not that you asked...

The best birthday present is making your husband do home improvement projects

BEFORE:

AFTER:

It’s not completely finished yet, there is still artwork to hang and curtains to buy and also a dust ruffle which I didn’t originally think I would want or need but it turns out that even if you don’t WANT a dust ruffle, you might need one because there is a lot of crap underneath your bed that you should probably try to hide, you know, like your surprisingly large collection of backpacks and that Rubbermaid tub that contains every single bathing suit you’ve purchased since 1999.

Also, dust ruffle is an awful-sounding word and I wish that I had used “bedskirt” instead. TOO LATE.

The yellow makes the entire room feel a million times bigger and lighter and so much more livable. I finally settled on Behr Applesauce after a bad rondezvous with Behr Feather Gold, which ended up being a bit too green. We ended up doing two coats of primer and two coats of color, but honestly, it wasn’t the terrible experience I was anticipating. I still have some ceiling and trim touching up to do, but at least the vast majority of the very tedious and time-consuming crap is finished. I say “majority” because there is still one very time-consuming task I’ve yet to begin, and that is the scrubbing of primer from odd parts of my body. The stuff just doesn’t come off without a fight or a truckload of steel wool, and unfortunately, I’ve got it EVERYWHERE.

My birthday celebration was perfect. We spent the night downtown and ate dinner at a TERRIFYINGLY nice restaurant and I didn’t do anything embarrassing throughout the entire course of the meal until I was served my cheese course. While attempting to cut it into manageable, dainty pieces with my knife, I kind of, uh, sent it flying across the room. But I have grown as a person, Internet! I just let it go. I did NOT pick it up and shove it back into my mouth.

And I did it all while wearing (drumroll, please) Option Number Three:



I paired it with black tights and the boots and a) it was cute and b) I DIDN’T FREEZE. I did wear it with Coat of the Future, so I know you are deducting points for that, but IT WAS REALLY COLD OUT, and we WALKED to the restaurant.



Also, I apologize, but I refuse to post the full-length pictures that Dave took. For some reason the flash reflected off my tights and made my legs look like enormous blood sausages, so FORGET IT, Internet. I have already deleted them, so you just get those semi-tipsy photos I took standing in front of the hotel mirror.

I know, you’re disappointed in me, but you can’t be nearly as disappointed as Dave, who ended up throwing up his half of our $200 dinner between the hours of 2 and 4am. I didn’t ask, but I’m guessing he may have shed a tear or two when he flushed the toilet and watched his butter-poached lobster swirl its way down into a watery grave. (I heard absolutely nothing, as I had been charmed into a deep, oblivious sleep by the king-sized bed and big fluffy pillows and the sounds of the city outside our window. SIGH.)

The next morning we couldn’t keep the ritzy charade up any longer so we ate a greasy breakfast at McDonald’s with six or seven homeless people. And then we came home. And I remained 30 years old. THE END.

Dress Me: Vol. 3, My 30th Birthday

Volume 1
Volume 2

This particular Dress Me edition is difficult. It took a lot of effort to scrounge up things from my closet that MIGHT work for a night out with my husband. I don't know about you, but when a special occasion arises, I usually like to treat myself to something new to wear. Unfortunately, AND IT IS NOT BECAUSE I DID NOT TRY, I couldn't find anything out there that fit my (admittedly picky) requirements. We're going out to dinner tomorrow night, but it isn't to a particularly fancy restaurant, so I don't want to be OVERdressed even though I do want to look nicer than usual. Also the temperature is likely to be in the low 30s, and I don't want to freeze to death because we are staying in a HOTEL and if we're staying in a HOTEL, TOGETHER, and WITHOUT A KID, I would like to stay alive long enough to get my money's worth in delicious, king-sized slumber.

Without further ado.

OPTION ONE

Patterned ivory wool mini and a black cashmere turtleneck sweater. To be paired with knee-high black boots.

Pros: Warmer than the other options; won't be overdressed.
Cons: Also thinking it might look nice for Asher's baby dedication at church on Sunday, which also means that maybe it falls about six miles short of the Sexy and/or Overdressed category.

OPTION TWO

Bronze silk embroidered skirt and chocolate brown sleeveless turtleneck. OBVIOUSLY I WOULD IRON IT.

