ICE SCREAM

My ice cream slave bought some Mocha Almond Fudge this weekend, and instead of going to yoga tonight, I decided to eat some.

And for that I was uniquely punished.

I came home from work, scooped of the carton into a mug and enjoyed it in front of a movie--Air Force One to be precise. Then I painted my fingernails and toenails black.

Because I'm a rather rotten nail artist, I required the assistance of some nail polish remover to clean up. Once done with the acetone-soaked cotton ball, for lack of a better place, I dropped it into my empty ice-cream mug.

You find yourself glimpsing In The Know, dontcha?

A couple hours later, I wanted some more ice cream. Idiot pig. So I grabbed my mug, went back down to the freezer, scooped out some more from the dwindling stash, dropped it in the mug, and went back upstairs to my office.

Spoonful after spoonful: crunchy deelish.

Until . . .

I saw what looked to be a giant piece of coffee-ice-cream-coated fudge waiting for me at the bottom of the mug. My goodness, I thought I'd hit the jackpot and promptly spooned it into my awaiting trap.

Funny texture.

Sort of cottony.

And what . . . what . . . what the hell is that bitter, chemical taste?

And then I noted my newly blackened fingernails.

Nail polish remover as an aftertaste is less-than-desirable.

HOLIDAY SELF PORTRAIT

A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

To keep the secret safe, I had all the boxes shipped to my storage unit (the staff delivers all packages directly into my unit, sending me an email upon deposit), and I picked them up this morning after dropping off The Husband at the Apple store for a day of frenetic selling.

Four boxes, and I could swear the long box weighed more than a post-Thanksgiving family of six.

I stopped by Walgreens on the way home to purchase 200 small, silver paperclips.

In three trips I hauled everything in through the garage, dropped it all on the floor, and then made myself some eggs and toast. I sure was hungry after all that lugging.

Five hours, 135 ornaments, 150 paper clips (for I neglected to order ornament hooks and some of the clips broke), 25 bows, and a tree skirt later, the Romo house bore its very first Christmas tree. This is our eighth Christmas together and our first conifer, faux or otherwise. 'Cause I've never wanted a tree (read: needless, expensive hassle), and The Husband is an agreeable man.

But last year he mentioned that he was sick of not having a tree. Why don't we celebrate the holiday? he whined (rather like a little girl).

'Cause I don't wanna.

Even I could hear how selfish that sounded falling out of my mouth and bouncing up and down on the tiled floor.

So I decided to fix it. With him unawares.

I employed the Giving Tree (my iMac), ordering a 7' faux tree (blessedly pre-lit), 135 ornaments of various sizes, shapes, and hues of gold, silver, and brown, a tree-topper, and a matching skirt, for no tree well-dressed up top should have to go smokeless.

As I carefully hooked each ornament over the course of five hours (okay four, 'cause it took an hour to put the tree together and fluff all the branches appropriately), I knew I was going to ruefully regret this act of heroism come December 26th when everything would need to be taken down and stowed. I considered a few times spitefully telling the Husband that he'd have do to the take down because I did the set up. Don't get me wrong, the five hours were well buoyed with the thought of my spouse's happy shock upon coming in from the garage; it wasn't an awful time. Just tedious. And tiring.

And worth every paper-clip-bending second when I brought the Husband home from work to a decorated and lit tree, earning myself the precise reaction I'd predicted and hoped for. Our very first Christmas tree. A phenomenal surprise.

And I thought of it all by myself.


(I'd take the scrolly thing off the wall, but it's nailed in there so expertly an earthquake couldn't dislodge it.)

This is one of those moments that I'm really happy I've never claimed to be a photographer, for the tree's picture would make me into one heck of a hypocrite. Am I allowed to say, Trust me, it looks better in real life? I think so, for with 5 hours of my life invested, you'd better believe it looks nice and I'd prefer you not think otherwise.

BIG BLUE NOGGIN

Lookie what I just now took out of a box that I found sitting on our front doorstep:


My very own blue helmet for use while perching on the back of The Husband's motorbike. ('Course, the sticker on the visor does come off; I was just too excited to peel it off before donning the protective device.)

