We all have work drama. Today was no different. The Annual Thanksgiving Throwdown commenced this morning at 8AM. Judging was at 10:25AM.

so many thoughts - so little time

most importantly! a new DCC episode. and boy, predictable doesn't even begin to describe the events. Obviously, Kitty Carter (does she not just scream "cousin of Dolly Parton" to you?) is such a huge part of Training Camp at this point. Not only is Kitty whipping their cottage-free posteriors into shape, but the girls get sent to a ropes course (cue scary Halloween music). NEVER in my life have seen such manicured wussies wimp out and whine about jumping off a telephone pole. IN FACT, several seem to managed another pole with great finesse -- I'm clueless as to how terrifying this silly ropes course really is.

I digress.

The whole reason I had endured this episode was the MAKEOVERS! My favorite! The sad thing is, so many of the girls don't really need makeovers anymore. Kelli Finglass, though, still talks to them as if she's rescuing them from a downtrodden life of Wal-Mart clearance racks and Clairol in a box. When, in reality, these girls probably have standing appointments at Red Door. Oddly enough, Brandy K. of Adult Entertainment fame, gets as far as the makeover stage but we never see her "After" picture. Why, you say?

KELLI FOUND HER MYSPACE PICS.

Brandy! HELLO! did you not heed my message? Maybe you'll get a call from PlayBoy or... better yet - my favorite - ART MANN!


Maybe Brandy should check out a Purity Ball.


Strangely enough and on a semi-related basis, I was channel surfing and was sucked in to the show. (Feel free to make comments about my lack of initiative (i.e. laziness) or telephone your local trashy tv addiction hot line - I'll wait.)

I am very familiar with the concept and, as you would guess, have my own opinion about how we should encourage young people to make abstinence a part of their lives. The scary thing is - the reporter is asking a seven year old why she isn't going to kiss until her wedding day and the little girl tells the reporter that the idea comes from the Ten Commandments. You could totally tell she had been coached on what to say and had heard her parents say that the Ten Commandments mandated "no kissing". Odd.

And as we mention odd - let's talk about Canton. I love it just as much as the next guy. So much so that I chauffeured The Birthday Girl and Laura to said mecca of all things greasy and cheap for a Friday of Fabulous Finds. And fabulous finds we beheld. Not to mention a grand total of twelve fanny packs spotted, two near misses with two different scamper scooters (and their negligent pilots) and countless questionable "outfits". Leave it to suffice that "What Not To Wear" would have a field day at this fashion free for all. A great time was had by all and if you've lived in the Great East Texas area for any length of time and haven't visited Canton - save up some spare calories and cash and mentally prepare for all things chic.

Happy TWO NINE andrea!

...what a difference a year makes, right? Dre actually started this trend awhile back. Imitation is the best form of flattery, no? So here we are.

Andrea wanted to celebrate in Canton on Friday so, with the kiddos left in the indulgent and fabulous care of Nana, off we went. We shopped. And shopped. And shopped some more.

THEN - yes, there's more! - we got up bright and early to run in Thundering Sneakers. This is our third year to run together and it has sort of turned into a tradition. Back in August or September Dre called me up and said, "Hey - we running Thundering Sneakers this year?"

YOU BET.

Every year that we have ran, we've been proud of something. Last year, Andrea was pregnant with Pete. So, this year as I ran beside, in front of and mostly behind Andrea I thanked God for another year of friendship, a healthy new baby, a new marriage, and a new relationship.

It was so much fun to have the kids, husbands, boyfriends and best friends together. Weird at first - but SO MUCH FUN. You just can't be more thrilled at watching two of the cutest children alive cheer their mom across the finish line.

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team

Ok - my nearest and dearest have remained silent over my sinful addiction to DCC. Be it my sheltered upbringing, my lack of rhythm or the disgustingness of so many perfect girls in one room -- I can't get enough. DCC is my meth.

So - you can count on me to give you an episode-by-episode rundown of DCC: Season 3. For those of you with lackluster viewing habits of trashy television, pull out your 3x5's and commence notetaking. I got a late star this season and we've lots to learn!