Pros: Just the right amount of festive, I think. Warmer than option three. Wouldn't have to worry about a necklace.
Cons: Wore this outfit to my rehearsal dinner in 2003. COULD VERY LIKELY BE TOTALLY OUTDATED, but I keep it in my closet because I just loved the skirt back then and it FITS now, in fact, it might be a little too roomy, but that makes me feel good because I had to bind myself up in a pair of Spanx to get it on the last time. Also, remember that in 2003, a lot of things were made to sit at the natural waist. So this skirt pretty much comes up to my armpits, is what I'm saying.

Also the only pair of shoes I have that really go with it is these:

These shoes have only Cons: Cold, cold, and also very tippy because of the skinny skinny heels.

I suppose if you choose option two, I could always run out to TJ Maxx and pick up a cute pair of shoes. I saw a few pairs in there yesterday, when I bought this giant mistake of a shirt that I have to return.

OPTION THREE

Silk kimono dress with black sash from Target

Pros: Love how it fits and is dressy without being TOO DRESSY.
Cons: Seriously, it is made out of TOILET PAPER. That's how thin it is, and also I will have to carry a big huge purse with me for my giant can of Static Guard that I will have to drench myself in every 1.6 seconds. Also it will be COLD. And I don't have an appropriate sweater or shruggy thing, although if I did, would that look cute?

Shoes to accompany dress:


So there you have it. If you have something else to suggest, PLEASE DO. And I promise this time to actually take a photo of what I look like tomorrow night so you can see what I chose. I have been kind of... well, terrible at that part. My apologies.   

Last meal

Spicy Chicken Enchiladas
(Original recipe found in the May 2007 issue of Everyday Food)

Ingredients:
3 pounds bone-in split chicken breasts
Salt and pepper
5 garlic cloves (I cheat and use minced garlic from a jar)
1 jar hot green salsa (I use Mrs. Renfro's Hot Jalapeno Salsa)
3/4 cup heavy cream
12-14 corn tortillas (soft taco size)
8 ounces shredded Monterey Jack cheese

1. Season chicken with salt, pepper and garlic. Bake at 450 degrees for 30 minutes on a rimmed baking sheet. Let cool, then shred the meat and discard the skin and bones. Turn oven down to 350 degrees.

2. Combine entire jar of salsa and heavy cream in a bowl.

3. In another larger bowl, combine shredded chicken and 1/2 cup of the salsa mixture.

4. Stack tortillas flat between two damp paper towels and microwave for 45-60 seconds to make them pliable.

5. Dip each tortilla in the salsa mixture, coat both sides. Fill with 1/4 to 1/3 cup of chicken mixture. Roll up and arrange seam side down in a 9x13 inch baking dish. (I can fit between 12-13 in each dish if I I arrange them lengthwise as well as crosswise.) Top with remaining salsa mixture (there won't be much) and then sprinkle evenly with cheese.

6. Bake until cheese is bubbling and starting to brown (35-45 minutes).

Serve with rice and as many Dos Equis from the back of the refrigerator as you can possibly lay claim to. (You should leave at least one for your husband, you know, so his mouth doesn't blister.) Fear not the probable hangover or the fact that you used THAT MUCH HEAVY CREAM, for tomorrow is both a new day and the beginning of a whole new decade. Goodbye, twenties, it's been real, but I've heard it only gets better from here.

Retraction

A dinner conversation:

“So I was thinking of doing something for your birthday next weekend instead of this coming one.”

“Oh! Next weekend. Ok, that sounds good. [giggling] Did you, uh, not read my blog today?”

“No. Wait, why? Should I have?”

“No, no, it’s just… really? You didn’t read it?”

“No, I really didn’t.”

“I think I believe you. I mean, if you didn’t, though, really, that’s good. So are you going to tell me anything else? What we’re doing, what I should wear…”

“Waitwaitwait. You don’t think I’ve thought about this at all, do you? You don’t think I’ve got any idea what we’ll be doing that night.”

“Maybe. Uh. I don’t know. Do you?”

“Of course. It’s just that I want some of it to be a surprise.”

“Oooooohhhhh, ok. So now I KNOW you didn’t read the blog today.”

