Smile for the Camera...an Ode to the Dreaded Grade School Portrait

Today my daughter is having her school pictures taken. To say that preparation for this annual event is exhausting and painful would be a total understatement. It sucks in ways that I haven’t thought about since I had my last school photos taken. She thinks I don't “get it” but she is wrong. I sooooo understand where she is coming from. Every teenage girl thinks she is ugly, or too fat, or too thin, or geeky. It's a right of passage.

First of all, my daughter is beautiful, from her impossibly curly hair to her long legs. She doesn’t see it. She never sees it. But her smile and her eyes can light up any room she enters. THEN she opens her mouth, only to have the driest, wittiest humor fall from her lips like water in the Sahara Desert. She is brilliantly funny, and delightfully sarcastic. Her comments and observations about the world and people around her are intelligent and spontaneous, and usually dead on. As anyone will tell you that has spent a half a nanosecond on her facebook page, she is a HOOT. Actually as far as her sense of humor goes, she is me, but shorter. Sometimes I worry about that.

Anyway, back to the school pictures...

Every year, we straighten her wringlets for the occasion, which involves two enormous round brushes, a blow dryer that will heat up an entire room, a lot of complaining (from her) and even more cursing (from me.) The really marvelous fact about all of this is that she wears her hair curly every day – except on picture day – so her school pictures don’t even really look like her “regular” days. This morning was no different, except for the fact that the whoever cut her hair last (she insisted on her father taking her one weekend when she was totally pissed at her hair) must have cut it with a pair of kindergarten scissors while wearing a blindfold. I didn’t realize this because normally, her hair is a mountain of curls, so you can’t really see what kind of shape it is in. I tried, I really did. I used product. I wrapped sections of her hair around a four inch round brush over and over (I’m actually quite skilled at straightening hair since I straighten mine often.) I contemplated whipping out the flat iron, but I could see my efforts would be in vain. Finally, I looked at my gorgeous girl and said “Sweetie, it’s going to have to be curly this year.” She was mortified, completely distraught and overcome with drama that her school pictures would not be EXACTLY as she expected them to be. May I add, there is little as exhausting as 12 year old female drama. I sprayed her hair down with water, applied more product and slapped the diffuser on the dryer, all the while thinking that if her hair didn’t turn out right, I’d have to shave both of us bald in solidarity...not a road I really wanted to go down. After a fair amount of scrunching, drying and flipping, she emerged from the process with beautiful spirals of spun silk that would make any woman with poker straight hair hate her on sight.

She looked in the mirror. “I look like Madonna.”

Me – “You do NOT look like Madonna.”

Her – “Everyone will make fun of me.”

Me – “If they make fun of it, it’s only because they are jealous.”

Her – “Only you like big hair, because you have big hair. Big hair is not cool.”

I looked in the mirror. OMG, was I not cool? Did I need to consider a “mom bob” and forego the groovy highlights and lowlights? What’s next? Sweatsuits in a really unflattering shade of pink and some keds? I didn’t have time to think about it. She was beyond disappointed. I assured her that her hair was enviable by any standards, but the damage had been done. She changed her clothes three times, then informed me she would not be getting any pictures, so don’t even write the check. Mark my words, these will be the best pictures of her entire school career and I won’t have one for my wallet.

Then I remembered, I always hated my school photos, every single one of them. Hell, if I ever glance at any of them again, it will be too soon. So I gave up, threw in the towel.

“Honey, if you don’t want to get any photos that is perfectly fine with me.”

For a moment, the drama and the disappointment floated away. She looked at me, and realized that her big-haired, 80s-inspired Mom really did in fact “get it.” It was a teaching moment that shall be forever emblazoned in my brain and on my heart. She’ll be twelve on Sunday, and I’m starting to think she may actually live to see her 16th birthday. Of course, that could change. She has four years to prove me wrong.

But no matter what, being her mom is the best job I will ever have. Happy 12th Birthday, Baby!

Please, get a publicist...the 99% can't HEAR YOU!!!!

