskate for serving cold cuts. I know that I wear the same handful of clothes to work every day, eat the same kind of lunch every day, and it doesn't bother me like it did before. Luke has to run in below-freezing temperatures to train for the Indy 500 Mini-Marathon because we can't afford a treadmill or even a monthly gym membership, and he is doing it without complaint. Gifts to nieces and nephews have been drastically scaled down for occasions like Christmas, birthdays, and baptisms, but we do it and just remain grateful we can afford to buy them anything at all.

However, this new reality only works because Luke and I have undergone a huge shift in mindset and a willingness to ask, "What are we really working for? What is the priority here?" while embracing the amount of money we have to work with right now, instead of looking to the future for some magical solution. For example, I mentioned in an earlier post how I thought that our situation would resolve itself after receiving our tax refund check and my annual merit increase, which is typically issued at the same time every year. Well, recent events have made it clear to me that the type of increase I was expecting to get isn't something I can take for granted (the economy is affecting everyone, it seems!). And the tax check will be good, but it won't eliminate our Visa balance, so every paycheck prior to Baby Brother's arrival will continue to be carefully orchestrated to make sure we can axe off this debt, pay my OB bill, and maintain a small nest egg to compensate for what paid maternity leave and short-term disability benefits won't cover. Now more than ever, I reflect on Suze Orman's long-ago-uttered mantra, "I have more money than I will ever need," and strive (along with Luke, of course) to make this true for my family. 

But not everything is a wash. This month is fall registration time at Kara's school, and Luke and I are committed to sending both Kara and Nathan for one day a week this year. Technically, Kara is old enough for preschool, which meets for two and a half hours twice a week, but not only was it slightly more expensive, it also required Luke to finagle three small children -- including one newborn -- out of the house multiple days a week. By keeping Kara in the same type of program she's in now, she and Nathan can be out on the same day for the same number of hours, making drop-off and pick-up logistics infinitely easier on Luke. It wasn't an easy decision, knowing that Kara is capable of (and would enjoy) participating in a more education-based curriculum, but there's always next year, and we do plenty at home, and again, we're just grateful she can continue an activity she loves and that we can offer the same opportunity to Nathan. After all, THEY are what we're working for. THEY are our priority. We would gladly give up a lifetime of gym memberships and a million fast-food tacos for them.

That's what she said

"I swear I didn't pull it that hard" was the opening I received upon taking in the broken car door handle in Luke's hand, severed from the Cobalt on Tuesday during his ninety-minute quest to free my car from several layers of ice.

"The door handle begs to differ," I said.

 

It's hard to be mad about it when he was doing such a kind thing for me, braving freezing temperatures to spare his eighteen-weeks-pregnant wife from all that time outside. Plus, it was the passenger-side door, and since normally only one person is in the Cobalt at a time, it's not a big deal in the long run. Luke is hopeful that he can superglue the handle back on once the weather is warmer; meanwhile, I worry we are one step away from using engine hoods from different vehicle models and garbage bags from under the kitchen sink as substitutes for legimate car repairs. At least superglue is budget-friendly!

This was just one of several winter-weather troubles experienced by my husband during Indy's two-day, house-bound Iceapalooza.

 

RIP, ice scraper number one.

 

...And to your cheap, good-for-nothing brother, ice scraper number two.

He also took a decent fall yesterday while completing his training run for the Mini-Marathon, attempting to hike the slope leading from our trail to our backyard, which he is still paying for today by way of cuts on his nose and lip and various aches and pains. He nearly scared the bejeezus out of me when he came back into the house.

 

Thankfully, Monday's weather was uneventful, so the four of us were able to enjoy a lovely afternoon at a nearby park to celebrate Nathan's birthday. More on that (plus his video!) soon.

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In our on-going effort to live within our means, pay off our credit card, AND have something leftover for savings, Luke and I are constantly reassesing our priorities and searching for less expensive ways to accommodate the non-negotiables. One such item that I have been consistently moving over to the next pay period for myself is a haircut. The salon I usually go to is affiliated with Aveda and charges $29 for a wash and cut. For someone who spent the better part of her teens and early twenties fighting with stylists from walk-in places like Fantastic Sam's over the best way to hack my curls, this price has never phased me because the service is top-notch and I am usually satisfied with the results. Plus, even when I was in Chicago getting the best cuts of my life (I still miss you, Brenda), the most I paid for a cut was $35. Again, so worth it to me for the service and expertise.

Unfortunately, our current budget disagrees. Either I can keep putting it off until I can afford my regular place, every day growing one step closer to resembling the cavemen in those Geico commercials, or resign myself to searching for cheaper, possibly less-experienced pastures. As evidenced by the photo below, I think it's obvious there's really just one option.

 

Look! With the proper backdrop and everything!

Action must be taken, and soon. Therefore, sometime between now and next weekend, which is when we'll travel north to attend baby Rosemary's baptism, I will cross my fingers, say a prayer, and brave the chair at Great Clips. I will be sure to keep the cut simple; right now, my hair is actually a little too "fringe-y" for my taste, and the layers are out of wack from postponing all these weeks, so a clean-up is definitely in order. The long-term goal is to grow it out to shoulder-length by summer; before that, though, I need a cut that will be more conducive to less upkeep. My hope is to replicate a style I had in 2006 during my pre-engagement/newlywed period, as pictured here:

 

Not drastically different from how I wear it now, just a little fuller at the top without the tails framing my face. That shouldn't be hard for even a new stylist to handle, right? I wouldn't think so. But then, I also thought all stylists knew how to do a blow-out with a round brush. Apparently, that is not the case.

Wish me luck, friends.

(Also: SOB, I miss that outfit. And my hair color! And the money and the basically care-free existence we had back then! Naive fools, both of you!) 

Shower the people you love with a long, boring story about locker room politics

Before I left for an overnight business trip to Tampa two weeks ago, I signed up for a gym membership through work with the rationale that the minute I returned I would dive headfirst into pre-training for the Mini. My plan for the next few weeks involves experimenting with all the different aspects of training to smooth out out any potential kinks, everything from keeping pace on a treadmill to defining "cross-training" within the running community. Come the third week in January, I want all of my fears surrounding the logistical aspects of training to be laid to rest so that I'm not thrown off-track by something like operating equipment at the gym. No anxiety over the unfamiliar, no distractions, just me concentrating on my goal.

Except that I never actually made it to the gym. Of course, there was always a perfectly valid reason not to go: waking up late, errands after work, Christmas shopping to do, blah blah blah. Then last night I realized that hey! All these excuses aren't doing my training (or my waistline) any favors. Throw into the mix that I'm standing up in a wedding in September and shopping for bridesmaids dresses commences in four short weeks, and voila! Instant mental kick in the pants.

So on Sunday night I decided that this was the week to get the proverbial ball rolling. Despite the upcoming holiday and consequent onslaught of goodies sure to blanket every surface of my office (who recommits to health and fitness BEFORE the New Year?), despite hosting my sister's family the previous weekend, despite getting under the covers at a quarter to one. This was the week. Monday was the day.

When I set my alarm for just four hours later, though, I had my doubts. Luke was also concerned.

"Maybe you should just push it off until after work," he said. "I can take care of the kids through dinner and even do bedtime."

It was tempting, but too late. My work clothes and shower gear had been stuffed into a backpack. Lunch was made. The iPod was loaded. A padlock had been located for securing my cubby in the locker room. I'd even outlined a brief schedule to account for every major chunk of time between leaving the house and arriving at my office. An extra twenty minutes of sleep after all that careful planning wouldn't add enough to my day to justify skipping the workout, I reasoned. More importantly, the longer I waited to get to the gym, the less likely I was to follow through.

"I'll set the alarm and see what happens," I said. "If I'm too tired, I'll wait. But at least I want to try."