Peterson sisters, the way I look in this helmet reminds me of how Lola looked in the white helmet she used to wear when strapped in on the back of mom's bike. Remember? A bona fide and adorable Bucket Head.

•••

Hey, by the way, if you're lacking in entertaining education these days, head over to Rabidrunner's blog. She's in India right now (was in Paris a few days ago) and is blogging as she goes. Very engaging. She's keeping us posted. If you're just now getting over to her blog you have a lot of catching up to do.

SAFETY IN SOLITUDE

Don’t knock on my front door. At least don’t do it without calling me beforehand.

Why not knock without a warning call?

Because I simply won’t answer.

If The Husband is home he might answer, but if not, you’re going to stand staring at my off-center wreath for however long you decide to hold there. In the wind. In the heat. In the cold.

All you need to do to make sure that you don’t have to endure my front porch any longer than it takes for me to get up from my computer and hop down the stairs to let you in is to make a simple phone call.

Without the call? I won’t even get up to peer through the door's peep hole or sneak into the guest room to peer down through the blinds. Nope, I will just continue dragging, typing, and dropping and color-picking, pretending that you don’t exist. No matter how many times you ring the bell.

WET ADVISORY

Friday was a wickedly windy day. The kind of bluster that makes me almost glad I've added a couple pounds since landing in Northern Nevada; for if I'd been just 10 pounds lighter, the gales surely would have boosted me like a helium balloon.

Living in the desert as we do, winds like Friday's set the sagebrush and miles of dust to dancing. It's all brown out here, and at the end of my work day my dark blue car was clad in desert drab. There was dust under my fingernails (the ones I hadn't already bit off). Dust up my nose. In my eyes. Stuck to the product in my hair. And sprinkling my suit.

Thus when I got home I figured a quick dousing was in order. I left my clothes in a pile on the closet floor and stepped into the shower to wash the work of the wind away.

Once out of the shower and dry, I returned the closet to get dressed. As they hadn't been desert dusted like the rest of me, I grabbed the underwear I'd put on that morning to slip back on (if that made you gag, go away). When I pulled the panties up I realized that they were damp. No. Wet. They were more wet than damp.

I don't remember wetting my pants, I thought. I mean, I could have, but I don't remember doing it.

I pulled them off and checked to see if the moisture was the indicative color for That Time of the Month, which fortunately it wasn't; for that time had passed a week ago and it would be all to cruel for it to pop up again.

How in the world did my underwear get all wet? I puzzled while grabbing a new pair from the bureau.

I then looked to my right at the small, furry thing licking her lips.

She'd been busy cleansing my underwear while I'd been cleansing myself of the Nevada grime.

Sophie, you are disgusting. Just 'cause I leave my underwear on the floor doesn't mean that you can make a meal out of licking the crotch, you filthy beast.

Dogs can be gross. And desperate, for--trust me--there was nothing on the crotch for her to get at.

Lately, the Husband has been bemoaning that we're not give the Soph enough food.

He may be on to something.

NOW

NatOurRat asked if I was sportin' a faux hawk in the Cookery photo.

I dunno. Here's The Self right now. At her computer working on some design stuff and listening to Forrest Gump on Netflix streaming in the background. A look at Right Now thanks to the iMac's little camera. Click!

Check me out: real-time blogging. And switching between first person and and third.

The Husband and I call that little boost at my crown a rooster-tail, 'cause that's what the stylist, Kitty, called it, but I suppose I could be different bird altogether. A rooster? Or a hawk? What I wouldn't give for wings.

CAREFUL COOKERY

My forays in the kitchen are rare. In fact, they're generally confined to when company stay over. Why cook when company is here? Truly, not to manufacture some vision of me as a regular cook; no, I cook when company is there so that a) they feel special, 'cause they know that I'm doing something I don't generally do, and b) so they have something to eat and aren't forced to eat like I do--weirdly.

When Rabid came to visit, I made a hummus-like bean dip. Soaked then boiled white beans, mint, and other whatnot. Initially, it sucked. Then I sprinkled some feta and it was tasty. Feta heals. We should sprinkle some on the Middle East and see what happens. Oh, wait--they have plenty of feta over there and there's still explosive unrest. Resilient people, eh?