So last night, Bill and I are sitting in our kitchen (I like that room the best since its’ renovation last winter) watching the news. It’s our schtick, what we do every night when we get home...that and have a cocktail. The 6 o’clock news was “pre-Steve Jobs is dead” breaking news, so we actually caught a glimpse of the protests in New York. I must admit, while my politics is mostly center, I am captivated by these people who seem to be so solid in their convictions. I am always that way when it comes to underdogs. Anyway, as Bill and I watched the news piece, I looked at Bill and said to him “You know, they really have a point when it comes to some of this sh$t…screwing the little guy all in the name of corporate greed, no accountability, backdoor payoffs and the like.” Now I know, we can all sit here in our little bubbles and pretend it’s not that way, but I think we all know it is. Bill (who is more conservative than me) was actually in agreement with what I was saying. You know, it’s not that we’re starving in the Tucker household. Indeed, compared to most, our life is quite comfortable. We work hard, we play hard, we count our blessing frequently. But honestly, even those of us who are reasonably comfortable (not wealthy, mind you) are feeling the squeeze of an abysmal economy. Every time some loudmouth financial pundit comes on CNBC and tells me that “the U.S. in NOT in a double-dip recession” I have to fight the urge to vomit just a little in my mouth. Really? You’re joking, right? I wonder when the last time that dumbass filled his own gas tank, or noticed the 30% or more increase in the price of pretty much everything in the grocery store? Oh yeah, that’s right, he’s loaded...good for him. Now shut the hell up.

Then this morning, I pulled up a friend’s facebook page (no I’m not stalking him. Really.) He is a libertarian by all definitions, and I like to see what he’s sayng when it comes to what is going on in the world. His post of the occupywallstreet.org movement made me think even more. His posting was, shall we say, not in agreement with what was going on up there in Manhattan, so I decided to do a bit of research for myself. What I found was disturbing on a level I cannot even explain. It was basically a list of “demands” posted by some lunatic under the guise of the occupywallstreet.org movement only he has it posted under the site occupywallst.org. I shall not go into the contents but I am posting the link so you can see for yourself. I also posted the link on my facebook page. I went back and forth about it with friends. The conclusion? This grassroots movement needs a better PR person. Their message wasn’t just “hard to find” it was completely lost. When you google “occupy wall street” the lunatic’s post of demands is #1 on the freakin google list. How the hell did they let that happen? So now, a group of individuals with some very valid points have been overshadowed by some delusional fellow with the economics knowledge of a kindergartener, who obviously needs to stop smoking pot and get a job...nice. He reminded me of an ex-boyfriend.

So to the OccupyWallStreet.org movement...

Rule #1 – if you want to make your point, don’t make people look for it. Something in big bold letters is good. No one wants to plays "where's Waldo" when searching for your message. People are lazy. People are basically in it for the instant gratification. No one wants to “guess” about what you are trying to say. Get on your url "soapbox" and shout it at the top of your lungs. Otherwise, your message is invisible, lost in a sea of misinformation, miscommunication, and misunderstanding.

I don’t agree with everything that the occupywallstreet.org has to say (I found that out once I figured out WHAT they were trying to say) but I do think they have some ideas and thoughts that deserve some serious attention. They are angry. So am I, about a lot of things in our country, in our political system, in our streets. I do believe the right to protest is healthy, it fosters discussion, and hopefully positive growth. There needs to be a national discussion, and we all need to stop being afraid to talk about it. We can no long rely on the media, for they are simply trying to force their perspective down our throats. It’s not about the facts anymore.

My point in all of this? To those people who are trying so hard to get their message out there? For God’s sake, hire a damn publicist. You are obviously good at the “organizing the masses” part, but your ability to effectively convey your message downright sucks. Once you master that, your voices will be much easier to hear, and maybe the “99%” will be more eager to support the cause.

What would Jesus do?

Ok, against the advice of most everyone who knows me, I’m going to go there...

What the hell happened to all the normal Christians?????

Go ahead, I am prepared for the onslaught of "opinions." If I at least inspired a reaction out of you with that statement then my job is done. Honestly, it’s something that has been festering just under the surface for some time, and it is now a pox upon my sense of humor, and my sense of humanity. I think what really brought it to a head was an article that one of my facebook friends has posted from a local newspaper. The article by Tom Ehrich, from the State-Journal Register of Springfield, Illinois, makes some very valid points about today's Christians, and how they totally don’t act in very Christ-like ways. They are narrow minded and bigoted, often isolationists, who believe that it is “their way or the highway.” Really? Hmmm...now I know I’m not much for sitting down and reading the bible in my free time, but didn’t Christ preach tolerance, compassion, and turning the other cheek? I hardly think what he meant by “turn the other cheek” was that whoever you are degradating, they should turn their cheek so you could abuse them on the other side. Correct me if I’m wrong here. Didn’t Jesus hang out with prostitutes, skells, and other people of ill-repute? I believe so. Wow, that Jesus, he was really out there in his thinking. You would have thought he would have rather just spent time with his “own kind” which by the way would have been Jews, for all of you who don't like Jews either. I bet God wasn’t happy about that. I bet he wished that his son would have had a better class of friends...what a joke.