(He assures me that certain things are still being worked out and that he will be able to share more details later this week. Which means: a) I can shop for something cute because this isn’t an actual, catch-me-off-guard surprise, phew!, and b) YOU CAN OFFER YOUR EXPERT OPINIONS.)

No really, surprise me and I will kick you in the shins

If you are having trouble sleeping, might I take this opportunity to recommend that you spend the moments shortly before you turn off the light and arrange yourself comfortably atop your pillows doing anything except reading What is the What.

Dave Eggers is a genius and the book is beautifully written and—rather unfortunately—historically accurate, but if you’re anything like me, you will undoubtedly be entirely too horrified and nauseated to drop off peacefully after you read even a handful of pages. This book should come with a warning plastered across the front cover: “SUITABLE FOR DAYLIGHT HOURS ONLY. WE ARE SO NOT KIDDING.”

Since I’m speaking from personal experience I can also tell you that if you choose not to heed my warnings and read it anyway, the only thing that seems to help in the least is picturing a shirtless Mike Rowe slowly and methodically repairing your ice maker. I know you didn’t ask, but there it is. Don’t hesitate to drop me a flattering email if you want to thank me for my fabulous advice. (And yes, it has to be the ice maker. I don’t know why, exactly, but trust me, the oven or the dishwasher just won’t cut it.)

In other tragic news, this is the last full week of my 20s and no one is even HINTING about taking me out to dinner or anywhere special to celebrate my Big Birthday Milestone. And I know you will all want to say, oh, tsk tsk, Emily, what if it is supposed to be a surprise? And to that I say, my husband knows very well how I feel about surprises because how I feel about surprises is that I absolutely, one hundred thousand percent hate them. I mean, yes, I suppose I would do my best to be polite about it if he showed up next Tuesday evening and wanted to whisk me off somewhere for a nice dinner sans irritable toddler, but I would also hate hate hate it.

Lest you start thinking what a mean and awful person I must be, PLEASE REMEMBER: I have been married to this man for FOUR YEARS and I have known him well for FIFTEEN. He knows I hate surprises and he knows that part of the fun of an evening out for me is the getting ready for an evening out and he also knows that I have absolutely nothing to wear anywhere nice, but that’s kind of an easy one because I must complain about it at least seven thousand times a day.

You all understand this, right? You can’t spring things like Special Occasion Evenings Out on people. Personally, I like to prepare, and plan, and look forward to something. I like to make sure the kid’s pajamas are laid out and his dinner prepared before the babysitter arrives. I like to occasionally buy something new to wear. I can’t help it, it is just The Way I Am. There is really not a spontaneous bone in my body. Especially now that we have offspring and can only afford to do something like that a few times a year. I like the whole thing to be A Worthwhile Experience.

I don’t know why I spent all this time explaining that whole thing since NO ONE IS TAKING ME ANYWHERE ANYWAY. Also: how much more passive-aggressive can I possibly be, complaining about this on my WEBSITE and not pleading my case directly to my husband’s face? Wait, wait! I know! He could come home tonight and ask me if I want to go out to dinner for my birthday and I could say, “You’re only asking me that because I wrote it on my WEBSITE.”

You have my word that I won’t do that. HOLD ME TO IT.

You also have my word that if we do go out, and I have ample time to do so, there will be another lengthy picture-filled post of my wardrobe options. Now if you’ll excuse me, there are only four hours of daylight left, and I’ve got a book that demands to be read. Although I’m thinking of doing some laundry instead and putting it off until bedtime again… after all, that ice maker isn’t going to fix itself.

Remember, I haven't slept for WEEKS

I was drifting peacefully off to sleep last night when Dave suddenly rolled over, nudged me and whispered, “Is that song stuck in your head again?”

Which. Huh. IT IS NOW, YOU BIG JERK.

So I spent another restless night at the mercy of an old, terrible Meat Loaf song that has been reworked to promote a cable network’s reality home-buying show. Have two more bizarre things ever been married together this way in the history of the world? I sincerely doubt it.

I took your advice, though, and stopped by the grocery store on the way to our music class this morning to buy some Simply Sleep. After some thoughtful consideration, I purchased the 24-count pack. At first I was strongly tempted to buy the 100-count jar seeing as I would be getting four times as much product for only twice the price (BARGAIN), but then I got really depressed about ever needing to use 100 sleeping pills JUST TO KEEP FUNCTIONING NORMALLY, so I am calling myself optimistic and the 24 pack will have to suffice.

