I live by a man's code...yet at the same time I never forget that a woman's first job is to choose the right shade of lipstick. - Carole Lombard

Don't you all think I should probably just buy my nephew some crack for Christmas instead?

Hey y’all, H. has taken all three boys down to his sister’s for my nephew’s birthday party/Steeler game. Diabolical me has been exaggerating my illness the past two days so as to opt out guilt-free of this little all-Perfect-family activity but wouldn’t you know this morning I woke up actually sick. Ask and ye shall receive, or something like that. My head is full of sludge, my throat is sore, and I have a lurking headache. So am I resting in bed with hot fluids and a really good book? Noooo, my sweet Internet ones, I am sitting at the computer writing a blog entry. Because I am ADDICTED. I am impressed that both Badger and Poppy (among others, but I have been voraciously reading about beauty products and clothing on theirs) maintain multiple blogs…I can barely keep up with this one and I am lucky enough to have Gina as my partner in this enterprise.

Consider this my stream-of-consciousness post as I want to post but I also want to go loll in bed with my book.

I thought to have a Bacardi-and-Coke and some almond-stuffed olives that my brother’s wife sent me for Christmas, but I believe I will stick to the pistachios I for some reason bought like six pounds of at the store this week, and then indulge in a Stouffer’s French Bread pizza for dinner. Isn’t it sad that frozen pizza is one of my indulgences? I clearly need to work on my sybaritism.

Yesterday was Ukrainian Christmas – which I always thought was actually the 6th, the Feast of the Epiphany, but after some minor research I concluded that it is actually Orthodox Christmas, the 7th. As if it matters. It just means my tree generally stays up till then; if I am up to it (and I was not), I make some incredibly time-consuming Ukrainian meal like halupchis (stuffed cabbage rolls to all you non-hunkies); and the boys each get a token gift from me, almost always a book. (Because it’s MY idea of a great Christmas, that’s why!) Happy Ukrainian Christmas. (I know I *look* Irish, but I AM NOT. Dammit.)

Yesterday evening, the mood was finally right and I began Mary Doria Russell’s A Thread of Grace. It is wonderful and sad and exhilarating, and I did not want to put it down but at the same time, I know sad things are going to happen to characters I like very much and I am going to sob and sob and so I am avoiding picking it back up.

My brother sent me A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian for Christmas, and I am looking forward to that. Not to mention, I never really get gifts anymore. My kids throw bath products picked out by their dad my way, and H. will occasionally come up with something terrific like a cashmere sweater, but not in years, but to actually receive some incredibly luxurious item – like a hardback book I really want to read – only my little bro. God bless him and his wonderful wife. Because they love me. Sob.

I finished Alison Lurie’s Truth or Consequences on Friday. I liked it enough to check out other Lurie books.

Andrea was explaining to me and Marisa Tuesday night about the deleterious effects of bootcut jeans on people’s butts. Her info came from the gods of fashion, Stacy and Clinton from “What Not to Wear” (the ONLY reason I miss advanced basic cable…); apparently you are setting yourself up to look like an ice cream cone from the knees up and you should only ever wear straight-leg pants. Which I prefer anyway. But if your butt is too big – as mine is – don’t you then wind up with all sorts of flapping fabric around your ankles? Shouldn’t there be some pants-fitting rule relating the proportions of the size of your butt to the cut of your pants leg? Couldn’t we mathematically figure out the best width for someone in particular and have all our clothes custom made? Or we could just follow Dave Barry’’s advice: “Just call everything a size two and wear whatever fits.”

If a baby and a half poops a diaper and a half in a day and half, how many babies does it take to…oh, never mind. Terzo has been pooping a whole lot lately. Poop-continued-on-next-baby sorts of poops. Bath-requiring poops. I am sorry to go all Dooce on you guys but it had to be said. Thank you.

Do you know in the movie "Bridget Jones II" (what was that really called?) when Mark Darcy keeps telling Bridget, “Bridget? Stop staring at me when I am asleep”? I keep expecting Terzo to say that to me any day now. But he’s so sweet – those little purple-veined eyelids and long lashes, and plump cheeks, and that pointy little chin…and his lower lip! I just want to BITE his lower lip. It looks so luscious!

I was in Starbucks (should it scare me that Microsoft Word’s spellcheck recognizes Starbucks?) last Thursday during my lunch break and sat down next to three girls who were just chatting. The more I listened, the more I wanted to pipe up and say, “Can I be friends with you?” In particular, the heavier one with the green embroidered peasant shirt and lovely reddish long hair. (If you’re reading this, will you please come find me?) They were discussing Romanticism (I know! You see?! And yes, I took notes so I wouldn’t forget…) and she said, “Forget poetry! Blake, Shelley, Wordsworth – I don’t get it. Where’s the story? I want the story! Just write a novel. All that poetry is, is men wandering around considering profundity and themselves. Coleridge – please! The abstemious Milton…don’t get me started on Milton! (Oh, please, PLEASE, start on Milton!)I posted signs all over the prof’s door first day of my Milton class that said, 'Eve was framed!'"

I want her to be my friend! I miss those pretentious Eng Lit types sometimes, and she had such a healthy dose of self-deprecation that I want her to be my friend. Can we add her to the list, Gina, like Susie the East Liberty librarian?

Ok, on the shoe front:

H. went to the nice little neighborhood-ish shoe store yesterday and spent four hundred bucks on two pairs of beautiful and supportive (just like me, ahem) shoes that will last him for the next five years, for work and casual-dress occasions. You have NO IDEA what a huge step this is for Mr. I-lived-in–Africa-in-the-eighties-and-still-think-that-a-gallon-of-milk-costs
-a-buck.

I am returning the Wallaby wannabes (“Willowby wallaby whoo, an elephant sat on you…”) and the Clarks. Really, all I want…is a nice pair of boring old Bass Weejun penny loafers like I wore all through high school. Is that acceptable? I am so frumpy it is beyond hope. You can wear these with jeans and skirts, they look nice…At least I am not buying Bean Blucher Moccasins. Although if they had any arch support at all, I would.



You know, for all the frumpiness discussion going on here, I do admit to a serious lipstick weakness. What is it about buying a new lipstick that can make you feel instantly glamorous? I went on a binge at the drug store Thursday night – I needed new moisturizer and some new blush and pantyhose, and girl stuff like that. Thanks to Badger’s recc, I bought Softsoap’s Milk and Honey Body wash and you should all go out right now and buy some. It smells like the beach. Oh, yeah, and my skin is nice and soft, but mostly it smells like the beach. And I bought two new lipsticks: Cover Girl Smoothwear Lip Tints in Barely Berry, and Maybelline Moisture Extreme (thanks for the recc again, Badge) in Rosy Glow, which not only looks nice and has a sleek little case, it smells all citrus-y so I really like it. Perhaps there is hope after all.

If I hadn’t eaten two Green and Black’s milk chocolate with almond and milk choc with caramel bars for dinner last night, I might even be getting skinny again sometime soon. (Don’t normally like milk, but this was smooth and full; the milk choc and caramel was too sweet though. The caramel needs the bitterness of dark chocolate. IM-O-S-HO.)

Some nice Swedish woman at the coffee shop on Friday told me how delightful my boys were, and how nice it was to see such a family, full of laughter and energy. And here I thought they were just being loud, whiny, and annoying.


And my third child is destined to be prime minister of Great Britain someday.