And I did try, first at 4:40 a.m. when my alarm started beeping, then again at five. I felt Luke's warm body next me, sensed the presence of Kara's feet near my hips, and thought how nice it would be to cuddle as a family a little while longer. But I got up, anyway, and thirty minutes after my feet left the mattress, I was following a 5K loop on the treadmill. I ran 3.1 miles in under 35 minutes, gave myself a hearty pat on the back, and made my way down to the locker room, where I would shower and get ready for work.

This is where things get interesting.

Now, I don't consider myself a prude by any means, but when it comes to getting dressed in front of people who either a) don't share my DNA or b) didn't contribute to the conception of my children, I'm a little shy. Love handles, tire gut, back fat--these are parts of my body I'm not exactly excited to show the rest of the world; in fact, I prefer taking any steps necessary (short of surgery) to give society the faulty impression that I am absent of any of these physical flaws. I don't wear bikinis or low-rise jeans, and unless it's a ring-collar tee-shirt, I never wear a top without sporting a control-top shaper underneath. An argument could be made, I suppose, that I should be happy with my body as is and that hiding my natural shape is a slap in the face to women's lib, but ladies, there's nothing natural about my back fat. Not when it consists of french fries, cheeseburgers, and ice cream, and certainly not when, with a moderate dose of healthy eating and exercise, I can make it disappear. Which I totally plan to do. It's just taking some time.

(Plus, my high school may be the only one in North America where showering after gym class wasn't required. There were showers for that purpose, yes, but the instructor always ended class a few minutes before the bell, so there wasn't enough time to clean up without being late for your next class, and washing the stench from your arm pits wasn't a valid excuse for tardiness. And in going to the gym as an adult in years past, I either went after quitting time or, if it was in the morning, went back home to get ready for work. Granted, I did go back and forth from my dorm room to the community showers on my floor wearing only a towel, but I was 18 then, and too blissfully young to be appropriately insecure.)

Anyway, where was I? The locker room. Right. Long story short, I am not a fan of changing in the locker room. But the gym is closer to my job than it is to my house, so overall, getting dressed there is definitely the best solution.

It was around six-thirty that I started pulling out my shower things, and overall activity at the gym was still pretty low. Still, I debated the best plan of action for even getting to the shower. Should I strip down now and just wear my towel or walk over in my sweaty running clothes and strip inside the stall? In the end, I stripped in the stall because the idea of soaking my clean towel with perspiration just didn't seem right to me.

The actual shower was uneventful, even pleasant because the water pressure was good and there weren't any children trying to climb their way in (though I did make a note to purchase some cheapie rubber flip-flops because the ones I had on featured cloth lining and probably weren't intended for full-on H2O immersion). Once I was all cleaned up, I wrapped my towel around my chest, grabbed my clothes from off the floor, and made my way back to my locker, where business casual attire and my trusty black shaper awaited.

At first I was the only woman there, but the thought that somebody could join me any minute kept me from ever letting my guard down. I cursed the length of my towel as it constantly slipped from my grasp, holding it in place with my chin as I slipped on my underwear, then cinching it around my waist by leaning into my backpack so I could quickly fasten my bra. It wasn't until my pants were on and the shaper was in place that I could fully relax and go through the rest of my routine without feeling so self-conscious. And even then I was on edge, as I kept dashing back and forth between my locker and the sink to retrieve my moisturizer, Q Tips, and hair spray.

The more times I do this, going to the gym before work, the more natural it will become, and I won't always care about another female catching an eyeful of thigh. I know this. That's why I'm in pre-training now, so that I can overcome my silly inhibitions and fears before they have a chance to negatively impact my regimen. I've run on a trail and in my neighorbood, in rain, shine, and below-freezing temperatures. I've run on a treadmill. I signed up for a gym and got my first time out of the way, and I'll get a tour of the equipment this Saturday. I earned a $50 gift card to Dick's Sporting Goods for my level of participation (four to five events) in my company's racing circuit, so I'll be getting better workout clothes. And soon I'll have a training program. The pieces are falling into place. It won't be long before they're all working together.

Go, go, Gadget, random!

I've been meaning to post this since Monday, partly because I wanted to title it "Just another random Monday" and partly because I have the best of intentions when it comes to updating this Web site. But alas, now it's twelve-thirty in the morning on Thursday, and for sure I'll be dragging for work tomorrow but who cares, LET'S GET ON WITH THE SHARING.

* * *

If I had posted this on Monday, I would have totally retracted the claim in my last entry that Nathan wasn't anywhere near sleeping through the night, because on Sunday he slept soundly in his bassinet from ten until six, and Luke was all, "Yes, we can!" because he refuses to believe our son would be so cruel as to continue with these three a.m. feedings for much longer. Too bad I was up until one o'clock paying bills and missed out on the gloriousness that is passing out for longer than three to four hours at a time, because the following night he woke up at one and again at three. We'll see about tonight.

I would also retract what I said about my pants being a smidge too big; they are more than a smidge too big. THEY ARE FALLING OFF MY ASS. Which, you know, hooray, weight loss! but also shit, because we are not made of money and I could think of better things to do with my time than parade around my place of employment pulling up my pant legs to keep from tripping on the hem. Why didn't I at least TRY ON the size twelves? Low self-esteem, you are a bitch.

* * *

In an attempt to flatten all the layers of skin currently bogging down my mid-section, I ordered a Spanx cami online to pair with my back-to-work shirts. After all the hype I've been subjected to about Spanx (one of my Saint Joe students back in 2007 even focused on Spanx for my "Create a blog for a company" assignment), I was totally prepared to love the Spanx, maybe even write an entry titled "Spanx you very much," but alas, to my dismay, I am not loving the Spanx. The bust portion of the shaper is fine, but the blasted thing keeps rolling up to my belly button whenever I sit down. I fully acknowledge that I could've ordered a size too small, but if a large is too small for a freaking UNDERGARMENT, please hold on while I curl up into a ball and cry.

* * *

Starting last weekend, Gilmore Girls is now running on SOAPNet. I didn't watch this show when it was on the WB (that's where it was, right?) a million years ago, so why I'm so excited is beyond me, but I can tell you that there are two episodes saved to my DVR and seriously I am so, so excited. Other ancient shows I would like to Be In The Know About include Dawson's Creek and the original 90210. For the latter, I'm Mostly In The Know, but I stopped watching sometime in the late nineties; I picked it up again on SOAPNet while on maternity leave but fell off during two crucial plot points: Valerie's exit and the series finale. Why did Valerie leave? Do Dylan and Kelly end up together? Does Steve marry Janet? What about Gina? Man, Gina was a bitch. Inquiring minds want to know but are too lazy to search Wikipedia.

* * *

Baby-sitting, take one! One of the new coworkers in my department spent a year in New York working as an au pair and has already offered her services to me, so she is on the calendar to sit with Kara and Nathan when Luke sleeps through and I rock out to Billy Joel and Elton John next month. We're going to have her and her husband over a couple of times prior to that so she can meet the kids, but that cannot happen until I have thoroughly disinfected my house, and that cannot happen until I'm a little more well rested. In the meantime, I stare at the spittle on the bathroom mirror and the splotches of God knows what on the kitchen floor, and a part of me dies inside.

* * *

Luke and I talk a good game about getting off our asses and going back to church--there's an Episcopal church not ten minutes from our new house that seems very nice--but it never works out, and I hate to admit it, but part of me is hella nervous about leaving Kara in the nursery with a person we've never met before. (Nathan is not even an option right now. The boy, he will stay with me.) Paranoid much, Frema?

* * *

Does anybody besides me still do all their blog reading the old-fashioned way (loading each page)? I have a Google Reader account, but it hasn't been checked in probably a year. I really love the design aspect and functionality of blogs and feel like I have a more personal experience with the bloggers when I keep up with their actual sites.

