Grounds for...

Divorce. Yes, divorce.

There are only a couple things that have pushed my husband and I to this precipice.

Not exes.

Not cheating.

But Ikea.

On a Saturday.

With all those people trying to get the carts out into the parking lot. Which. They. Can't. (They're called parking slabs, people.)

Nothing incenses the two of us like a trip out there.

It's too stressful. Too crowded. Too, too much.

We end up arguing about silly things, snapping at each other, feeling like we'll never escape.

Yes, Ikea is a place we've successfully avoided the past few years.

Because we know better.

The other cause for divorce? Moving.

As in: packing every single piece of crap you own into "labeled" boxes, and paying surprisingly small, but strong men to move them a mile north of where you currently live.

Ugh.

Moving has not one redeeming quality.

From start to finish, it's stressful, it's nerve-racking, it's time-consuming.

Let's start at the beginning: packing is terrible.

Because as conscientious as you try to be about labeling the boxes, inevitably you start wrapping your jeans around dishes and your underwear is shoved in and nestled around a vase.

And suddenly kitchen is crossed out.

And bedroom is crossed out.

Then living room is crossed out.

And everything ends up back in the kitchen.

And you realize just how much stuff you have.

It multiplies. It's never-ending.

Packing is terrible.

Then... there are the phone calls.

To the utilities, to the credit cards, to the magazine subscriptions.

"We're moving," you say.

Then, all you have to do is confirm your identity, give them your new address and you're done.

That's all you have to do.

1,000 times.

And then there's the actual moving part of moving

It's almost unbearable.

The anticipation, the last-minute details, the dropping off of the kid at daycare and the dog at the kennel. (Wait, did I just drop the kid at the kennel?)

It's like choreographing an intricate dance, where no one is allowed a misstep.

It is one of those instances that brings out only the worst in people.

The happiness of moving to a new place, a new life, is somehow clouded by...the move.

It's hot or cold or raining or snowing.

The movers are late. Or slow. Or break things.

And on our moving day, it was, of course, raining cats and dogs and elephants and hippos.

It was pouring (but of course, it stopped once the movers got everything into our new apartment).

We were unshowered, sweaty, hungry, shaking from exhaustion, and tense.

And the move itself wasn't that bad.

The movers were not only on time, but an hour early.

They were not slow.

Nothing was broken.

They were friendly and efficient and finished within three and a half hours.

Piece of cake.

But we were stressed. And snappy.

I admit that most of the stress was due to me putting pressure on both of us, not to mention the overwhelming mountain of boxes that eclipsed our new living room.

And I am not one of those people that likes to unpack slowly, figuring out where things should go, by living in the space for a while.

Packed suitcases do not have a long life when I'm around, and when it comes to packed boxes...I'm an assassin.

I just can't take it.

I can't "leave what can be done tomorrow..."

I will stay up until 5am, if it gets the job done.

Which means my husband will, too.

So herein was the root of the stress: me.

I could not relax, not even to sit and finish a 6" sub, for more than three minutes, without jumping up to unpack yet another box filled with flip flops, towels and a frying pan.

I know I have some control issues.

But this is a humongous one (trust me, my therapist tries valiantly to talk me down from the ledge, time after time).

I need to have things in order or I lose my mind.

Which makes my husband lose his mind.

And makes us tense. And snappy.

And so the boxes were unpacked and recycled. Within 18 hours of moving in.

After all the anxiety, all the work, all the sweat and all my husband's tears, we were in our new place.

We were tired.

But we were giddy with happiness to be in our new place.

Hours later, after we'd forgiven each other the nothings that occurred earlier, we toasted our new home.

We are finally here.

And we are unpacked.

What not to wear

I need to address something that really annoys me. I know that doesn't narrow things down, but bear with me. I've held my tongue for years (well, that's not true—I bitch about this constantly). And I have so many other things to worry about: we just moved (blogpost coming soon, stay tuned), we're crazy at work, I'm trying to potty train my kid...And today, I just couldn't take it anymore. I reached my limit. My boiling point (pun intended, as you will see). So I must speak:

Today in Chicago, it was close to 90 degrees. Hot. For May 25.