While I was trying to combine ingredients properly, The Husband and the Rabid were sitting at the bar across from me. Oh, they offered to help of course, but I simply wouldn't allow it. While I deciphered and followed, The Husband played with my phone and captured this image. (And he didn't even need Rabid's cell phone action to make it crappy; he can do it without!)

Voila: Me. Cooking.

THURSDAY

• I had a chocolate-covered caramel as dessert after my breakfast of immature cereal.

• Before leaving the house I finally took all the Andrea Bocelli music off my iPhone. He's great in measured doses, but I was about Bocellied out.

• I forgot to pick up a pair of slacks from the tailor yesterday (not a new pair of pants--I’m staying true to my vow--just a pair that I’ve had for a couple months and have needed hemmed if they were going to be useful for my 5' 2" frame), and I really wanted today to be the day I finally wear my new grey herringbone suit. So I tore the tags off of the jacket, put it on with a pair of plain black slacks, drove the the tailor, paid for the hemming, and changed into the corresponding pants in their dressing room. On my way out the tailor said I looked nice. I thanked her.

• The St. Mary’s parking garage made me as angry as it usually does. Nice way to cut costs, you nitwits; cram as many parking spaces as you can into precarious lines and then assume no one is going to get in accidents as they navigate your pathetic maze.

• When I pulled up to The Chocolate Nugget on my way back from Carson City, I should have just backed out and zoomed away when I saw the tour bus; but, like an idiot, I instead went inside. I didn’t look left. I just went right. Right to the taffy bins. Fortunately, instead of taking the time to carefully select from all the different flavors of taffy I just grabbed a couple pre-packaged assorted taffy boxes. Then I picked up a maple cream and a fresh mint truffle and turned toward the cash register. Where the line was 20 retirees long. As if. I set down the parcels I was ready to purchase and walked out.

I stop at the Chocolate Nugget once every quarter or so, and whenever I do, I walk in, get what I need (like how I just made candy a need?), and walk out. My expectations were skewed. If it was normal to have to wait in line to pay, I woulda' sucked it up and done so. But it’s not common. So I dropped my stuff on a shelf and walked out. Pretty ticked. Who did that bus of retirees think they were? Who said they could tour their way to my favorite candy store and inhibit a speedy exit?

• I actually ate at my lunch appointment. I do lunches with doctors, and, as I've told you before, I don’t ever eat at the lunches. Ever. Really. It can get awkward, but I always talk my way through the avoidance. But today was the one in a million. The office, of just four people, ordered from a Thai place, and when I went to pick up the food it smelled so delightful that I couldn’t help but order some Pad Thai for myself. Bummer that I ate it with people--meant I couldn’t emit the moaning sounds the noodle dish deserved.

• I rescheduled my hair appointment on Saturday for a the 28th 'cause I don’t need the 'do cut quite yet. I don’t want to interfere with the string of great hair days I’ve been enjoying.

• I called the office with which I’m spending tomorrow's noon hour to see what they wanted for lunch. After I was put on hold for five minutes, they told me they wanted food from some Greek place that doesn’t deliver. I told them to go fly a kite. Order from somewhere that delivers or we’re going to have to cancel. You know what I look like. Do I look like someone who can haul pounds of food without breaking a sweat and getting their workwear all yucky? That’s what I thought.

• I almost turned the wrong way on a one-way street.

• I swallowed my gum. Again. Twice.

• When I saw another rep staring at a directory in a medical building I asked him who he was looking for, saying that perhaps I could help. He told me. And then I learned that this was his first day on the job and his first day in Reno (had been a rep for another company elsewhere prior to) and he was selling GI meds. So I sat with him and gave him the rundown on all the Gastros in the area, corrected bad addresses on his list, and told him which offices require appointments and who he needed to talk to. I think I made a friend. Seemed really grateful.

All in all, typical yet not a waste of 9 hours.

READY • SET • GO

I am intensely competitive.

I compete with everyone.