* * *

My mother is on Facebook. My MOTHER, a woman who routinely asks me if I can print out pages from my blog and mail them to her, is on Facebook. I am not on Facebook. This must change.

* * *

In the last week or so, Kara's interest in Nathan has skyrocketed to the point where she spends a considerable portion of her waking hours just trying to hug him, and if you think there's anything more precious than watching your toddler daughter nearly suffocate her infant brother, you would be dead wrong, my friends. Dead wrong.

 

Going in for the kill, dun dun dun dun dun dun....

 

Nathan: Why, God, why?

 

Mission accomplished. Happiness all around.

Yes, we can!

And we're out.

(Kudos to Luke for the pictures.)

Trying to bring pretty back

At nineteen weeks and some change, I finally feel like I'm coming into my own with this pregnancy. Having more energy and a cute little baby bump to boot have inspired me to take more pride in my appearance as opposed to those first couple of months, when just rolling out of bed and showering required supreme effort. Blow-drying my hair? Ha! Don't make me laugh.

Now, though? I'm not sure where to start.

I desperately need a hair cut, but my stylist is in Chicago and I'm not brave enough to try somebody new, so that will have to wait until the end of October, when Luke, Kara, and I will make the trip for little Danny's baptism. I plan on adding to my maternity wardrobe, but new clothes aren't enough. As always, whether I'm gestating or not, my biggest problem has to do with my skin.

Before returning to work in March, I went on a postpartum shopping spree to load up on products that I hoped would reduce the appearance of blemishes and even out my color. And once I went back, I took great care to apply the moisturizer, primer, and foundation. I used Philosophy's "On a Clear Day" kit and was pleased with the results. It was groovy, baby.

Now that I'm knocked up again, though, the tools at my disposal have changed. I love the overall effect of Philosophy's acne products, but the magical step-two serum is now off-limits until I deliver, and it seems like a waste of time and money to use the others out of sequene. For a while I continued to buy the facewash, but I'm going to run out of my current supply any day now, and it doesn't appear to be as effective without the added boost of the serum and the creams. Also, I'm too lazy to go to the mall and buy more, so I'm scratching that, too, even though it would also give me the opportunity to restock on my absolute favorite Clinique product in the whole entire world. End result? Right now I'm going the drugstore route and relying on Aveeno to keep my face clean and moisturized until Baby Brother makes his debut.

Did I ever tell you about how the rest of my beauty finds worked out? Of course I didn't, otherwise I wouldn't have set myself up to talk about them right here and now.

Since 2005, I had been utilizing every last drop of my bottle of Becca's Mattifying Primer because of how silky the mousse-like texture felt on my skin. So on my back-to-work shopping spree, I originally searched for that. However, the gal at Sephora said the brand had been discontinued and pimped the Smashbox Photofinish Light Foundation Primer as a worthy alternative. Amalah is a huge fan of Smashbox as well, so I gave it a shot. And I liked it! But it was one of the few times in my cosmetic history where I actually depleted a product over the span of a couple of months as opposed to a couple of YEARS. And when that product is forty buck a pop, that will. not. do.

So I went back to Sephora, where this time Laura Mercier's Foundation Primer was pimped out instead, and I said yes because it was ten dollars cheaper. But this primer? I do not like. It feels good going on but leaves my face greasy and shiny all the livelong day. According to some of the reviewers who faced the same problem, this probably isn't the best choice for those with oily or combination skin.

I still have a lot left, but because I don't like it, I've stopped wearing make-up altogether, even though I actually quite enjoy the LORAC foundation I found in March. This means I've been showing up to work in all my prenatal, pimply glory. I have finally decided this must stop.

So in vain I looked up Becca on Google, and what do you know, the brand wasn't discontinued after all. And oh, look, there's my primer! So did the Sephora girl lie to my face, or did she mean to imply that Sephora discontinued the stocking of Becca products? If it's the latter, she certainly could've MENTIONED the ability to buy it elsewhere. But whatever. I'm thisclose to doing exactly that. I'm sure my complexion and my coworkers will thank me.

Before my Oops, I Did It Again Moment in May, physically I was in a good place. I felt more confident about how I looked, and I was on the right track to losing the last few pounds of my baby weight. Pregnancy is a blessing, but hot damn, am I excited to do that again.

So, to sum up, Aveeno cleanser and moisturizer (including night cream! my, but I'm fancy), Becca primer, and LORAC foundation. I guess I DO know where to start. Carry on, then, but not without sharing your own favorite beauty and skincare products. You know, for future reference. Sisters have to help each other out, you know?

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 and forty dollars at the salon, you better believe I'm gettin' my forty dollars' worth. Oh hells yes.

Well. This entry has been around the block and then some! Mostly I just wanted to show you some pictures. I guess I could've just said that.

Final thought for the night, which also happens to make an excellent segue into my last couple of snapshots, which were actually taken by Luke: it's a good thing I decided to slow down on this whole baby-making business, because our complex already has plenty of new muthas in the hizzouse:

Some bitches have all the luck.

Don't Let Nobody Say Frema Doesn't Keep Her Promises

Tonight was my bachelorette party. I am a bachelorette! And also in a drunken way.

It is 2:40 a.m. in the morning. To this minute, I have digested three vodka and cranberries, one shot of apple pucker, one amaretto stone sour (which was quite nasty), a buttery nipple, tequila rose, more cranberry stuff, and three shots of Sex on the Beach, which were poured into my mouth while kneeling on the bar in front of a lot of people. I danced with a pole and received many high-fives. There were piggy back rides. I was a rock star. !

Also, I pinched six butts. And even a few breasts. My own buttocks were slapped often by my well-meaning bridesmaids and they even wanted me to wear my bra over my shirt. Appalling!

Before I got there, I was nervous. I was afraid I wouldn't be a good bachelorette. I told the girls beforehand that I didn't want fake penises and I didn't want strippers. Only once tonight before I left did I wonder if I would miss having a stripper. But I did not. I went to the bar and it took a long time for me to warm up. I got a deck of bachelorette cards and one of the commands was to order a Horny Girl Scout. I was a Girl Scout once. I won "Junior of the Year" when I was nine. My competition was my best friend, Karen. But I still won, even without a lot of patches. We don't need no stinking patches!

There were crazy people at the bar. There were many lone men dancing by themselves with glow-stick bracelets. Many were trying to get all up in my business. I told them I was getting married in three weeks. I'm getting married in three weeks! I also had my hair appointment today, and it was good. After three hours and much dolleros, my hair is short and cinnamony again. I did the Cha Cha Slide but still don't know how to do the Charlie Brown. Did I mention I danced on a bar? But the guys were pretty nasty. I'm so glad I'm getting married to a good man. V. happy. Also, I danced to "My Humps" and "The Perculator." I got the alchohol rock in the pit of my stomach after my amaretto so I sat on the toilet. That helped. And water helped. Thanks, Amber!

I love Luke very much. Am very tired right now but very happy to be his bachelorette. And I love my home girls. And sliders. I had three, and some fries. Samantha thinks I will be up again soon. We shall see.

I love the Internet! This is all for you. Because we are in platonic love.

We Are Too Close To The Wedding To Be Dealing With Hair Color Issues

The morning of the wedding shower, I went into my favorite Chi-town hair salon for a badly needed cut and color. My botch job from January resulted in the infamous, should-be-trademarked Severus Snape hair style, and it needed immediate attention, but I waited until April, because we have no money and I'm responsible like that.

And on that day, my hair was done. It was cut. It was colored. The roots were a little bright, but overall, fabulous. I received many compliments at the shower, and I felt an overabundance of warm and fuzzies for my pinch-hitter stylist.