I hear “Christians” preach intolerance, hatred and bigotry on a constant basis. If you don’t think exactly like them, they you must be “doing it” all wrong. They’re not particular, they pretty much hate everyone – homosexuals, social outcasts, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims, and anyone else who doesn’t subscribe to what “their” definition of religion is. They want to help the "poor people" as long as the "help" isn't coming out of their wallets. They're all pro-life, but they're not going to adopt any of those bastard kids, or pay a dime to help those awful single mothers. Why those women are single-handedly destroying the traditional family and all it stands for...whatever. It’s all about their standard, their “God”, their view of the world, damned be everyone else. You know, there is pretty much NOTHING about those qualities that speaks “Jesus” to me. Not one damn thing.

And here is something else that really sets my hair on fire. How many people hand over how much money to their “church” only to have “the church” build the most extravagant of places to worship. Wouldn’t that money better served if they instead helped those who really needed it? Really, do you think God really cares about how big your stained glass windows are? I’m willing to bet his “stained glass windows” could kick your church’s windows' collective ass.

I’m sure I’ve pissed off all my “Christian” friends, but the intolerance of the world is really tweaking me. I’ve always tried to fight for the underdog, help those in need, and not judge, because the only one who can sit in judgment is far bigger than me. It’s not my place, not my job. My job is to be the best person I can be, hold myself accountable on all levels, and do the right thing. And I'll be damned if I am going to let some narrow-minded hypocrite dictate to me what kind of relationship I have with God. I'm pretty sure that is between God and me, and no one else. I think if more people subscribed to that line of thinking, the world would be a much more pleasant place to live. People would be kinder, more understanding, more appreciative of the individuals that surround them, no matter what their background, socio-economic level, or beliefs.

Ok, bring it, I’m ready. Tell me what you think, prove me wrong. I can’t wait to get this conversation going. In the meantime, I'll just sit here and wait for my facebook friends count to drop.

The Naughty Red Boots…

Once upon a time, in a small quaint town called Manassas, there was a boot store, filled with the most wonderful cowboy boots in the world. There were brown boots and gray boots, blue ones and forest green ones. There were boots for working, and boots for playing, boots for church, and boots for just being lazy. There were boots made of lizard and boots fashioned from the skin of pythons. All were beautiful and quite proud of their fine workmanship. But in the back, on the bottom shelf out of sight stood a pair of lipstick red cowboy boots. No one ever tried on these lovely boots. Big drippy tears fell from the boots’ shafts, and they were terribly sad that no one loved them. Then one day, a woman with firey red hair and a sunny disposition walked through the door. She was looking for the most special pair of boots in the world, a pair of boots that would last forever, and would accompany her to special places. All of the boots stood up straight, showing off their glossy finishes and their intricate stitching. The woman looked at each pair, touching their beautiful leather, and contemplating their appearances. They were beautiful indeed, but not quite the boots she was looking for. She wanted extraordinary boots that could be seen from far away. As she approached the back of the store, the little lipstick red boots stood up as tall as they could. The woman bent down and smiled. These boots were special indeed. She slipped on the lovely little boots and they were a perfect fit. Then, something strange happened. The little red boots, as if by magic, began to make the woman dance and whirl about. These were the most magical boots EVER. The redheaded woman sashayed to the cash register and plopped down her plastic card. The little lipstick red boots were soooooo happy, they had finally found the perfect person to take them home. And the woman and the little red boots lived happily ever after…well…sorta…

Ok, so maybe not so happily, but at least it was never boring, for those little red boots, MY little red boots, turned out to have not just magical powers, but naughty magical powers. Right now the boots are grounded, relegated to my closet for their often borderline bad behaviour. I know you’re wondering what they could have possibly done, such a lovely sweet pair of lipstick red boots.