There were the requisite flip flops and sundresses and tank tops.

People were out lunching on patios, drinking in beer gardens.

Because it was hot.

But. There were also some Others.

These Others were wearing tights and boots and long-sleeves and coats.

Huh?

And no, they were not tourists.

They were hopping in cabs like pros.

Waiting at bus stops like locals.

They live here.

They should know better.

And sure, it might snow tomorrow.

It's Chicago.

But in 90 degrees, do as the 90-degree-ers do.

Don't wear turtlenecks.

Me?

I was wearing jeans and a "dressy" tank top. Required attire for a creative in advertising.

Because. It. Was. 90. Degrees.

You know I try not to judge (wink).

And I have off fashion days more often than not (honestly, as I looked in my closet this morning, I had to struggle to remember if I'd worn a particular shirt yesterday—but that has less to do with fashion and more to do with how many beers I drank last night).

But my off days do not include dressing weather-inappropriate.

In winter, I wear a hat, scarf, gloves...I look like a snowman.

And in summer (or close to it), I wear summer attire.

I know in places like LA, it's haute couture to wear winter boots with a barely-there sundress.

But this ain't LA.

And we ain't Kate Hudson.

We're efficient. We're practical. We're midwesterners.

So let's think back to that efficient, practical, midwestern childhood we all had and remember that our moms did not dress us in snowsuits in the summer.

Let's remember that even though you got those amazing boots on sale, you can wait until next year.

The reason they're on sale, is because they're last season.

I may revisit this topic this fall, when it's November and people are clinging to their sandals.

But if you could spread the word that this is not only unacceptable, but uncomfortable to witness and generally irritating, that would help my cause greatly.

Thank you for your time.

Always a bridesmaid...

So I was having drinks with a friend the other night and we were talking about marriage. Well, weddings, really. And we were discussing the cutthroat competition there is to stand up in weddings.

Not for the men.

Men are just like, "Dude. BACHELOR PARTY."

They don't care about being in the wedding.

They just want to drink in support of the wedding.

I'm not talking about them.

I'm talking women here.

How many is she going to have? Who's she going to ask? She's making us wear what?

People assume that everyone wants to be in their wedding. And probably, most do.

But honestly, I'm not one of them.

I'm actually considering not making friends with single people anymore.

Because. I. Don't. Want. To. Be. In. Your. Wedding.

I'm way too old to wear a $300 black/brown/periwinkle/midnight blue/or peach dress and stand next to 12 other women in the same $300 black/brown/periwinkle/midnight blue/or peach dress.

Sure, I'll attend your wedding.

I'll eat the free food.

Drink the free drinks (I pass on cash bars, but best wishes anyway).

Dance awkwardly to the free music.

I'll even give you cash, so you don't have to jack around with a check before you take off on your Hawaiian honeymoon.

But please. Please don't ask me to stand up for you.

I'm really not your girl.

I barely like running errands for myself, let alone some psychotic bridezilla. So I'd definitely disappoint.

I was a pretty laid back bride—seriously, ask any of my bridesmaids—and I pretty much just told them when to show up.

But most aren't like me.

Most are bridezillas.

And so my friend and I were talking and something occurred to me:

Even though I don't want to be in your wedding, I want to be asked to be in your wedding (which, unfortunately, means I'd most likely be in it).

I want to be one of the Chosen Ones.

The Ones that are looked at by the attendees as the "closest friends of the bride."

The Ones that tramp around the wedding (no pun intended, I'm a married woman), as a gang, joined together by their ill-fitting dresses and their matching shoes.

Because when you're not in a wedding, you kind of look at the bridal party as...royalty.

They float throughout the room, entertaining, hosting, garnering stares from everyone else.

[Wait, there's a flash of fuchsia! Yes, that was One of Them. Excitement ripples throughout the room.]

They are holding court, and we, the Unchosen, are simply looking at them. Through a window.