Then Monday morning rolled around, and I washed it.

After squeezing my hair gently with a hand towel and nourishing it with expensive product and diffusing it with the utmost love and respect, I surveyed the final results and discovered that the top layer was still too long, but also, so were my ends, creating an undesirable flat crown and even more undesirable layery divide. Also, the color; it was no longer looking as light and shiny and cinnamony as it appeared just two days ago--in fact, it was alarmingly similar to Severus's patent-pending shade, the shade I spent EIGHTY DOLLARS to get rid of. Except the roots, of course, which continued to beam bright as the sun.

For weeks I've tried to ignore it, telling myself it'll lighten up, that the curls will eventually take their regular shape. But today is April 18, and the curls, they are not bouncy yet. More importantly, THE HAIR HAS NOT LIGHTENED UP.

Therefore, this Saturday afternoon, only several hours before I'm scheduled to live it up on the south side of Chicago in honor of my impending nuptials, I'll be sitting in Melanie's chair, freaking out over highlighting options and bleaching options and correcting options and any other options that'll encourage the hair on my head to behave itself in time for the wedding. C'mon, ladies (hair strands are female, right?), we're gettin' ourselves MARRIED here. In front of photographers who stripped my bank account of many, many dollars. This blatant defiance of authority will just. Not. Do.

Brenda's Ability To Do Good Hair: Denied!

By now, everyone who reads this site knows I heart Brenda, my Chicago hairdresser, because apparently stylists in Naptown can only shape and color celebrity styles for the likes of Eighties Madonna and Severus Snape. One of the first things I did when Luke and I got engaged was to make salon appointments for my bridesmaids, flower girl, and me, so there was no chance in hell that Brenda wouldn't NOT do my hair. I was on it like flies on that stick-paper thing my parents leave in the basement because, well, they don't like flies.

Guess what? Brenda's not doing my hair.

It's tragic, actually. On Friday the 13th, she broke two bones in her right hand, her magic hand, the hand that gives me bouncy layers and the side bangs I love so much. She's at work but limited to answering phones and sweeping up hair for the next four to six weeks. It's like having Mariah Carey pre-Charm Bracelet wipe spittle from Hilary Duff's microphone at the Grammys.

I called the salon yesterday and transferred my upcoming Saturday morning appointment to Kasia, a stylist with a great reputation for updos, and the other person scheduled to help Brenda with my wedding party, and there's still at least a slight chance she'll be in tip-top shape come May 12th, so all should be well. But I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about Gina, one of my very awesome bridesmaids, because she is the only reason I discovered this potentially life-changing information. Seeing as I discovered Enve through her seven years ago, she became aware of the situation at her own cut-and-color and immediately contacted me so alternate arrangements could be made. It's in instances like these that a wife-to-be truly needs her bridesmaids. Don't fuss over silly things like bachelorette parties or finding something blue. Just let me know if my hairdresser ends up in the ER.

This weekend will be a busy one, as tomorrow Samantha and my family are throwing Luke and me what is sure to be a beautiful wedding shower, and Sunday we have our first pre-marital counseling session with the pastor who will marry us. One of the subjects will be religion, which I really am feeling much better about these days, as Luke and I continue to talk openly about what kind of church life we want with and for our children. I also broached the subject with my mom last night, something I was pretty nervous about because I never want my parents to think that I'm unhappy with the way they brought me up. I didn't want them to become defensive of their choices, especially since they made some really great choices, and to be totally honest, I was also afraid they'd think I was ruining my chance at Eternal Salvation by even considering converting to a Protestant denomination. For better or worse, whether I get it or not, I will always seek their approval.

The conversation I had with my mother proved (once again) how little credit I give my parents sometimes. She reminded me about the similar faith journey she took around my age that brought her to Catholicism, years after she and my father got married. She said Luke and I are going to do the best thing for our family, and as long as we believe in God, everything will be fine. Well, that and infant baptism, which we do, so it's all good. For the first time in months, I'm at peace.

Note: the SVH contest will run through the weekend, because I'm leaving for Chicago today and don't want to make such a difficult decision in such a short time frame. So if you want a book, it's not too late to beg for one. And I promise not to give Luke any special consideration. Really. It's anybody's game.

Medusa Lives!

When I sat down in the stylist's chair on Wednesday to FINALLY recolor and trim my hair, I held in my heart a renewed excitement about shopping for my wedding dress, because come Saturday I'd be Fresh! and Pretty! once again. My rejuvenated appearance would allow the Real Frema to shine through, not this Tired, Worn-Out version that's been dragging her feet the last couple of weeks. Feeling Fresh! and Pretty! in my new cinnamon-brown mixture would make all the difference.

And that would have happened, if Christy didn't think THIS color would look more natural and I hadn't hesitantly agreed with her.

So, instead of being the woman who radiates an Inner Glow, I have morphed into the newest Christina Ricci-From-The Addams-Family, the latest Winona Ryder-From-Beetlejuice. Behold Gothic Suicide.

On a more life-affirming note, when worn curly, the cut actually looks pretty good. The above "style" was achieved after Christy broke into hives at the idea of doing a blow-out with a round brush. "I can't do it, I just can't do it!" she cried before proceeding to wave the dryer around my head and nip at the ends with a flat iron--a far cry from the smooth and savvy look Brenda gives me back home.

My hope is that David's Bridal won't be surprised when a Medusa look-alike walks in on Saturday morning demanding a dressing room and virginal attire. Maybe they'll take bets on whether or not I can keep a razor away from my wrists long enough to make it down the aisle.

And you wonder why I still get my hair done in Chicago.

26th Birthday Suspense

But not about my wedding dress, even though I don't have one yet, even though I had plans to get one this past weekend. Apparently, I'm an idiot to think I can have dibs on a dressing room without making an appointment. New date: January 14th. I will break down and get thee to a reputable salon before then, because when people you haven't met offer to dye your roots themselves, something's got to be done. Maybe the whole scheduling debacle was a sign from God that my hair deserves some TLC before I start squeezing into white dresses.

Also, there are no longer any surprises about my ISF fees from the bank. Apparently, I'm also an idiot who forgets to record transactions in my register. On Saturday night, after checking a voice message from one of the tellers, I went through the last three statements online and discovered about a hundred dollars' worth of missing receipts, receipts I remember vividly and just assumed I had accounted for. Debit cards and Frema do not mix as well as she previously thought. (Quick shout-out to bank branches with Sunday hours who post deposits that same day. I love you, Yolanda!)

However, there is an air of mystery surrounding today, because at 10:00 a.m., Luke will begin an interview with one of the area's weekly newspapers. His qualifications would sooo kick this position's @$$. Send positive vibes his way. And mine, because, apparently, it's my birthday.

A Rusted Root

In the 1989 love ballad "Sacrifice" by Sir Elton John, the appeal of the extramarital affair to a married man is discussed and discarded in fewer than four minutes. Though Sir Elton admits that "temptation's strong," he argues avoiding a booty call isn't really a sacrifice, because a hot night of passion has less to offer the human spirit than a loving, respectful bond between two consensual adults. I think. In a nutshell.

But when a twenty-five-year-old-soon-to-be-married woman and her fiance decide to cut back on living expenses in order to pay for their spring wedding in cash, and said woman does her part by not having her hair trimmed or recolored for almost three months, surely even he would agree on its significance. Why isn't anyone singing about THAT?

Luke and I strengthen our money-management muscles a little bit every day. Sometimes it's turning down a matinee because that ten bucks could contribute to the deposit for the DJ. On other occasions, it's refusing an offer to go roller-skating with your sisters, even though one of us LOVES roller-skating and still has visions of making it around the rink with one of their legs gracefully floating in the air like Nancy Kerrigan except on a hardwood floor. And even sometimes when somebody is preparing to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday on MONDAY, JANUARY 9, DON'T FORGET TO SEND WELL WISHES, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, and desires nothing more than to partake in spinach-and-artichoke dip and babyback ribs, to hell with high cholesterol!, at the local Ruby Tuesday, that someone is still adamant about enforcing the "No eating out" rule. We are redefining the definition of restraint.