I also did a little groggy research this morning after three or so hours of sleep and realized I probably need to make an appointment with my doctor. Not only am I having trouble sleeping, but I am ravenously hungry most of the time and I LOST WEIGHT OVER THE HOLIDAYS. It would make a lot of sense if my thyroid hormones are out of whack and shifting me towards the hyper end of the spectrum. On a more frightening note, a thyroid imbalance could also have contributed to the miscarriage I had in October. Oh, I know this riveting paragraph has you all on the edge of your seats. I promise to keep you posted as to the status of my poorly functioning thyroid gland and the goiter that sits atop it.

(Yes, I have a goiter. It has been ultrasounded and everything because apparently at first grope from a licensed, board-certified endocrinologist, it feels just like a tumor.)

I was pretty exhausted most of yesterday so we spent the afternoon at my parents’ house with my mom and my eight-month-old niece. I dragged out three enormous Rubbermaid bins full of books my mom saved from when my brother and I were kids and went through them. Most of them are still too advanced for Asher to appreciate (never in my life did I think The Poky Little Puppy would be considered advanced reading BUT THEN I HAD A CHILD) so I appreciated them for him.

Behold! A small sampling of the contents of my childhood reading collection.


You CAN say no... but you don't HAVE to.


I don't know why this book is in our collection. I assume my mother bought it when we were between six and 10 years old, and yet, here we are, 25 years later, and ALL of our various grandparents/elderly relatives ARE STILL ALIVE. What a tease.

My favorite page from Why Did Grandpa Die?:

Hey Molly! Way to be a TOTAL DOWNER. Everyone else is talking about going to the beach and Disney World and camping and you're going to spend your entire turn talking about how Grandpa's surgery went awry. AWESOME.


Was anyone else aware that there are Christian ways to educate our children on what sounds the animals of the world make? Well THERE ARE.

And my personal favorite:



"Don't worry, kids. A little secondhand smoke never killed anyone! Now try and hold that pointed trowel dangerously close to your eyes, in case we take a tumble."




What? You don't let your two-year-old handle rusty nails? No time like the present to start learning about the realities of LIFE, people.

And this has little to do with anything but indulge me:

Issue dated Fall 1984. My parents have been saving a Muppet Magazine from 24 years ago. But it should come in handy come Halloween time, don't you think? Asher will make an awesome Boy George this year.

To sleep, perchance to dream about something other than bad HGTV commercials

I’m having a lot of trouble sleeping lately and I don’t exactly know why. To the best of my knowledge, I’m not doing anything that could affect my sleep patterns differently: not consuming more caffeine or exercising less or stressing out. I’m just me—same old plain old me—but I have completely lost the ability to sleep through the night. And I used to EXCEL at sleeping through the night. I slept comfortably through the night until the 38th week of my pregnancy and the only reason I stopped is because they induced me and made me have the baby. (How irritating.)

I wake anywhere from three to five times a night now, and I have a really hard time falling back asleep. My mind races and I can’t find a comfortable position for the life of me, and here’s the worst part: I get awful, AWFUL songs stuck in my head. The most offensive of which is the theme music to that new HGTV show called “Sleep On It,” where homeowners get an opportunity to sleep in a house they’re considering buying before they commit. Have you seen this commercial? Honestly, if you ever watch HGTV, perhaps even if you just flip past it on your way to something else, I don’t see how you haven’t. It is on roughly 600,000 times a day, at least once during each and every commercial break, and not only am I embarrassed for HGTV when I see it but I am also APPALLED that there is a companion full-length music video featured on their website.

For the love of all that is holy, DO NOT WATCH THAT VIDEO. Or I will have to put you on suicide watch. It is that bad.

If you do choose to watch it, however, AGAINST MY ADVICE, please honor me by taking a brief moment after its conclusion to imagine my middle-of-the-night misery: me writhing uncomfortably in my bed, sweaty hair plastered to my neck, one leg thrown outside the covers, trying vehemently to rid myself of visions of a portly middle-aged man communicating his concerns to his realtor through passionate song.