I don't even know you and we're probably competing.

I turn all that I can into something I can win. Blood pressure. Cavities. Grades. Heel height. MPH. First to the ticket counter. Last to finish a meal. Healthiest lunch. Handwriting. First one to bed. Posture. Weight. Tidiness. Humor. Much like I have an uncanny ability to justify things, I am a wizard at creating competitions.

Although I'm encouraged by competition within myself, it's much more engaging when I have a tangible counterpart to slaughter. And since he's the person I interact with the most, The Husband has been a frequent target of my competitions.

Let's see who can get the lowest cholesterol! I tossed out one morning.

He laughed at me.

I went on, It'll be a contest! What kind of a prize would you want?

Kept laughing, that man did.

And it was then that I was struck by the difference in our natures. I'm competitive. Highly so. He is not. At all. He's never felt he has anything to prove while I'm motivated by seeing my name at the top of a list (though I'm not a fan of public recognition; I don't need everyone to know that I won. I'm generally sated with the mere knowledge of my victory--no prize required).

Is it healthy, this need to compete and to win? In some arenas, surely. In others, it's detrimental to relationships and pecks at self-esteem.

Yet, without a doubt, I have what appears to be an innate need for contest, and I hate losing.

Which introduces a problem, because I'm not good at everything. So I'm bound to lose from time to time. However, this is a problem I've solved. (I win!) Solved through selective, developed apathy.

In order to apply my competitive nature to something, I have to care about it. Healthy teeth: I care. Running fast: I don't. Ranking at work: I care. Whacking a baseball: I don't. Grades in school: I care. Prettiest pedicure: I don't. If there's not a good probability that I'm going to win, I abnegate participation altogether.

If I'm invested in something, it becomes a competition.

And if I've cared enough about that thing to make it into a competition, I will win.

AS I AM

Here.

Keep Tahoe Blue.

LUNCH-N-LEARNS

Doctors can be busy people (who isn't, right?). They have to deal with stinky, whiny patients in a timely manner all day long with few breaks and little thanks. So, as a rep, it's really tough to get a minute to talk with them.

Harangue Hiatus: When, as patient or patient supporter, you're sitting in a doc's waiting room, you've been there for 30 minutes, and a rather well-dressed person carrying a big bag and sporting a name tag walks right up front and is immediately invited back, don't get your knickers in a knot. That badge-wearing individual is not making it such that you're going to have to wait longer for your turn to listen to doctor's orders that you're going to ignore.

No, in fact, while you're sitting in the waiting room, rump nestled on a soft seat and magazine in your paws, the rep is in the back, balancing in high heels at the designated spot, for 25 minutes, doing her best not to get in the way of the bustle that is The Back Office. And when the physician finally notices her, he gives no more than 30 seconds (if she's lucky), during which he's distracted by a waiting patient chart. She's not disgruntled at the mere 30 seconds after her 25-minute wait; she understands the time constraints under which the doc works. It's the nature of the beast.

If you're still in the waiting room when she emerges, don't glare at her like she delayed your day. Instead, why don't you issue her a sorrowful look of understanding in response to the smile she automatically sends you, a smile prompted by the great empathy she has for patients who have to wait a long time? (End Harangue)

For the sake of understanding and context, let's put you in the black leather pumps of a female drug rep; let's say it's me . . .

So, as a pharmaceutical sales representative, in order to execute your job duties--which is talking to doctors about the products you have responsibility for, you very often have to steal the only free time they get in their day: lunchtime.

In order to feel good about taking them away from the small solitude they have in the 9 hours they spend putting up with patients and rolling their eyes at managed care, you buy them lunch. If you have to monopolize their only me-time at least you're doing it while they get to enjoy a nice meal you had delivered.

Because doctors appreciate their staff and drug reps need the staff to like them in order to execute the job duties I mentioned of earlier, when you schedule a lunch discussion with the doctor, you need to buy food for the whole office. It's polite anyhow. You know: don't bring any if you don't have enough to share with the entire class.