The hair, though, is not on board. Instead of being on its best behavior during this time of financial conservatism, it is unruly, beastly even, and my dark brown roots are dangerously close to eyebrow level. Roots, people! So much root that I should make my own Lifetime drama called Roots, which would be much rootier than that one movie with Oprah Winfrey. Behold the catastrophe that is my head:

Painful even for you, isn't it?

This has become a constant source of unhappiness for me, as I was used to keeping hair appointments every six weeks and firmly believe a good hair day can overpower a breakout, bad outfit, and if you're REALLY on a roll, the imposition of Aunt Flo. Now I frequently feel the need to justify why my Cute Working Girl facade is in shambles and why product can no longer keep The Curl from becoming The Afro Poof, or even worse, The Flat Yet Still Slightly Poofy Afro Poof. Pretty soon I'll be handing out business cards with a pre-emtive apology to all those forced to be within ten feet of its presence.

In the grand scheme of things, I realize and acknowledge that these problems are small. Last night, when I was holding Molly's newborn son in my arms for the first time, I knew that cable television and pretty hair were just two on a long list of items I'd gladly give up to experience the Heaven of being a mother and taking care of a family.

And P.S.: In case it's not evident by the tie-dye, clothing was the third thing to go.

Blogger's First Prada

But not Prada clothes. Or a handbag. Or shoes. Or even a jaunty hat.

Prada eye glasses, people. PRA.DA. I am such a little shit.

It's not like I possessed a burning desire to sport a major design label on the bridge of my nose. I tried on, like, six different pairs of glasses before deciding on these, and it wasn't until the receptionist was preparing the bill that she noticed the brand. But how many people are going to believe that, when they already know about my passion for clothes and shoes and colorful accessories? "Sure, sure you didn't know they were Prada," they'll say. I'm honestly kind of embarrassed to wear them. Especially since Luke's been throwing out playful jabs for the last week and a half. But really, when you consider that spectacles are supposed to last for two years, the overall cost only comes out to about three dollars a day. And for PRADA glasses? That's a steal.

Anyway, after my fitting today, me and my bad-@$$ Prada self moseyed on down to the local Chevy dealership, where my car has become a regular fixture due to various minor annoyances, the latest being a thunkthunkthunk sound from one of the back tires whenever I slow down. Because Chevy hasn't been able to pinpoint the source of the trouble, they thought it best to get me into a rental while they showered my Cobalt with a few days' worth of TLC. Now, most drivers would be presented with an everyday, run-of-the-mill, just-get-me-something-so-that-I-can-make-it-to-work car, like a Neon or a Vibe. But not Frema! Apparently, Frema qualifies for a 2006 Cadillac STS. Also apparently, they do not keep tabs on the driving history of their customers.

So. I started the day with frames from For Eyes and a car that's been violated more times than Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I ended it with my first Prada (PRADA!) purchase and a luxury car that's five minutes old. I feel sooo money. And smart. And a little sassy.

And also a little afraid of this picture. It makes me think of that scene from The Silence of the Lambs where Clarice visits Frederica Bimel's house and snoops around in her bedroom and unearths Polaroids of the now-dead women in her bra and panties, striking poses just like this one. *Shiver*

Mental Smorgasbord

OK, it was definitely time to update, because that baby post was really starting to creep me out. You want kids. We get it Frema, we all get it. Dry your eyes and shut your pie hole. Hell, I found myself saying this to MYSELF. Let's all move on.

Anyway, I started a post on Sunday about Luke's and my glorious time at the Whiter River Gardens bonsai exhibit, cleverly connecting the show to my only memories of bonsai, which all stem from The Karate Kid Part III. However, when I received a link the next day from Luke announcing his then-latest post, what did I find but MY idea, shamelessy stolen by someone who's never even seen the damn movie. Now, talking further about the day just seems redundant, and really, I can find my own original ideas to post about, thank you very much, Useless Clutter.

It's been kind of a blah week, a week in which I have experienced the full impact of our domesticity. Over the weekend we made a special trip to the mall so that I could redeem my highly cherished Victoria's Secret coupon for one free pair of panties. (FYI: Every time I say the word "panties," I imagine Eric from That Seventies Show in the episode where Donna finds strange underwear in his car and she imagines him in his bedroom surrounded by his lingerie trophies, shouting, "Panties! Glorious panties!" and then gleefully tosses them over his head.) Anyway, as I'm sure Victoria is well aware, women who get something free are likely to also walk away with items that cost the very opposite of free. Only this time Luke was there, and he shook his head vehemently when I said it might not be a bad thing to get one more bra. You know, for work! Yet still, no.

We were at the mall again tonight, shopping for my father's birthday, and for the first time in a long time, I walked away with nothing for myself, even though I am the proud owner of not one but TWO good-through-October-only coupons for New York and Company. Now that Luke and I are a Financial Unit, it's not OK to say "&*$# it" and charge three sweaters on my NY&C credit card. For the first time in my life, my money-management skills affect someone other than myself. Plus, with student loans, a 3,000-dollar Visa debt, and soon, a wedding to pay for, it's time to grow up and learn to keep the plastic in Mr. Pocket. But it's hard. I spent so much of my childhood hating my clothes. As an adult, I love the control I have over my wardrobe. The idea of not adding to it at my whim is depressing. But such is life.

The one aesthetic splurge I can look forward to is my haircut and color this weekend in Chicago. Yes, Chicago. I've strategically scheduled all of my hair appointments to coincide with my Chi-town visits, as the salon I visited in Indy back in June left the top layer of my head a shade of copper neither I nor God himself ever intended for my hair. That's what I get for going to a place that spells "curl" with a K. Behold the evidence, if you can. Sunglasses may be required.

Less than a week after this was taken, I was sitting a chair at Enve in Chicago, pleading with Brenda to make the ugliness go away. Not only did she fulfill my wishes, but she also demonstrated the proper way to use a diffuser, not realizing she had bestowed upon me a gift more precious than the cotton-candy-pink bicycle my grandma bought me for Christmas in 1987.

As much as I heart Brenda and her mad skillz, though, I've come to discover Indianapolis is actually chock full of salons whose employees don't show up for work in scrubs and sport hair styles that were shaped by a mixing bowl. Plus, my hour-and-a-half appointments subtract from the precious time I have with family and friends. So, this weekend, I'm saying my good-byes to Brenda, in hopes of finding an equally if not more savvy stylist at least two and a half hours closer to home. Any opinions on Ulta?

And...I'm out.

Quitting the Day Job, Not So Much

Well, folks, I did it! There was smiling and strutting and sashaying and shantaying and even a little flirty head-turning. Also, the return of The Cleavage.

Outfit number one. It looked great on the rack--just not on my rack. I tried telling the Parisian special events coordinator that Clinton and Stacy would not approve of the one-button jacket for my blah frame. "The three-button jacket really provides better structure," I said at my fitting, but this woman was willowy and gorgeous even at eight months pregnant and working for Parisian, so who the hell am I to have a know-it-all air about me just because I've watched What Not to Wear? However, in this case, I think I was right. My breasts were putting forth their best efforts to somersault out of my bra and into the great wide open. The jeans were cute but too long, and rolling them up seemed inappropriate when paired with my sexy Nine West 100-percent-leather pointy-toe knee-high boots. I loved the jacket's color, though. The blue family is so very in this fall. And I would know. In case you didn't notice, I am a model.