Dave has convinced me twice in the past week to take an Ambien to help me sleep. Here’s how I feel about the Ambien: meh. I mean, yes, it does help me sleep. But I don’t wake up refreshed, in fact, yesterday, even though I got eight full hours of sleep, I was pretty groggy up until early afternoon. But I’m considering taking it again because I'm fast approaching the point where the mere thought of going to bed makes me kind of panicky: Will I sleep tonight? Will I fall asleep fast? Will I wake up more than I did last night? Will I be exhausted tomorrow? So I delay that process by watching another episode of House Hunters and which means I see that stupid commercial 18 more times and NO WONDER I CAN’T GET THE SONG OUT OF MY HEAD.

Unsurprisingly, the ongoing lack of sleep is making me all sorts of cranky. I am grumpy and snippy and if you are my husband, you better not even THINK about touching me or I will dissolve into a puddle of hot, molten hatred. I can generally tolerate making physical contact with Asher during the day, excluding, of course, the way he has learned that he can use my body as a stepladder to get himself up onto the couch, so long as he steadies himself by holding onto the folds of my neck with his toddler claws. As a result, strapping him into the stroller is always a welcome respite during the day. Except for yesterday afternoon, that is, when I was about 95 percent certain we were about to be savagely attacked by a pack of rabid foxes who were running circles around us on the last leg of our walk.

Good news, though! We weren’t, and that’s because I, Wildlife Novice, mistakenly understood the crazy, screaming, growling, three-fox brawl I saw take place in the middle of the street as something scary and threatening. I was later informed by a neighbor that this is just standard Fox Mating Procedure. Oh! My bad! Don’t I feel silly for overreacting, when all that actually happened was that Asher witnessed his first sex act. WHAT A RELIEF.

That is all. Too tired to write any more and also need to take my third shower of 2008. What? I never said cleanliness was one of my resolutions.

What is sure to be the first of MANY decorating posts

Project Eventually Our Bedroom Will Also Be Our Office is in full swing. Truth be told, you wouldn’t actually know that by looking into the bedroom because everything looks exactly like it always has, which is like this:



And I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it is a perfectly lovely and acceptable bedroom, albeit a little bit cramped with all that chunky hand-me-down furniture and the hope chest my parents gave me when I turned 16 and the overweight dog with pinkeye lounging on the bed and ogling squirrels.

(Yes. Pinkeye.)

Anyway. Just try to remember that the point of this whole makeover is that this compact area will eventually become our only workspace as well as our bedroom. I don’t particularly relish the idea of working in a blood-red bedroom. What I am hoping to create is something a little more breezy and a little less traditional. Something that makes it feel spacious and airy. And I hope to paint it a color that doesn’t remind me IN THE LEAST of the prom scene in Carrie.

Also may I just remind you, Internet, that you are looking at a paint job done by my husband that required, ahem, ONLY ONE COAT OF PAINT? I think it took three weeks to dry. You have never in your life seen such an atrocious painting process. I am not complaining about the actual finished product, because it turned out great, but I cannot allow you to believe that it was not without its challenges. Actually, just one challenge, which was that I tried to remain in the room while my husband loaded up a roller with so much paint that I watched it drip down the walls and the paint roller AND HIS SINEWY ARMS.

Here is where Dave will argue with me and say, SO WHAT? It turned out JUST FINE. But I cannot help it, the process is IMPORTANT to me.

The first step in this endeavor is to remove some superfluous furniture.



This (hideously ugly) dresser is going, and so are the two bedside tables. The gigantic 6,000 pound mirror that we bought at a yard sale for $10 is also on the outs. The space where the dresser is will be where the new desk (new to us, it’s another hand-me-down that matches our furniture) and our filing cabinet are going. The only bedside table will be on the side of the bed that’s by the window, and it will be much smaller than the current one. All we really need it for anyway is a lamp, an alarm clock, and room for 14,000 back issues of Car and Driver.

Except there just isn’t room in my new adorable bedroom for a billion glossy pictures of acceleration tests SO I THREW THEM OUT. Our garbage men have picked up about sixteen metric tons of garbage from our house alone in the last two weeks. I think the neighbors are starting to think we’re hoarders. “Or that we’re finally separating,” Dave pointed out yesterday.

But it’s the next step that is going to be the hardest: PICKING PAINT. Picking the right SHADE of paint.