Generally, the part of the lunch when you're in the breakroom with the food and waiting for the doctor is the time when you get to chitchat with the staff. And that's, more often than not, the relaxing part. After you review relevant product information with them and answer any questions they have, you all sit around and just chat--like people do. You enjoy the staff; for, in a sense, they become your coworkers. You see them more than you see your company counterparts.

Frequently, the staff is concerned whether or not you ate lunch too. You tell them that you don't eat at your in-office lunches. They ask why. You reply that it is your job to talk at these lunch events and you simply wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you spent the hour talking, got back into your car afterward, and discovered that you had lettuce in your teeth and no one told you. So to avoid that, you just stop for food after leaving the lunch. They laugh and swear on their firstborn children that if you had food in your teeth they'd tell you. You tell them that you don't believe them. It's all very good-natured.

Finally, after you've been there shooting the bull for 45 minutes, the doc is able to slip in to snatch up some lunch. He's very grateful and thanks you for feeding his staff. Very gracious of him, seeing as the reason you brought the lunch was to spend time with him. You should be thanking him. And you do.

He sits down and you get to spend ten minutes "talking product" (for that's the industry jargon you use). You give him the rundown on some new information and he asks you corresponding questions. It's amicable and productive. And that's because it was over lunch. A discussion like that never could have taken place while the doctor is in-between patient rooms.

That's generally how it works out.

Such was not the case at a recent lunch I had.

This office is a large one and an important one to me. It has quite a few providers and I am there often. They all know me. It's like I'm Norm in Cheers. However, when I'm there on my regular calls, their office policies regarding reps are prohibitive to having any kind of productive chat with the docs.

So a lunch was in order.

I ordered a winner of a meal. A lunch I often order for my offices. Whole Foods has gourmet box lunches with many good things tucked inside. Whenever I have those things brought to an office all that consume rave. Really rave, telling me again and again and again that they had no idea Whole Foods was, like, good food. They thought it was just weird health stuff. Surprise, I say.

For this lunch I had to order 50 boxed lunches. Like I said, it's a big office. So I had the lunches delivered at 11:30; lunch was to start at 11:45 and I didn't want the food to be late. I showed up at 11:40 and there were all of five boxed lunches sitting on the kitchen counter.

Just five. Not 50. Five.

I started to freak out. Where were my lunches? Were the delivery people bringing up more? Where the heck was all the food I paid a truckload of money for?

After calling Whole Foods catering and making a complete idiot of myself, fretting into the phone like a little girl, I learned that all the lunches had been delivered. Every last one of the 50. The food had come and the staff had swooped in and decimated it blitzkrieg-style. Never mind that they snatched all the food and disappeared without signing in--for I had yet to arrive with the sign-in sheet--but they had left no food for the doctors. The doctors. The people I had spent many hundreds of dollars to be able to see were going to starve.

It was terribly embarrassing. The doctors gradually trickled in and there I was, no food at all, apologizing that the staff had taken everything.

I had ordered more than the amount I was told to--just in case--and still, all of it was gone before the practitioners had a chance to eat.

I was able to have a very fruitful discussion with one doctor, but all the while my heart was racing because things had gone wrong, and I wasn't at fault. I wasn't at fault but I felt that I should have been able to prevent it. Of course I was wrong--the staff should have thought of their providers and didn't. (Okay, that's not true, one gal set aside a lunch for her doctor and went elsewhere to get her own lunch; she gets a gold star.)

I do three or four lunches a week, and, for the most part, they are successful, I get to spend time reviewing a clinical study or two with the doctors I needed to contact, and I get to enjoy some time jawing with the staff while all enjoy a tasty and healthy meal. This debacle was an anomaly.

And it had to happen in a very, very important office.

I'm still recovering.

EVEN MORE TWITSTED

• Mothers that give their 18-month-olds rice for dinner need their heads examined.

• If you're going to hunt and kill it: eat it.

• What's with unavailable blogger profiles? So you can leave comments on blogs that don't allow anonymous comments? Clever yet cowardly.

• Be happy without contingencies.

• Anyone else fed up with how slow PayPal is? It's the pokiest website that I regularly deal with. Hate it. Love the service; hate the site.