Basically, 600 girls show up at Mecca, the Texas Version, to show off their enhanced selves in hopes of scoring a spot on the squad. There are lots of tears, roots and cellulite. Nothing can make a viewer feel better about herself. Trust me.

Moving right along...

Can I just say, "Kelli Finglass, get on the elliptical!"In the most recent episode she's wearing an unusually bland, brown, double-breasted dress that does absolutely nothing for her. I find it hysterical that she's criticising every muffin top that walks in when clearly, her stylist did not check her at the door before tryouts that morning. FOR SHAME. (this pick is a gracious rear view)

If you're a Finglass Faithful (gawd! I cannot get enough of her haughtiness!) you were surprised at her less-than-best appearance. Kelli, you did not bring your best to the dance floor today! The FF's out there expect to see BIG hair, BIG get-ups and BIG boobs. I want color! I want flashiness!



Not to mention - Judy Trammel's daughter is trying out. Can anyone say SHOO IN?
Puh-lease. Cassie, let's face it. You're not Americana - you're Playboy. Why don't you call your BFF Holly from the Mansion, ok? I'm sure Hef can make room for you in the pool house or something. I hear things are on the rocks with him & Holls.


Brandi Kilby - are you a stripper? Here's a heads-up for you sweets: Judy and Kelli THINK SO! I was in the office with them tonight and they are convinced you, uh, have visited the poles before. I am not talking about Mr. & Mrs. Claus' casita either. Take those tell-tell pics off Facebook and BURN THEM. Oh! But La Bare makes direct deposits, you say? CLOSE YOUR BANK ACCOUNT. Do not let J & K find out!

As I write this, I am also editing my resume. Can I have the Assistant to Kelli Finglass position, please? I mean - just for the wardrobe. What are they paying that girl? It's Marc Jacobs, Betsey Johnson, Vera...every day. Sign me up. At minimum wage.

Well, I'm off to join Jordan, Jordan and Jordyn for lunch! Toodle-loo!

Obama. Jesus. Goldman Sachs.


There. How's that for covering The Three Big No-No's of Conversation in one sentence: politics, religion and money. The only thing that would be worse is if we were all drunk. Which, given the recent events, I probably deserve a cold one. You do too.

I realize that a financial crisis is looming. And no, I am not going to tell you who to vote for. That would automatically let you in on who I'll be check-boxing in the voting booth. Religion? Yes - we should all probably pray about the election and financial "crisis".

Here is my issue: I went to college on student loans. Thank you, Sallie Mae. The house I live in? While not a sub-prime mortgage, it is mortgaged nonetheless. Thank you, Federal Reserve Bank, for that fabulous interest rate. My money, while not amounting to much in quantity - it is quality. I worked for that. Thank you, FDIC, for promising me that it will be there in the morning. This monumental election (anyone for a Biden/Palin write-in)? Someone fought for that right. And while you may not feel like you have a real voice (I don't much either) - you have a choice. To vote or not to vote.

I think we can all agree that the world would be a better place if we drank more water, didn't produce as much trash and there were fewer abortions. Regardless or your political denomination - we can ALL agree that fewer abortions are a good thing, less trash is a good thing, clean air a great thing, living beneath our means a fabulous thing.

Things may get worse before they get better. It may all be a huge hoax. (I really doubt that - but that isn't the issue.) The cornerstone of all this is: good things are still happening. Life does go on. I didn't exactly picture the Apocalypse occurring because the government basically wrote a hot check. You did? Well, run for president then. I'll be your VP. But people are still getting up and going to work and coming home and eating dinner with their families everyday. Some of us are eating Hamburger Helper instead of sirloin, but we're still showing up.

Somewhere out there is a plane with no babies on it. I want to be on that plane.

Enough ranting from me about the obnoxiousness of marital details. (are people shocked that someone would put up with my constant ranting? I am actually quite pleasant to be around outside of the hours between 8AM and 5PM. I swear. I read past posts and can completely see where the concern would stem from, though.)