Ok, so it was a Friday night, a number of months ago, and Bill’s friend Bert came to town for a visit. We love when Bert slips into Manassas for the weekend, for inevitably, some sort of wicked fun ensues. After a “happy hour cocktail” at the house, we headed to one of our favourite establishments for the evening to see a friend’s band work their own special magic. Everyone would be there, so I was particularly excited about the prospect of a good time. I changed into something to fit my mood, made my hair as big as I could, and applied enough makeup to set a drag queen back on her heels in astonishment. I looked in the mirror...hmmm...something just isn’t quite right. Then it hit me…MY LIPSTICK RED BOOTS! I hadn’t worn them out since Bill had gotten them for me. That would be just the thing for an evening such as this. I slipped them on, and I swear to you my feet felt tingly. Ruh roh, this wasn’t going to be good. Oh well, you never know how far down you can go unless you make the leap...snicker...

So away to Clarke’s we went. And yes, all of our friends were there, even some I hadn’t expected to see. We chatted, we laughed until our sides hurt. We poked fun at each other, and we drank. Now I’m not going to say how much we drank, but trust me, I am pretty sure I smelled like an intoxicating combination of Chanel perfume and vodka. I felt fine though, just perfect. Then Bert ordered shots of Jaegermeister for everyone. We all toasted our wonderful lives and threw back the shots. That is the very last thing I remember.

But apparently, my boots and I had lively conversations with just about everyone, about all sorts of philosophical sorts of topics, including but not limited to, love, politics, religion and the color of my underwear. I danced while PJ belted my favourite Heart tunes into the microphone. It’s a good thing Clarke’s does not have a pole, because I am sure I would have been on it. The boots would have been all about pole dancing. I’ve never pole danced in my life. I’m not sure that would have turned out so well.

As the evening wound down, Bert and Bill took it upon themselves to get me home. Each one grabbed me from either side and hauled me out the door. My boots, however, were hell bent on staying. They screamed all the way to the truck. In fact, they dragged themselves toes down across the parking lot. Bill and Bert hoisted me into the back seat of the truck, but were unable to deposit my limp drunk body on the seat itself, so they put me on the floorboard. Unfortunately the boots were trying to make a quick escape and were still hanging out of the truck. So Bert and my darling Bill, in their infinite wisdom, simply folded up my legs and shut the door. All you could see through the back seat window were the magical red boots sticking up, yelling at the top of their shafts for Bill and Bert to let them the hell out of the truck. They weren’t finished yet! They had more to say! They wanted to dance some more. It was useless. Bill and Bert headed home, but not before stopping at the City Taven to say hi to some folks, leaving the boots and me in the truck! The nerve...

The next day I woke up not feeling my absolute finest, and that is all I am saying. What was interesting however, is that I was in bed, on TOP of the covers, fully clothed, including the boots. I looked down at my beloved boots and thought to myself, “Oh, this CANNOT be good!” Bill and Bert told me what had happened. It wasn’t good. If I could have, I would have spent the rest of my life hiding in bed. I removed the magic lipstick red boots, put them in their box, and shoved them in the closet. BAD BOOTS! NAUGHTY NAUGHTY BAD LITTLE RED BOOTS!!!

The boots have been out since then, but they aren’t allowed out very often. I wore them last weekend, but I kept a close eye on them to make sure they didn’t give any repeat performances. They could have been better, but they had definitely been worse. They’re back in the closet. I’m thinking about letting them out around the holidays.

So next time you’re shopping and you see a pair of innocent looking red cowboy boots peering up at you, begging to be worn out of the store, think long and hard about that purchase. It is my belief that all red cowboy boots are magic, and believe me, they don’t always use their magic powers for good.

I hate the “new” facebook...

Understand, while I consider myself a forward-thinking person, I do not personally like “change” to my everyday routine, and facebook is a large part of that routine. It’s usually the first thing I check in the morning, and I often have it running in the background at work all day. My friends are there, my family is there, even my cockatoo has her own page. I love that I can virtually keep up relationships with the click of a few buttons. I’m nosey. I like to know what is going on in everyone’s world. And I’m opinionated, so I like to let the world know what I’m thinking. What the world does with my opinion is really not important to me. Believe me, I’ve had many people tell me to take my opinions and shove them up my a$$. It’s all good…love me or hate me, but at least I inspire a reaction.