• Good news: I just updated Rookie's Recipe Index. I was only 2 months behind. See here: http://stupidtinyurl.com

• Anyone else sometimes sick of being themselves?

• I think that going to bed earlier is a worthy goal. I'm going to make that goal. And I'm going to work on it. Tomorrow.

• Head cheese. Unruly kids. Capital punishment. Eyewear. Healthcare reform. Dusting fans. (Drugs.) All covered in depth at my lunch today.

• I'm not sure I'll be able to have Whole Foods falafel ever again. It was so incredibly perfect today and now my standard's through the roof.

• Favorite phone calls: when Uncle Mickey phones me for a "Megan Fix." Fewer things can do a better job of healing a bad day.

• I have had my car for eight months. And I just now discovered that it has a 6-disc changer.

• Have a hankerin' to watch The Abyss.

• Welcome to Expense Report Hell, a place where computers are slow, receipts are missing, and time ticks on.

• Fixed our duvet. It was crooked and has been interrupting my sleep for a month. I'm a tidy sleeper.

• When it's truly winter: the time when my dog no longer wants to nap on the floor instead preferring my lap.

• Husband is in the loft watching Nuremberg. Wish I weren't stuck in this office workin' and could go watch with 'im. Great show.

• Forgot to buy gum today and am starting to chew on my tongue.

• The customer service for my corporate AmEx is always impressive. I finish those interactions actually satisfied with the help I received.

• I am so hungry right now that I'm considering eating my product training materials.

• I feel an incredible relief that I only have minor travel for the rest of the year. No big trips, just a here and there and time at home.

• Michael Jackson flick with Rabidrunner. Great time had by all. After the show she played "Stranger in Moscow" for me. Had never heard it.

• My favorite MJ song--has always been "Beat It."

MEN ON THE MEND

For your enjoyment and understanding (by suggestion of Kalli Ko):


A while ago I was visiting my parents in Utah and my dad was sick. And when my dad is sick he plays the Man Cold role like a seasoned pro. He inquired if I was going to be sad when he died in a few days and, in a barely audible voice, asked me to make him a cold compress. And then he croaked that I should photograph it:

•••

Note: please don't be under the impression that this joshing around regarding men and their wimpiness when under the weather means that I don't feel terrible for my spouse's misfortune. I do. I'm not that callous. It's just undeniable that when men get sick their worlds crumble to pieces. Apparently, they simply cannot help it, for it's in their DNA. Men who are highly functional when suffering from a virus are actually women with the wrong dangling parts.

MUD-SPATTERED CLOVEN HOOVES

I've been sleeping with a pig. A bona fide pork chop for a bed buddy.

For The Husband has won the aych-one-en-one lottery.

That's right, Dear Reader, my spouse has captured the fabled and famous Swine Flu.

The corresponding histrionics are epic. He sent a text message to all of his loved ones saying that he has swine flu and if it kills him he wanted them to know that he loved 'em. He told me that he wants me to have all his stuff. When we got home from the doctor he sat down at his desk and when I asked what he was doing, he said he was faxing his death notice [the sick note his doctor penned] to his manager at work. He keeps repeating that he's loved having me as his wife and reassuring me that we have plenty of life insurance.

Such a drama queen.

Actually, we were surprised by how cautious the doc was. I'll be sleeping in the guest room. Tomorrow, I have to waste a whole lot of time at the Health Department waiting for an immunization that they will tell me I'm too healthy to necessitate. If it's the needle and not the mist, I'll also have to waste time cleaning up the mascara trails that my belonephobia tears left behind.

Of course, we can engage in no smoochage, etc. The dude's not to go to work for at least a week. No motorcycle. No exercise. My fella has been relegated to the house for the next seven days--stuck lounging around, sleeping, taking medication for the aches, drinking fluids (for no prescription for health would be complete without direction to take in an ocean of fluid), and finding himself much more likely to die from boredom than from any battering that the media star H1N1 can dish out.

This little piggy went to work one day. Then this little piggy got sent home. This little piggy had sniffles. And this little piggy was shunned. So this little piggy was bummed, bummed, bummed that he had to stay home.