The first leg of many to be be completed over the next month started with the usual pleasantries of TSA. Ziploc with three ounce containers? check. shoes off, wand, all clear? check. Wave to Andrew through the glass partition? check. (short diversion here-I actually remember when people could go inside the airport to say goodbye. Remember those days of yore? Remember eating at the airport with the person who dropped you off? ahh... to return to those days of civility...)

Window seat? check. Awww, sweet family coming down the aisle with a stroller and a booster seat (hello! gate check those puppies!) and THREE ZIPLOCS of juices* (definitely larger than three ounces! what TSA palm did they grease?) and animal crackers and the Beanie babies! Lord-a-mercy at the Beanie babies. I didn't know those things still existed! For sure, I thought Dora and the Bratz dolls had teamed up and staged a coup on those blasted Beanies.

So, half of the fam takes the remaining seats on my row. You don't how lucky I felt. The other half takes up residence (and I do mean residence) to my rear. And the kicking and thumping and tray-up-tray-down-tray-up-tray-down performance begins. At one point - I swear to you - the next Mary Lou Retton was practicing on the fold down tray. I swear this. The munchkin beside me? Decidedly cuter than her gymnast counterpart behind me and silent. As a church mouse.

Life is nice at thirty thousand. and then! just when I had talked myself into the Suishido back massage I was receiving for free... the wailing begins. At this point, I am questioning the ethics of administering pharmaceuticals (see...by using that word it seems so less...well,... mean) to small children for one's own sanity - not so much theirs. I'm sure this has crossed many the mind of a mother.

I realize that traveling with children isn't easy. I was a nanny for four kids ages eight months to nine years at one time and flew with them. Alone. (well, parents were in first class. but still.... nothing like coach for the hired help and kids!) So, I can relate. Really. I can.

Folks - would you let your children behave this way in a restaurant? No? Ok then. Don't let them behave this way on public transportation. (Yes - I realize I bought my ticket for hundreds of dollars. But flying is not unlike stepping onto the subway these days. Just with more hassle. More on that later.) Obviously, there is more to this story (the mushed up animal cookie food fight). I am not just a grumpy hag looking for something else to gripe about - really - I'm not.


Our final destination is this: I don't hate kids, particularly yours, but they're kinda like crying babies in church - don't you think? Yes? ok then. You may now travel about the country.

*I'm alllll for breast milk. And all the bottles you can handle. But CRATES OF CAPRI SUN? Unnecessary.

I am a professional question answerer. It is what I have become expert at doing. My online mentor, Penelope Trunk, says being an expert is what is best for one's career - so I have set out to be expert about answering a certain type of question. Never mind what I am answering questions about - I am an expert when it comes to answering a particular genre of questions.

One particular question that has been asked of me often is, "don't you just love being married?" Which really seems, to me at least, to be more of a statement than a question but that's neither here nor there. The issue is twofold really. First, it is a really dumb question. And I am a subscriber to the school of thought that teaches 'there is no such thing as a dumb question'. But this, this is a really dumb question. You must be wondering what exactly is the criteria for a dumb question? So glad you asked!

dumb question: v a question that one asks out of politeness (or general nosiness) that one really doesn't want the real answer to OR a question with an obvious answer

Now I realize that certain aspects of our culture almost require us to ask these types of questions ("How is your day?" "Have a good weekend?") of those that we maintain polite relationships with: faux-workers, dry cleaners, bike messenger, etc.

Second, the question itself is just downright obnoxious. I am not post-wedded-pausal. I am just a girl who feels that being married isn't going to rank in the top ten of my life achievements. I expected more of my female counterparts. I really, really thought they would come through in the end and see that a change in domestic arrangements or last name (in my case just the former) didn't mean that my whole purpose in life would shift drastically to mean living exclusively for one person.

I can hear all you scrambling for your nail techs therapists number (don't we all know those are the people with real drama in their lives) to txt me upon pealing yourselves off the floor, but ladies, I am having a hard time finding girls out there who can distinguish the difference between being married and being up your husband's ass.