Outfit number two, the one I am considering charging on my Visa because I feel so very Adult in it. Except the boots. My poor baby toes will never be the same. And maybe the jacket, because it's over a hundred dollars and what else can I possibly pair it with? Actually, I'd be happy just getting the skirt. Everything else I can find at NY&C and Bakers. But still. See how Adult I look? I should totally be walking to my corner office downtown with an Italian briefcase in one hand and a Starbucks Frappacino in the other.

My fellow fashionistas (and one fashionisto) in crime. Despite our various height, weight, and hair differences, we all had the same objective: survive this thing without making damn fools of ourselves. Mission accomplished. And hopefully, we found some new friends in the process. All in all, a fabulous time.

At the end of the evening, the Parisian special events coordinator handed each of us a fifteen-percent coupon good for any purchase in the store. However, it's only good until Sunday, at which time I will be at a wedding shower in Chicago, but it doesn't matter because shower or not I'd still have the same amount of cash to spend: none.

Coincidentally, I also have one NY&C CityCash coupon, also good for this weekend only. I so want to be a Responsible Financial Person and just let the coupons expire; after all, what good is a discount if I'm spending money I don't have? However, the part of me that says it's OK to eat half a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey is also reminding me that I have been that Responsible Financial Person all summer and I just switched my current credit card debt to a new card with a zero percent APR on all balance transfers until September 2006 and surely it would be OK to splurge just one more time?

Maybe I should change my nickname to Sybil.

I'm Too Sexy For This Post

Well, it's the eve of the day my modeling career is sure to take off, and I don't feel ready. Never found the time or the twenty dollars to get that professional blow-out I wanted so badly, so my public will have to settle for The Curls. Which is bad enough, as the chances of strutting my stuff on the runway with frizzy hair have now doubled, but we beauty queens are also expected to do our own make-up. I am getting much better at this but still have not yet mastered avoiding The Crease. Girls, you know what I'm talkin' about--you start the day with gorgeously applied eye shadow and end up with it caked in the crevice of your lid. Even with this product, designed to specifically prevent such atrocities, The Crease lives, adding a slight dent in my love for all things Clinique. Am I using too much? Too little? I have heard both answers, as they vary with each counter I visit. Very frustrating.

Plus, upon requesting directions on how to work it, I've been told, "These are your friends, people you know, so just have fun with it." Actually, Parisian special events coordinator, these people are not my friends. They are friends in the MAKING, which means it's very important I don't make an @$$ out of myself. This being the case, the following moves have been considered but pretty much kaboshed:

- Running fingers through hair and shaking head playfully
- Flashing innocent citizens with the inside of my jacket
- Raising eyebrows suggestively
- Twirling
- Kicking a heel in the air
- Voguing
- Gripping knees and laughing playfully a la Betty Boop
- Shaking what my mother gave me

I will totally make an @$$ out of myself.

This post reads as frazzled as I feel, and it's not just the fashion show. It's like my life hasn't had a chance to slow down since I moved here; there's always been something on my plate: graduating, starting my job, helping with my sister's wedding, Luke and I deciding to live together, helping his brother and sister-in-law get ready for a move into their new house.... Today was so crazy that I pulled the White Trash card and ate White Castle take-out in the waiting room of a Jiffy Lube, just to get dinner in. I am ready for normalcy. I eagerly anticipate the days where I can come home, nestle into my beloved reading chair, and devour Harry Potter shenanigans until Luke is finished with dinner. Afterwards, he'll brush my hair, rub my feet, and paint my toes, but not before he's prepared me a warm bubble bath and set my night to music.

Having a live-in boyfriend is going to be great. I just know it.

You Better WORK!

Dear God, help us all. Because on September 7th? This body will find itself on a Parisian runway. The chances of that body looking like the one on the right? Not so good.

When Indianapolis Ambassadors first sent out a request for models for its fall style show, I didn't give it a second thought. A Carrie Bradshow fashion icon I am not. The promotion indicated the show was in good fun and provided an especially creative way for new members to acclimate themselves to the group. Not scary! Fun! But still. No.

Until this morning, that is, when I received a frantic e-mail from the social activities coordinator saying that five women and three men were still needed for the style show. So, out of guilt for not having attended a single volunteer event yet, and out of responsibility to this blog ("that night will SO make for a killah entry!"), I offered up my services.

For the most part, I don't really suffer from low self-esteem. Even with all its blemishes and rolls, I'm pretty satisfied with my body, as long as it's dressed in pretty clothes that properly disguise what I don't like (stomach and thighs) and accentuate what I do (collarbone?). But it took me a long time to get this way. Growing up, I can remember flipping through The Big Bopper and Teen Beat with my sister Samantha and telling her confidently, "All the singers and actors in here have, like, 600 people working to make them look pretty. Every normal person has stomach rolls and love handles." I truly believed this until I went bathing-suit shopping in college and saw one of my friends sport a bikini. Her stomach was flat as a rock, and as far as I knew, she didn't live on a bread-and-water diet or have a personal trainer stashed in her dorm. I took a harder look at myself, thought, "Maybe a person's gut ISN'T supposed to hang over her jeans." Interesting concept.

It didn't help matters that, in the same year, a guy I was dating patted my belly and said, "I don't remember you having this when we first started going out." The day after "the incident," his mother cooked pancakes for breakfast (yes, he was 28 years old and living with his mother, I GET IT now), and I couldn't handle more than four bites. I was too embarrassed to eat in front of him.

Things got better, though. In 2001 I met Luke (actually bought him, but that's another entry), who has never made me feel inferior or ugly or unlovable in the four years we've been together, just one of the many reasons why I want to him father my children. In 2003 I joined this program and lost 22 pounds. (It really does work!) I also made it a point to visit my ex the following summer, "just to hang out," when my ultimate goal was to hear him say, "God, you look great! Don't you ever eat?" Which he did, so IN YOUR FACE, EX NUMBER TWO.

In the last year, I've slacked off. I will not tell you how many of the Weight Watchers pounds I gained back, and there are moments when I look into a full-length mirror and understand how anorexia is so popular among women. But I am doing my darndest to take better care of my body and also quit placing such high expectations on it. Sometimes you just gotta have that Ben and Jerry's fix and move on with life.

In the meantime, though, I've got a style show to prepare for.

But I Have Never Eaten Cake Out of the Garbage

   

* Thanks to Becky for rejuvenating this Sexy game.

I'm a Miranda! Which means...

"You're smart, witty, trustworthy, level-headed, and industrious. You value your independance above all else. Success is very important to you. You give the impression that you may be a little jaded, but you still harbour school-girl fantasies of finding someone who'll make you giggle and blush.

You can also be almost irrationally compulsive at times and are excessively cynical. Structure, order, and schedule are very important to you. You have no tolerance for the majority of men these days. You find their behaviour completely unfathomable, and feel that if a man's over thirty and single, there's something wrong with him. It's Darwinian. They're being weeded out from propagating the species."

Miranda quotes:

"I know you're probably busy having mind-blowing sex, but I feel you need to know that your good friend, Miranda Hobbes, has just taken a piece of cake out of the garbage and eaten it. You'll probably need this information when you check me into the Betty Crocker Clinic."

"I used to masturbate to a busboy who was rude to me once. What do you think that means?"

So, who the hell are you?

The New 'Do

And the best boyfriend a Frema could ask for.

So Long, Farewell, 2004

What a year this has been! I think my most adventurous year yet. There were fake nails, for heaven's sake. I highlighted my hair - a lot. And I cut most of it off before Christmas.

I spent this whole entire year in the same apartment - an apartment that I cleaned and painted and rearranged - a lot. And it really feels like home.