He's afflicted with much sniffing, much coughing, high body heat, lots of aching, and snores the volume of which I had no idea could emanate from a human. (Could that be the real reason that I'll be snoozing in the bed Rabid just vacated?)

Poor little piglet.

•••

A related joke I heard from one of my docs last week:

Q: What's the different between bird flu and swine flu?
A: For bird flu you need tweetment and for swine flu you need oinkment.

THIS EMPORER'S NEW CLOTHES

Something must be done. And to do it, I'm going to be accountable to you. You are going to hold me accountable for this.

My closet is burstin' at its seams. So much so that it has grown to require my office closet as well. In addition to that, my chest of drawers can barely close. And it's not 'cause I don't clean it out. I do. Often. Bags and bags of clothes to Goodwill. The closet(s) and drawers are fat because I keep feeding them.

Scads of shoes. Tons of tops. A slew of slacks. Scores of skits. Plenty of everything. Yet I keep on adding. A shirt here. A dress there. A pair of earrings just 'cause. A pair of pumps cause I needed them. A pair of black yoga pants 'cause one can't have too many.

It has to stop.

So, as a hop in the right direction, I'm not going to buy any clothes, shoes, or accessories for the rest of the year. From now, November 9th, to December 31, I'm not going to hand over my hard-earned lucre in exchange for something new to wear. No work-out clothes. No work clothes. No play clothes. No sleep clothes. No more coats. No shoes (except that I might need new running shoes 'cause these ones may be all wrong for my arches and may be inducing unnecessary pain--I'll let you know if that happens). No necklaces. No rings. No earrings (that just might kill me). No nothin'.

A something similar to Rabid's recent consumer cleanse on a much smaller scale; I don't have her will power just yet.

Might not sound hard to some--going a couple months or so without bringing home new wearables--but it will be tough for me. And I'm going to be accountable to you for it. 'Cause being accountable only to The Self and The Husband has never worked; I'm the queen of skillful justification and can apply it to absolutely everything.

Accountability, here I come.

MAKING CLEAR

• Rookie Cookie isn't my blog • On more than a few isolated incidents I've discovered that some readers are under the impression that rookie-cookie.com is my blog. It's not. It's my sister Whitney's. She's a wizard in the kitchen, while I forget something's cooking and it ends up black. I'm not quite sure how someone could believe that I create for, write, and run that particular food blog, for I'm a kitchen dunce and have never claimed to be The Rookie Cookie. I do help out with the graphic design for said space and am in charge of updating the recipe indexes (regarding which I am basically defunct), but that's where my involvement ends.

• I do not live in Utah • The name of this blog is Remarks from Sparks because I live in Sparks, Nevada. Sparks is adjacent to Reno, Lake Tahoe's ugly big sister. I'm saying that I live in Northern Nevada on the NV/CA border. And I really like it. I'm not sure how I've led anyone to believe that I live in Utah. I did grow up there, I visit from time to time, and nearly all of My People live there, so perhaps all that helped to mislead; but, aside from two months in 2002 and February of 2004, I've not lived there for 9 years.

• I am not infertile (that we know of) • I'm a Marmen. I've been married to my sthweethawt for 7 years. We don't have progeny. In Mormondom such a situation generally indicates that a couple is encumbered by some form of infertility, for what Mormons most commonly do is get married ten days from the cradle and hop right to reproducing like rabbits. However, that's not the situation we find ourselves in. We don't have miniature mouthy Megan's making messes of our home simply because kidlets aren't on the agenda for quite some time.

• I'm not a vegan • I don't eat anything that's been alive--fish included (people who eat fish but no other flesh aren't true vegetarians; they're called pescetarians), but I've come to the conclusion that I can't manage to give up eggs and various products of the dairy variety, so veganism is out of the question. Bummer.

Those are the most frequent issues of confusion that I encounter in my online associations an' I figgur'd that clarification was in order. If there's anything else you're not clear on and believe you have a right to know, be not afraid to make me aware and I shall straighten things out. My life is an open blog.