So I truly sympathize with the millions of people whose lives were thrown into utter chaos by the changes that facebook made. It was horrible, simply the worst thing to happen this week. It made the local and national news. I’m pretty sure that Congress will be convening a special session to discuss these changes and then do nothing about them. I’m surprised the Pope did not jump on the bandwagon and condemn this as the Devil’s work. It was all over everyone’s status messages. My facebook world was littered with comments, criticisms, jokes, and diatribes devoted to the “new” facebook. It was ugly, and for a while it could get uglier. According to sources in the all-knowing media, this is merely the first in a series of facebook renovations coming in the next weeks and months. Word on the street is that the Powers That Be in Facebookland are making the changes because facebook’s user base is becoming “emotionally detached” from the site. Instead of wanting to be on facebook, we are now somehow forced to be on facebook because it contains most of our daily world. Are we that pathetic? Does Zuckerberg really believe that we will all curl up in a ball and die without our beloved facebook? I, for one, would probably manage to overcome the trauma of losing my social media life. It would involve alcohol and a certain amount of crying, but my world does not revolve around facebook, at least not completely. Is it important? Absolutely. Is it a necessity? Well, not really. My biggest concern would be how my classmates and I would plan our 30th reunion without Facebook. I have an amazing amount of high school friends on Facebook. Out of all of them, I have a handful of phone numbers and addresses. Without facebook, I would have no way of tracking them down and checking to see if they were having a good day or a bad day. I wouldn’t know if their dog had crapped in their living room, or if their kids were driving them crazy…oh, the travesty of it all.

Facebook has made me lazy. I no longer pick up the phone and call many of my friends to check on them. And while I know the right thing to do is send a handwritten thank you, it’s just too dang hard to dig up a stamp and drop it in the mailbox, when I can leave a handy dandy “thank you” right there on their facebook page. Facebook allows me to “cheat” when it comes to such things. And the funny part? Everyone seems to be just fine with that, because they cheat too. We all cheat, then we pat ourselves on the back for leaving messages and birthday wishes and condolences on our friends’ pages, when the truth is, a phone call would really be the right thing to do.

I’m not maligning facebook. Anyone who knows me will tell you that, in my case, it should be called “facecrack” because sometimes it really is an addiction. But I’m ok with that, since the end result gives me so much pleasure. And, for the record, I have no problem with a thank you left on my facebook page. Save the stamp, save a tree.

So here we are, left with our forever-changed facebook. And apparently there is no going back. We subscribe to the good and bad, the right and the wrong, the motivation and the laziness that facebook provides us on a daily basis. I do believe that the pros outweigh the cons. I’m not happy out the changes, but then again, it is free, and really, how can I bitch loudly about something that is my choice. If I don’t like it, I could leave. Of course my entire social network would collapse and Bill would find me huddled in a closet, sucking my thumb, and drinking vodka out of a paper bag. But instead, I choose facebook. I will adapt, I will embrace, and I will continue to drive all my friends nuts with my goofy posts. I must be doing something right. I don’t see my “friends” numbers dropping like a rock.

So next time you see my page, don’t forget to hit my “subscribe” button. Not sure where that is? Top righthand corner, right next to the “message” button…one of the many changes coming to a facebook page near you.

I want a Pomeranian like Boo…

I’ve expressed my longing for an adorable ball of fur in the form of a Pomeranian that I can cart around in some ridiculously expensive doggy purse, but as usual, Bill is resisting. Big surprise, I know.

I didn’t always know that I wanted a Pomeranian. My first wistful thought of owning one occurred when my extremely evil friend Sherrel introduced me to the facebook page of a Pomeranian named Boo. Boo has 1.6 MILLION facebook fans, and if you take a look at his page, you can see why. He is an absolute ball of fluffy cuteness. And his owner entertains me with witty little quips under his pics. I am smitten. Boo even made it on the Today Show and Good Morning America to promote his new book, “Boo, the Life of the World’s Cutest Dog”. It’s amazing there aren’t more Pomeranians in the world, because he’s even cuter on TV than in photos.

So imagine my disappointment when Bill said “we are NOT getting a Pomeranian. If we get another pet, I am pulling an RV into the driveway and living in it. Five pets is more than enough.” I quickly reminded him that we used to have SIX pets, but my Pekingese, Marlen, tried to eat my daughter’s hamster at 4am one day. It wasn’t a good outcome. By the way, if anyone needs $500 worth of Ovotrail hamster paraphernalia, please let me know. I am damn sure we will not be getting another hamster. The violent demise of Mable was very traumatic.