They dance around, lounge about, carry their shoes.

The Untouchables.

And who doesn't love that feeling?

And these girls are nothing special.

Without the shimmering piece of bright cloth that only looks good on 2/3 of them, they are just like us.

They put their pants on one leg at a time. Just like us.

But for that one night...we all want a little piece of that magic.

Now I know this sounds hypocritical.

But I want my wedding cake and I want to eat it, too.

I do have some single friends that will eventually take that marital leap.

And as much as I will inwardly roll my eyes when and if I'm asked to be a part of the whole thing, I will inevitably smile, and nod my head yes.

Because I know I will be transformed that night. In my own head (see the title of this blog).

I'll know that the bride will just be a sidekick to my performance that night.

All eyes will be on me. And my gang of colorful cohorts.

So go ahead. Ask me to be in your wedding.

Trust me. I'll say yes.

Girls suck.

There, I said it.

And you know I'm right.

I've come to this conclusion after extensive, legitimate research.

I've observed, noted and come up with my findings:

Girls just suck.

To be fair, I've never been a girls' girl.

I've always despised "Girls Night Out". (This always feels too forced—like declaring it is really going to make a difference? Now Guys' Night? I'm all about that.)

Don't even get me started on baby showers and wedding showers and bachelorette parties. I'm getting tense just thinking about it.

All that giggling. And pink (see previous post).

I can't take it.

I would always rather hang with the guys, than deal with the girls.

I know what I'm talking about.

As you can imagine, I've had extensive exposure to both.

I've lived with both.

I've fought with both.

And I know I'm right.

This opinion has roots that date back to my grade school days.

Two girls? Great.

Four girls? No problem.

THREE girls? Not so much.

There is something in women—and even young girls—that senses the competition. Senses that we should be out to destroy each other, instead of support one another. When the numbers are odd and someone isn't "partnered" up, there's going to be a huge problem. Someone is going down.

We were horrible to one another, even way back then.

If one girl's jeans were Palmetto (ick), instead of Guess...well...she shouldn't have bothered coming to school.

Then in college, I lived with both women and men. And I can tell you, women are C.R.A.Z.Y.

With guys, if they weren't doing their dishes, I said, "Do your fucking dishes or I'll break your fucking legs."

Done.

With women, it turned into, "You've always hated me and I know you were jealous of my birthday party and my boyfriend and you just don't understand that my parents are going through a divorce and I'm going to throw a bar stool at you now." (true story—her "boyfriend" stole my credit card and our other roommate's car and drove to Kansas.)

Why is it so complicated?

For all the feminist movement has done for us, it seems we haven't gotten that far.

Sure we can vote, which is nice (although voting in primaries is always a struggle for me).

And I like being able to have a job (mixed feelings on this, really).

But when it comes down to it, we really don't have each other's backs, do we? Why is that?

There's something intrinsic in most women that won't let us view one another as anything less than competition.

It's the rip-on-her-so-I-feel-better-about-myself mentality.

I'm guilty of it. We all are.

This has always been my experience. That girls suck.

However.

My tried and true rule about girls sucking has been tested in the past few years.

There are a handful of women that I actually like to spend time with. There's no bullshit. No insecurity involved.

And then there's my group of dinner girls.

Oh, the dinner girls.

They've kind of turned my long-held belief on its head.

There are five of us total, and for the last five years, we've been meeting for dinner at least once a month (December was different because it was four of our birthdays and my birthday actually lasts a month so we met several times).

These dinners...are hilarious.

It's like we leave all that baggage, that pre-judgement and competition at the hostess stand.

I don't stop laughing until it's over.

We talk about anything and everything and eat and drink (maybe that's it?) for hours. And it's nothing short of fun. Every time.

I don't know what it is with these girls.

They're each crazy and messed up, don't get me wrong. I haven't discovered some rare species of women. But somehow...somehow, it just works.

We click.

There's a chemistry there that I haven't felt with many women.

Maybe because I know, without a doubt, that if I show up to dinner with a huge pimple on my face, I don't have to worry about whether someone will bring it up.