Harsh huh?

I realize that I tend to be a little on the abrasive side of things (it's genetic, what can I say!) and to their anonymous credit I have two married friends who haven't once asked me "what it's like" (DUH! they already know, right?) but to the rest of you - shame.

I am not passionate about many things, but this thought of being only of half worth until married is just un-American (how do you like that? patriotism and marriage all on Olympics weekend!).

I bet a lot of you work at large companies where you make friends, or acquaintances really, with people in other departments/branches/etc. This is all good and well, as Tom Rath explained to me a couple of years back.

Tom says that having friends at work makes you a better employee, among other things, because you are happy at work. He reasons that, who wouldn't want to work with their friends?

Tom, you have a point. But I have a quandary.

I was out to lunch with a client recently when I ran into someone I had worked with at Local General Hospital. We shared small talk while waiting for our separate tables, as our lives have crossed paths, interestingly enough, since my departure at LGH.

My clients, being inquisitive (remember: I am a professional question answerer-people feel the need to ask me lots of questions!), asked me how I knew aforementioned girl in white lab coat. Offhandedly I answered, "Oh, we were co-workers at LGH. I worked there (professionally answering questions) and we hadn't seen each other in awhile."

This misled my lovely clients (they assumed, we all know what that does) to believe that I had once been a white coat. Note the little 'w' and little 'c'. Big 'W's and big 'C's are reserved for the MDs. What I really wanted to answer, when they asked how we knew each other - was that we were faux-workers. You know, fake co-workers. We worked at the same large, large company and occasionally ran into each other at the company dining hall, but really didn't actually work together. She couldn't give me a reference. She knew I was a consistent employee only because we were the only two in the organic food line at work. Every. Day.

And here I am again, in the same precarious situation. Apparently, I was offered up as a sacrificial reference for a former faux-worker. Upon receiving the unexpected, yet obligatory on the interviewees part, phone call I stalled.

How was I supposed to tell this guy that I wasn't as close to the interviewer as she thought we apparently were? I had flashbacks to making the invitation list to my wedding. Did Mr. & Mrs. Rhinoplasty realize that I didn't think nearly as much of them as they apparently (heard through the grapevine, mind you) thought of the soon-to-bes?

All I could think to tell him was that she threw killer Pampered Chef parties and drove a Lexus and was generally known to suffer from Big Hair syndrome. On occasion, she was able to get her boss to return my phone calls, but I wasn't privy to the earth-shattering secretarial skills her resume proudly boasted. To make matters worse, I wasn't even aware she was looking. Or unemployed. I was half tempted to put the guy on hold and dial her extension as a "pinch me" to prove that I wasn't a part of some time warp experiment.

Turns out, he had a list of textbook questions to ask where I ranked her "flexibility" and "sticktuitiveness" on a scale of 1 to 5. Praise HR for senseless interview practices we have all come to know and love.

Tomorrow morning, at the coffee pot, make sure and say hello to your friendly faux-workers.

After reading about a celebrity siting here - I realized that I had to neglected to publish my very own celebrity siting.

I was caught off guard last Saturday when Casey Rivers brushed by me in McAlisters. You can imagine my bliss as I watched him load his wife's (?!?! I thought he was saving himself for yours truly!) baby shower gifts into their Dodge Durango. (see picture proof below)

one more reason I love my job....

I arrived at work this morning to discover this:

An Office Crossword

e-mail from A: suit (the one) [insert link to Ralph Lauren]

reply from B: yessir

reply from A: lets get more than 1 word in reference to my WEDDING suit




I think it goes without saying that we'll be seeking extensive marriage counseling. With much review of the communication section.

conversation between A & B:

b: I have to have my dress hemmed.

a: so it's long?! wait? is it?

b: yeah and I need to have a bustle added to my dress.

a: a brussel? like brussel sprouts? you're wearing a brussel sprout dress?!?!

b: no bustle! BUSTLE! B-U-S-T-L-E! you know - I gotta get a poof in the back..

a: oh! so it doesn't drag the ground! why didn't you just say that?

this little game I play...