Next year there'll be even more changes. I'll graduate from DePaul with a MASTER'S DEGREE, which means my job opportunities will be very different once I decide to leave Saint Joe. At long last, I can finally shoot for those positions that say "graduate degree required." I'll help my sister plan The Wedding Of Her Dreams (I'm the maid of honor. Whoopee!). I'll be a pseudo-aunt to Luke's new little niece, due in the first part of the year.

And, hopefully, I'll continue to grow and change into a person I can be proud of. In order to do that,

I Won't Waste My Time in 2005...

- Pretending to be smarter than I am. My Poets and Writers subscription's left me with a year's worth of unread issues on my coffee table, hidden under more sophisticated material like Glamour and Soap Opera Digest. So AMC spoilers are more appealing to me than a cover story on some Rip-Van-Winkle-look-alike poet? I will no longer be ashamed!

- Splurging on items I can't afford. While I certainly loved my $100 visits to Victoria's Secret, maybe I didn't need 14 new pairs of underwear. Just this week I had to control an almost uncontrollable urge to head to The Limited for their fifty-percent-off-winter-sweaters sale. Can you blame me, though? Fifty percent! I start to twitch a little just thinking about it. Hopefully it'll still be going next week, when I'll actually have the cash to spend.

- Watching TV. I'm sure the third season of The Apprentice will survive without me. Although 24 may not; back-to-back new episodes the entire season, people!

- Wasting Time. I have a lot of things to do this year: work, study, find a new job, assist with a wedding, babysit, finally read Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.... It's time to get movin'!

Getting Snippy

Who did? I did. On Tuesday, when I had originally planned to flip through some books and get ideas for fabulous, this'll-make-me-look-like-I'm-going-to-be-25 dos. I surprised myself by actually getting one, and I like it. It's pretty short; shorter than I wanted, and I'm still adjusting to my new image in the mirror, but so what? I'm really proud that I was brave enough to try something different, and the great thing about hair is its amazing tendency to grow. What I DON'T like is the attention that comes with a new look. Most of it has been positive, but someone also said I looked like an old lady, so you never can tell.

Forget them. Who cares? ... Well, I do, I guess, but I'll live. I enjoyed my longer hair, but I didn't really do it justice. It was time to shake things up. And coming from a gal comfortable with eliminating entire food groups from her diet, that's quite a statement.

Blasted Buttons!

Snap if I didn't just spend half an hour ironing one freakin' shirt. When I bought this trendy, detachable collar top at The Limited this past summer, it was marked down from $40 to a mere $15. Cute, cheap - it was a steal, I tell you, a steal! Now I understand how it made the journey to the clearance rack. As darling as these things are, they are a pain in the @$$ to maintain. You can't wash the shirt with the collar and sleeves attached because then the sleeves get mangled, and no amount of ironing can fix it. (Believe me, I tried with another top just like it. No luck.) So with this one, I was smart and unbuttoned and detached everything that could be unbuttoned and detached. Then the mission becomes attaching everything back the right way. Sounds easy, right? Well, next time it comes fresh from the laundromat, YOU can put it back together.

In other news, my two-week vacation draws near - begins this Monday, in fact, and I am hurriedly trying to tie up all loose ends at work before abandoning campus entirely. While e-mail and voice mail won't go neglected, December 20th through January 3rd will be all about getting started for the year that is 2005. Next year, I will eliminate my credit card debt. Strive to pay my car loan off two years early. Shave off some of the kangaroo pooch I've been hauling since middle school. Paint my bathroom. Start something new. I can feel the excitement in my toes.

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P.S. Just did a little surfin' and found this link on someone's blog. Goshdarn hilarious.

And So It Begins...

The day before Thanksgiving - a day of working, driving, cooking, packing, and other various -ings. For me, it means eating, sleeping, and napping, as we're being released from work at noon today and I'm not driving home until early tomorrow morning. I'm gearing up for The Day After Thanksgiving Shopping, which I truly love, even though it wears me out after only a couple of hours. A day off from work and full of shopping. What could be better? NY&C sent me some fab coupons in the mail just for This Day, and you better believe they're gettin' used. I told myself that last month's spree would be It until after the holidays, but really, why waste perfectly good discounts when you're most likely going to buy the stuff anyway?

I love this time of year - all the running around, wrapping presents, catching corny movies on TV (or ordering them on Amazon.com so you can enjoy them all year 'round. I own A Very Brady Christmas for that very reason.) The only thing I don't like is working out family get-togethers. By the time the season is over, I'll have celebrated Christmas five times, and half with people I don't really care for. On top of THAT, my grandparents are flying in from Arizona to spend Christmas in Chicago, and as usual, they've told my parents they're staying with us. This is the same grandmother who, last month, sent my sister a pamphlet highlighting the Church's stance on sexuality for her birthday. I love Grandma, but if there's anything even remotely related to chastity literature waiting for me under the tree this year, there's going to be words.

Oops, I Did It Again

My no-shopping resolution lasted about 12 hours - seven of which were spent in peaceful slumber - and crumbled instantly when I saw a Limited "Real Sale" flyer had been included in yesterday's mail. October 4th sale! Woo hoo! I cried, and by 2:00 p.m., my silver Cavalier and I were on our way to Lafayette. When I reached The Limited, finding out that the October 4th sale did indeed start on October 4th and not two days earlier just for Frema did not deter me from my mission: find great clothes! I ended up with three sweaters, one swingin' skirt, and an awesome handbag that has liberated me enough to throw away my raggedy ole tote for good. Next stop: Hot Line for a great pair of chocolate-brown knee-high boots, complete with "trashy" stilleto-like heel. I ended my fabulous spree with new make-up and a free(!) pair of panties from Victoria's Secret.

Did I spend a lot of money? Yes, yes I did. Was it wonderful? Absolutely.

Limited Intelligence

This afternoon, I was preparing to mail out my September rent check; while looking for my landlord's address, I found my Limited statement tucked between the pages of my phonebook.

What a dofus. Yes, I mean me.

Limited Fear

I received my Limited credit card bill the other day and decided to pay it in person. I happily brought in my statement, got the bill paid in full (hooray!), and was then happily on my way. It wasn't until this morning going through the raggedy ole tote bag I call a purse that I realized the statement was gone.

I called the company and was greeted with a voice-automated system that says I can report my card "lost or stolen." I did it, thinking I'd be issued a new card and number and then be on with it. Nope. They just issue you a new card - same number - that features special coding to indicate it's the correct card to use. So I had to cut up my perfectly-good-not-lost-or-stolen-at-all card just to wait for another. When I tried to talk to a rep, the system told me they don't work on Sunday.

I'm a little PO'ed, but maybe paranoid, too. I'm imagining some sassy young thing will find the statement with a reciept showing the account is paid in full and then whoop for joy. She'll run to The Limited (since I probably lost it in the mall) and charge to her heart's content. Or she'll charge, charge, charge online, where they can't ask for a photo ID.

Somebody tell me I'm being silly. Tell me that a Limited clerk would have the smarts to ask for identification before charging to a piece of paper. That it was probably dropped in the store itself; or, at the very least, picked up by a 12-year-old boy who, finding the statement worthless, ripped it to shreds and threw it in the trash.

....

I just checked The Limited's Web site. You can't do online shopping. I feel a little better.

A Semi-New Me

Since returning from my writers workshop a couple of weeks ago, my morning routine has changed drastically. Before said workshop, I woke up after 7:00 a.m., procrastinated in the shower, and then frantically fixed my hair before rushing out the door at 8:00 a.m. What a way to begin the day, right? One look at me and you knew the only reason I was up and about was for work.

But while in Muncie, I put my best foot forward and actually got ready FOR THE DAY. I was up around 6:45, had a nice shower, put on a little make-up, worked my hair a bit. It felt good. I felt good. Better than that, I felt ready to face whatever came my way. If I'd had a little beret, I would've thrown it in the air and done a little twirl, Mary-Tyler-Moore style.