Because I know one of them will.

So maybe it's that, when we're together, we're like guys.

Giving each other shit.

Ragging mercilessly on one another (but mostly just KimPossible).

I honestly don't know what it is.

Some of my other friends have actually said, "You're going to hang out with all women?"

I know. It's a shock to me, too.

But I look forward to these dinners in a way I never would have before.

Is it because I'm getting older and choosing friends who don't bother with that nonsense?

Nah.

I think it's just these girls.

So I guess all women don't suck.

Maybe all women aren't crazy competitive and mean.

Or maybe I just have good taste.

Because of course, I'm way smarter and better-looking than them.

Princesses and tiaras and heels, oh my

I am sitting here writing out princess birthday party invitations. Okay, at the moment, I'm actually writing this post. But before this, I was writing out the "What", "When" and "Where" info on pink, tiara-shaped, sparkly invites. For my kid's third birthday.

And I found myself wondering, "How did we get here?"

I am creative by nature, as well as by trade. And I try not to discourage my daughter's interest in anything. No matter what it is.

She has a collection of bug stuffed animals. Bugs.

She says goodbye to the bathroom and her toothbrush every morning by saying, "Have a good day, guys!"

And she sleeps with the cast of "Cars".

Up until recently, she abhorred pink and all that goes with it. Which I secretly enjoyed.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not completely against the Disney Princess racket. I've read the stories and know that each princess started out in life with some pretty hard knocks. And that each princess persevered and succeeded (in getting the man).

I know there are lessons to be learned in these stories that are decked out like tiered, fluffy cakes.

But still...princesses? Really?

So one day, not so long ago, my daughter was playing with her cousin (let's call her "D") and suddenly, my world was forever changed.

D is a girly-girl through and through. She wears tiaras to the mall. She lounges about her house in tutus and leotards. And pink is not just her signature color—it seems to be her only color.

On our way home on that fateful day, my daughter turned to me and said, "I want to be a princess."

Come again?

"I want to be a princess!"

Uh-oh.

And so it began.

It started out slowly. Creeping into our apartment and into our lives.

She was a princess for Halloween. (But she was also wearing Puma sneakers, so I don't really count that.)

Then my mom gave her a tutu. Thanks, Mom.

When she discovered "Angelina Ballerina", it was done. The conversion was complete. She was a girly-girl.

And I'm okay with this. Really, I am. Just a bit surprised.

Because she's never seen a single Disney movie. Not one.

And yet she knows every single Disney princess by sight and by name and what each one wears.

How did we get here?

Does Disney tap into our phone lines, sneak secret recordings into our rooms that play while we sleep? Because I know that the information didn't come from me. I only knew of two Disney princesses and wasn't aware they were being merchandised as the "Disney Princesses" in the first place. (Disney really is brilliant, I must say.)

So when she picked out her invitations, I gave her a choice between cupcake invites (she LOVES cupcakes—she's my daughter, after all) and the princess tiara invites. She looked them over carefully, weighing her options, thinking of her target, licking her lollipop. Then she pointed. At the princess invitations.

I said, "But look! It's a cupcake!"

It was no use.

And here I sit. Filling in the "What", "Where" and "When" info on pink, tiara-shaped, sparkly invites.

What I'm struggling with is that I just assumed she'd be a lot more like me. I never really played with dolls. Never had a Barbie. Had a Baby Alive that I disliked because it peed on everything.

I climbed trees, I skinned my knees, I was outside for months at a time.

No, I wasn't Huck Finn. But I wasn't that far off.

And my little girl. My little girly-girl...is far off. Up to this point, she was my twin in appearances and even attitude. But two roads diverged.

And I'll have to come to terms with that.

She is still like me in many ways: she's got a strong personality, she's stubborn, she's hilarious (even at age almost-3).

But she is not me—and that is good. More than good. A relief, actually.

So maybe I should be happy about that, that she's not like me. That maybe there's hope for her somewhere in this pink world.

And maybe my little girly-girl will decide to paint it a different color.