So, I thought perhaps if I went down the road of “We USED to have six pets.” Bill would relent to my need for a Pomeranian...nope. He did not yield. He did not even waver in his response. He then informed me that when we do get another dog - apparently we have to wait until one of our other pets “takes the big dirt nap” - it will be a “hunting” dog, such as a beagle or a Jack Russell. Don’t get me wrong, beagles and Jack Russell’s are adorable, but in no way does their cuteness exceed that of a Pom. I told him I heard Pomeranians make excellent hunting dogs. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. Damn, I thought I was more convincing. . .apparently not.

I know I have a lot of pets. Currently, we are the parents of a Pekingese, a geriatric mixed breed dog, a cockatiel, a blue-headed pionus parrot, and a cockatoo who thinks she is a child (not even kidding a little.) They are all spoiled, all badly behaved, and all needy. But really, how much space can one more pet take up in the house? Poms are little, not even ten pounds. How much can they eat? I know my fifteen pound Pekingese’s poop isn’t much bigger than a rabbit. I would have to guess that Pom poop is even smaller. So many checks in the "win" column when it comes to Poms.

For now, Bill has won this battle. I don't have a choice really, so for now I'll just gaze at Boo's facebook page, and hope that someone leaves an adorable Pomeranian puppy on our doorstep.

I wonder how he’d feel about chinchillas?

Throw pillows...they aren't just for throwing...

It is an ongoing battle in the Tucker household.

I would like a bedroom that speaks to my romantic side, with deep plush carpeting that doesn’t smell like dog and just the right mood lighting to always make me look fifteen years younger. I want a vanity where I can sit and blowdry my hair like some middle-aged Rapunzel or put on my ten pounds of makeup. And, as the centerpiece of my fabulous bedroom, I want a bed that looks like a big marshmallow, complete with about 20 throw pillows. Bill isn’t really onboard with this idea.

On more than one occasion, the conversation resembles this…

Bill “Can you please explain to me why all of these little pillows are on the bed?”

Me “They’re for decoration. They are shams and throw pillows.”

Bill “So I can’t lay on them.”

Me “No, they are not for your head.”

Bill “Ok, I give up, then why in the hell are they on my bed?”

Me “So the bed looks pretty.”

Bill “That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Let’s get rid of them.”

Me “We can’t…they cost a fortune and I love them.”

Bill “But you can’t do anything with them. They are completely useless.”

Me “I don’t care, they make me happy, now get your fucking hands off the throw pillows.”

Currently Bill is winning the battle, but only because the wife of one of Bill's friends got really drunk (damn lightweight) at last year's Christmas party, then got sick and vomited sangria and beer margaritas all over my Calvin Klein comforter, essentially trashing it. I have not yet found a replacement. To be honest, I'm not so sure Bill didn't pay her off to do it on purpose. By the way she never called to apologize. I have not forgiven her. She will not be at this year’s Christmas party...just sayin...

I know that throw pillows are useless. I know they take up space unnecessarily, but they are important to me, and to most women I know. We want a fluffy bed, a sexy bed, a bed that says “throw me down and have your way with me.” Right now my bed says “oh fuck it, let’s just go to sleep.” I hate my bedroom. It has ugly flowered wallpaper, a bed with mismatched sheets and a lightweight ugly blanket, and it does indeed have carpeting that smells like dog.

Why is it when it comes to a couple’s marital residence, the bedroom always comes last? It’s the spot where clothes and dust cover the unused treadmill, and the top of the dresser looks like a pharmacy. None of the furniture matches and the closets look like they are about to explode. The rest of the house can be spotless, but the bedroom often looks like it’s inhabited by a hoarder with a penchant for dirty laundry. Even when you clean it up, it still looks awful. I'm tired of awful.

I have a plan, and I’m not sure if Bill is going to like it. The bedroom is going to be my winter project, and when I am through, it will be the envy of all the other girls. I’m going to have that fluffy marshmallow bed and my mountain of pillows on top. There will be clean closets and plush carpeting that squishes between my toes. I'm thinking about doing it when he goes hunting...can't bitch if you're not there, ya know what I'm saying?

And every night, after I have created my completely fabulous bedroom, Bill and I will turn down our impossibly thick comforter and leave it at the bottom of the bed, because as any woman entering menopause will tell you, hot flashes are a bitch. And Bill will complain as he removes all the throw pillows because they aren’t for his head. But I will be happier. I will sleep better, and Bill will get lucky more often, so in the end it’s a win win.

Sweet dreams.