When we first moved in to our little house, I decided to paint our downstairs bathroom yellow. Unfortunately, the color I chose and then applied two full coats of, was so bright that anyone who needed to pee was advised to take a pair of sunglasses with them. Otherwise there was a lot of squinting and fumbling for toilet paper and also very poor aim from the male population because of the blinding qualities of the paint.

Does anyone have a yellow shade you can recommend? Or even one that you used that was a horrible, horrible mistake? I have painted rooms in our house red, blue, green, tan, brown and yellow and BY FAR, yellow is the hardest color to nail down. I don’t want anything too lemony or bright, but not too gold or brown either. I think I have one (Behr Feather Gold), but it always helps to look at what other people have used for comparison.

Also while you're at it: Coat of the Future or Coat of Today?

If I WAS from the future, I'd have done WAY better in the family bowl game pool

I had to put myself in Food Rehab yesterday.

I don’t know that I officially gained any weight during the holidays (TOO SCARED TO CHECK), but I do know that when I’m done eating lunch lately, all I seem to be able to think about is EATING MORE LUNCH. All of a sudden it feels like the first two weeks of Weight Watchers all over again—the cravings, the hunger, the desperate cabinet looting when no one else is watching in search of anything that looks remotely like a chocolate chip cookie. (Don't worry: I continue to be wary of mouse turds masquerading as bits of Oreos.)

Apparently I ate enough additional food over the last two or three weeks that now my body thinks it needs that much food on a regular basis. AND IT DOESN’T. Because if my body continues to get that much food on a daily basis, then the next thing I am going to have to do is waddle up the ladder to the attic and retrieve the big plastic bag labeled “Emily: FAT PANTS” and then? Then I am going to have to WEAR A PAIR. And I will not require a belt.

So. Food Rehab. I suspect it will suck dramatically for the next two weeks and then it should be better. Although I don’t have a backup plan if it isn’t. Except that in almost exactly two weeks we have tentative plans for Dave to attempt to eat an entire one-pound hamburger and I suppose if my stomach is still cavernous and echoey by then, maybe I will do so as well.

[insert lengthy bathroom/diaper change/mall outing/dinner break here]

Hmmm. I wrote the previous section of this post about five hours ago, and I would have finished it had Asher not woken from his afternoon nap a wee bit prematurely. Instead I went to the mall with my mother, where she graciously replaced the Christmas present she originally bought for me with a new winter coat and where I polished off an entire Auntie Anne’s Original Soft Pretzel in like, three ravenous bites. I am the Lindsay Lohan of Food Rehab! I am going to have to recommit myself all over again tomorrow! Conveniently, I will even have greasy hair ready and available for my mug shot!

Would you believe that both Dave AND my mother bought me the exact same Christmas gift this year? An orange iPod Shuffle, something that the two of them decided I needed right after the orange color was discontinued by Apple and replaced with a selection of rather ho-hum hues, which meant they were each forced to trawl the Internet to find one. Anyway, I had already opened and made out with the one Dave bought me by the time I received my mom’s, so she outfitted me for the rest of the winter instead. I chose interestingly this year: a silver, mildly puffy Kenneth Cole Reaction jacket that I rather like but which, unfortunately, Dave seems to think makes me look as if I’m “from the future.”

“Wow,” he said as I stepped inside the door wearing it this evening. “Did you get here in your flying car?”

And then later, mockingly: “Tell me, Space Cadet Emily! Are we still married in the future?”

To which, the answer is ABSOLUTELY NOT if this behavior continues for even ONE NANOSECOND LONGER.

The perfect retaliation, of course, is just to tell you that during a delicious dinner on New Year’s Eve, which we spent with four other wonderful couples, Dave somehow brought Mandisa up in conversation.

Hold on, what’s that? Excuse me? You don’t remember Mandisa? Well!

HOW COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY NORMAL OF YOU. Apparently it's only my husband who remembers the ninth-place American Idol finalist from 2006 and finds creative ways to interject her into polite dinner conversation.

Wait, no. The dinner conversation was never, in any way polite.



And frankly, neither was the photographer.

Although, I tell you, that blousy turtleneck is going to come in mighty handy in two weeks when I eat that giant hamburger. You can count on it.

Thank God it's January

Because December was positively FILLED with bad hair days.

Happy New Year, everyone!