..in this little world I live in.


So my life consists of relatively mundane tasks. There are very few things that I feel passionately about - but CLEAN DISHES is in the top five. I swear.

I think it started when I was a little girl. We didn't have a "real" dishwasher and so the girls were delegated nights to wash. My dad was militant about having clean dishes. In fact, my sister was horrible at washing dishes and I have vivid memories of Dad not being satisfied with the washing done by my sister. Ever the competitor - my goal was to do it better. faster. with hotter water.

To this day - a dish isn't clean until it has been doused in scalding water at least twice.

Fast forward to the present. I live in a lovely little house with circa 1950s appliances - save the refrigerator which is coming in a distant second at DOB 1990. The dishwasher here has this almond covered panel to make it look "modern" and it makes this HORRIFIC grinding noise once you turn it on. Seriously - no exxageration, you can't watch TV in the next room with that thing on.

My suspicions were that the dishes weren't meeting my standards of cleanliness (we all know cleanliness is next to Godliness, don't we?) but the grinding and the magitude of decibels produced confirmed it.

So - I began washing by hand. I mean, it did it for almost eighteen years - what's another two or three, right? (Side note: my "new" house won't have a dishwasher either. What sin did I commit as a child to deserve dishwasher hell???)

I don't necessarily use a lot of dishes, but when I use dishes I use BIG dishes. We're talking 18" searing pans and 13" Calphalon saute pans. No small potatoes here. I actually enjoy washing the dishes after cooking a large meal. There's just something about completing a task that's fulfilling.

I also play this little game when I'm stacking the dishes to dry. I go for efficiency and stack-a-bility. I even wash in a certain order as to attain maximum dish stacking height so that cups can be stacked and spoons turned upside down. Water spots are my enemy in this game with myself. Tonight - there were lots! of! big! dishes!

Thrilling!

I added an element, almost like a new level in video game dish stacking! (Girls - I'm on to something here!) I stacked them as high as I could while still being able to open the door to the bowl cabinet. You see... in my stacking and washing and washing and stacking frenzy I put all the bowls for oatmeal (Beth!) and Special K (Laura!) on the bottom. Sad day. Once I realized this I had an epiphany! Just stack so that you can get to the bowl cabinet! Brilliant! You get to skip to the next level in Wii Dish Washing and Stacking, right?

Copying is really just flattery....right?!

I've been blessed with some really amazing friends. Like this one who posted this not too long ago. She also posted this and I've since been formulating my response.

As a bride-in-the-making, I've experienced so many awkward moments. I wasn't as shocked by the "when are you thinking about starting a family" question as I was by the "so.... are you a virgin?" inquiry by a lady who doesn't really know me (in my opinion) --- maybe in her mind, we're really on better terms than I realize.

But - I digress. So, as aforementioned blogger friend suggested I am posting some things I really appreciate hearing. Trust me, they're needed. Just ask my friends who've been around for the countless "she thinks I'll be a horrible bride/wife/chef/mother/sex goddess" breakdowns since Gibralter was laid to rest upon my left hand.

-- "You will make a lovely bride!" Note: lovely is the key term here as opposed to beautiful. Beautiful is reserved for pregnant women, super models (the REAL ones like Cindy Crawford) and sunsets.

-- tell me about your engagement/early months of marriage (especially if you've been married for 15+ years!). Personally, I love stories. But, I've already seen marriages crumble that I stood for. And people wonder why kids my age live together. Millennials don't like to fail. And that "D" word is failure.

-- ask me about me. Yes, as if being a bride isn't already about me me me me. But the other ME still exists. The girl who has a career, and amazing best friends, and interests in quirky history books, who goes to the library alone on Thursday nights for a Date Night with herself. I am more than a bride-and-groom pair. Don't forget about me.

-- tell our parents "what great kids we are" when I am within earshot. Even if you think it's a lie. They need to be congratulated on raising two competent, gainfully employed children. That is very rare these days. Very.