On the last day, I resolved to stick to my new routine. And I have. And it's great. My hair isn't sopping wet, I'm not running from my car to my office, and according to my mom, I have a new glow. (I told her it was due to my "natural glow" blush, but she wasn't hearing any of that.) For the first time, I actually feel like a 24-year-old.

This afternoon, the semi-new me will drive to Chicago so I can accompany my family when they pick up Samantha from O'Hare. It'll be good to have her home, especially for my mom - she's been playing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" on her record player every one of the 10 days Samantha's been in Africa. You've gotta love my mom.

Ellie Mae Down On the Farm

That's how I felt in this outfit at Samantha and Ryan's joint graduation party on Saturday, having more to do with the pigtails and less with my attire, but I felt fun, too. I haven't worn pigtails since grade school.

On July 1st, I had just one Visa card. By August, the number changed to four as I signed up for a New York and Company credit card over the weekend. One hundred and sixty-five dollars in a half-hour. Am I really good or just really gullible? To avoid repeating mistakes from years past, I am more cautious with my purchases when I get home, no longer in a hurry to rip off the tags and stuff my latest finds into the closet without giving them another once-over, trying pants on with heeled shoes and tops on with just the right bra. (It does make a difference, people.) Anyway, everything passed inspection except for one pair of black pants, which I can just return in a couple of weeks when I go back to NY&C and spend my special City Cash coupons. City Cash is the best invention ever. They pick a week to dole them out and for every 30 bucks you spend, they give you a $15 coupon. The best thing about them is you can use them all together, so $120 worth of clothes quickly turns into $60. I earned $175 in discount spending, so come the first weekend in August, Ellie Mae will be camping out at Southlake Mall.

However, as fun as my shopping sprees are, I also realize all that card swiping has been getting to my head. My paycheck is already close to gone, leaving me with pennies to buy groceries. At first, I thought I could manage on grilled cheese and green beans until next Friday. Then I thought, "If I can justfiy almost $500 on clothes, why can't I charge one fifth of that on that which keeps me alive?" So I did, and it felt good. Spaghetti, fruit snacks (what did I tell you?), chicken, hamburger, Little Debbies, frozen pizzas.... My God, it was almost like I was at The Limited. The feeling of guilty pleasure in buying what I can't afford was ultimately the same.

But so what? I'm not married, I don't have kids, and I'm not buying crack. I wore great shoes to work and cooked up a mean Sloppy Joe for dinner. All in all, not a bad day.

Give Me A Little Credit, Will You?

I received my first credit card the summer before my junior year - a pretty blue-and-grey striped Visa card with a $250 limit. By the end of that calendar year, the limit was up to $1,000 and I had spent $750 on painfully classy shoes, clothes I quickly fell out of love with, and gas for my many, many trips to Chicago. Four years, three cards, and a few thousand dollars later, I decided enough was enough. I gathered the courage to cut all of my cards (even my sexy tiger-striped Capital One) and go cold turkey on outlandish spending. As a result, I became a much smarter shopper. Have I enjoyed shopping sprees since then? Most definitely. But my new Spidey sense cut down on the number of clothes I ended up "dumping" once they reached my doorstep, far away from the pressure of the mall. Every department store that offered me a "very special credit offer" was delivered a resolute "No."

That is, until Friday. I guess you could say I fell off the wheel.

I couldn't help it. The Limited was having an outrageous sale, and for those familiar with The Limited, price slashing in that store is not to be ignored. Fifty-dollar capris at half-off. Darling $40-collar sweaters for a fin. Not having those clothes because I was low on cash was simply not option, nor was it ammunition enough to keep me from signing up for my very own Limited credit card. I confess, though, that my shameless spending at Victoria's Secret was less about necessity and more about "But they're so pretty!" I will receive my permanent Angels card in five to seven days.

For the 45-minute ride home from Lafayette, I felt defeated. My hard work at fending off "fluffy" credit cards and sinful shopping sprees was shot in one two-hour period. My spirits weren't lifted until I modeled every single garment in the comfort of my apartment and thought, "Damn, these clothes make me look cute. If only I had new shoes...."

The next day: Merrillville's Southlake Mall. I spent a combined $75 on New Balance sneakers and two great summer sandals from Payless. I found a great pair of Sherpa flip-flops for only $9. Nine dollars!... Don't you look at me like that. A deal's a deal, no matter what form of payment you choose. What would you have done, huh? WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?

I may be crazy, but at least my bras and underwear match beautifully.

Nailbound

It's been a busy few days. On Wednesday I visited the nail salon again and had my fake nails shaped into less of a square shape and more of a rounded one. I like them a lot more now, so it looks like they're here to stay. I look at them a lot, and I'm surprised at just how much I do like them. This kind of thing is not something I've ever been into before, but it's so nice to have my hands look pretty on a daily basis and not have to do a thing. It also keeps me from chewing on my fingers - definitely a plus.

In Screenwriting, we've moved away from the dramatic script in order to focus on the documentary. We shared our treatments (proposals) with our group members on Thursday, and everyone (professor included - she sat in on my session) seemed to really like my idea, which is to follow the trials and tribulations of my sister Samantha as she works toward earning her teaching license.

I really love this class and the work we've been doing, in a way that's much different than my love for fiction. It's nice to be learning a new kind of writing, to get a fresh perspective on what you can do with words and how you can use them to affect others. I'm viewing movies in a brand-new way, even finding myself attracted to films that wouldn't have sparked my interest two months ago. Maybe this summer I'll buy a video camera and bring these scripts to life.

And finally, today: my sister, Ryan, graduated from high school. My family pulled double duty with the Mass and commencement ceremony taking place one right after the other. We were all very proud of her.

Fake Nails - I'm Lovin' it?

Aesthetically, this has been a big year for me. I'm feeling more comfortable in my own skin, allowing myself to wear clothes of a more revealing nature, and "tainting" my hair color with fun summer highlights that I love enough to keep permanently. My newest venture - fake nails.

Huh.

Let me first say that these nails are beautiful - a French manicure, no less. I've never had a French anything before. (Well, I guess that's not entirely true.) And wearing them makes me feel a little more grown up, a little more sophisticated, even a little more womanly. It's like my normally ugly, chewed up fingers are wearing a Halloween costume that can safely stay put for three to six months. That being said, they're also a major pain in the ass. The first day was the worst. I couldn't turn the key in my car's ignition without my nails clinking against the steering wheel, and I almost broke one just by opening my car door. Handling towels and wash cloths are now brand new experiences, and I must take extra care when removing clothes from the washer and dryer. I had to get a brand new wallet because I can no longer thumb through my plastic cards. Picking my wedgies are a thing of the past. Hell, I can't even get my fingers through my hair in the shower without fear of the nails breaking off and getting lost. How has this phenomenon caught on with so many women?

Upside - I haven't chewed my fingernails since Tuesday because - well - it's simply no longer possible.

I have an image of this wonderfully sophisticated woman I want to be one day, and I thought these nails would bring me one step closer to that woman. Now I'm realizing that maybe she's not as cool as I once thought. I think I'd rather be able to pick my wedgies.

Other news: I have fallen in love with my screenwriting class and the art of writing for film. I recently turned in an 18-paged dramatic story filled with lust, betrayal, vomit, and murder. In it, a married woman feels trapped as the caregiver of her 82-year-old-dying-of-lung-cancer mother-in-law, has an affair with the neighborhood handyman, and kills the old woman with a pillow. Not a masterpiece, but definitely worthy of a Lifetime movie. Maybe one day I'll post it....

Today is also my two-year anniversary as an employee for Saint Joseph's College. I'm not sure whether to feel really proud or a little bit sad. It's probably both.