SUCH AS IT IS

Last night I wandered from my office into the loft where my taller half was watching a movie. I looked morose. I know because I saw it in the mirror outside said office. The Husband asked how I was doing. I grunted a non-reply. He said that he knew what I meant.

How could that be when I didn't even know what I meant?

He said that I was busy, overwhelmed by my to-do list, frustrated that I only had two hands and twenty-four hours, sleepy, distracted by excitement for my weekend visitor (can you guess who?), and bored at the same time.

He gets me.

What's wrong in the world today:

• My office is a pit of paperwork.
• I have an expense report tapping me on the shoulder.
• My knee hurts. (Did you know that twelve years ago I had knee surgery? A lateral patella realignment. I was, ahem, blessed with a pair of bum knees. The one that was operated on aches at one point or another every single day. The other one catches when I run.)
• I'm mentally mired in some family muck.
• I cursed in front of two of The Husband's coworkers today; the man hates it when I curse so was embarrassed that I slipped. I apologized to them immediately after the whoops!, but it doesn't negate the fact that my man feels like he's married to a moderately well-dressed piece of trailer trash.
• I've been eating just about anything I want with abandon--and what I want is never a pile of healthy things, so I feel like lard.
• I have after-cramps.
• I have a couple of really annoying hangnails and haven't the energy to locate clippers.
• I don't want to blog. (So I probably won't for a few days.)
• I forgot to bring my reusable Whole Foods bags into Whole Foods this evening. So I got the glare.
• I feel stupid.
• Vistaprint completely screwed up my holiday cards.

Life right this second seems to be an insurmountable bummer.

However, wherever there is bad, despite the fact that I really don't want to, I am so often able to stumble upon a speck or two of good:

• I remembered to enroll for my 2010 benefits--a very important deadline didn't pass me by.
• I'm happily married.
• I am genuinely enthused for my incoming house guest--to arrive on Thursday at 4:14PM. A light at the end of the tunnel of the week.
• I had a terrific time in yoga tonight; for the first time ever I donkey-kicked into a handstand (with the confidence of the wall, of course)--and then I did it again.
• I purchased a super rad (yes: "super rad") pair of earrings at Target today for all of $3.48.
• I remembered to bring my reusable bag into Yankee Candle today.
• I renewed my mom's subscription to Real Simple this morning before work.
• My husband brought me a pickle from Dickie's.
• I had my car cleaned.
• I bought Michael Buble's newest album and have been enchanted by his Heartache Tonight cover.
• The weather today didn't necessitate a coat or swear words.
• I remembered to floss my teeth today.

Lots of bad. Quite a bit of good. Life trying to balance itself out and doing a fair-to-moderate job of it.

PLEASE PERUSE POST, PEEPS

Speaking of Rabidwriter, go read this perfect post she just proffered.

It's perfection in post form.

And whilst your there, do write her some hate mail, would you? And if you're a good soul, you'll make it hate mail alight with alliteration; she digs that stuff.

SO FRESH AND SO SLOVENLY

My dry cleaners think I'm a total slob. Or at least the little yellow bits of paper that they safety pin to my clothes indicate that they believe I should clean up my act.

"Chocolate stain. Front"

"Jam spot. Front"

"Ice cream. Front"

"Neckline Somethingorother"

"Unknown Spot. Rump"

"Unknown Spot. Collar"

Or whatever.

I'm sure that the notes are to cover their behinds--not necessarily to remind me of last week's en route menu, for if they have to spot-treat a spot there's a chance the material could react badly and they want me to know just why they were focusing extra chemicals on a certain area on my skirt. It's not their fault the material faded just there. It's my fault for letting ice cream--that I shouldn't have been eating the the first place--unceremoniously plop onto my shirt.

Or maybe it's not that they're calling me a slob. Instead they're calling me fat. For it's never "Hummus spot. Front" or "Egg whites. Collar" or "Fruit bowl. Sleeve" They always point on that it's unhealthy stuff I've used to decorate my workwear.

Why don't they just leave a note on each item saying, "You're a fat slob and totally disgust us?" I'll be so depressed by the love note that I won't care at all if my skirt has a big faded spot where chocolate used to be. And it's not like I'd be able to fit into it anyhow.