Societal Pressures: Keeping Me On Track

Having concerns about social pressure is nothing new. It's something, as a mom, that I've come to expect and talk to my kids about on a regular basis. 

What I think we sometimes forget is that kids aren't the only ones having to deal with pressures from society. Sure, for years I've known from magazines and TV that I'm not thin enough, tall enough, blonde enough or buffed enough. 

But just a couple of years ago I learned that another part of me wasn't up to snuff. Turns out I had sucky eyelashes. Luckily Brooke Shields let me know I could paint a product on my eyelids and after a few months, no longer embarrass myself. How could I be living my life all these years with inadequate lashes?

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And more recently, I was lucky enough to learn despite doing it my entire adult life, I actually have no idea how to buy toothpaste, pasta, soda or anything else sold in a grocery store. 

According the extreme couponers of the world I'm a complete flunkee. I do not spend each week collecting dozens of newspapers and searching online sites for coupons. I do not clip, organize or arrange them by the hundreds in plastic divider-lined binders. I do not shop with several family members and use multiple carts. It does not take me many hours to check out and I do not have a separate room in my house for my stockpile. Yes, they all call it a stockpile. 

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I'm the fool who thinks buying my toilet paper at Costco is being thrifty. But from the looks of it, I now know I have no business setting foot inside a supermarket, big box store or the like without further training. 

All joking aside, I cannot believe that I actually feel a little badly about this one. Unlike other pressures, this actually seems like something I could do. I don't want to, but I should be capable, right?

So now, each and every time when I mumble to the cashier that I don't have any coupons, I hang my head in shame. A shame that is only trumped by the fact that I forgot my own reusable grocery bags. Again.

A-peeling Device Review: I Got New Skin Every Week for a Month

Back in April I was asked to review a skin care product called Nerium AD. I used it for a month and liked it very much. I've now used it for nearly 5 months and love it. I can honestly say I've seen positive improvement to my skin.

Doing that product review was really fun from an experimental as well as a writing perspective so you can imagine how excited I was when recently approached to review a skin care device. I immediately said yes because I was actually considering buying this exact device last winter. Now I get to try it for a month and report on my findings.

It's called the Redefine MACRO Exfoliator and is made by Rodan + Fields -- the doctors behind the wildly successful Proactive skin care line. They now have an "at home" line of anti-aging products that is sold by independent business owners. That's how this device and many of their other products are sold.

The MACRO E is supposed to take off dead skin and leave you with healthier-looking, more luminous complexion. I'll put it to the test and let you know how it goes.

A little background: I've used exfoliating scrubs in the past so I don't feel completely unfamiliar with the concept of getting rid of dead skin, but I've never used a device like this nor have I ever had microdermabrasion at a doctor's office.

I'll be using it once a week for 4 weeks and reporting my findings. So let's see if this thing can put the St. Ives Apricot Scrub to shame.

Week 1, August 18 -- The device is sleek and comfortable to hold. The little disposable filter inside the tip is supposed to trap all the dead skin that comes off my face, neck and chest. I must have a lot of deadness because I'm seeing snakeskin-like remnants left on my face. Not sure this is normal, but I'll find out. It's a little hard to use correctly at first, but I think after another time or two I'll have the motions down cold. There is a slight suctioning that occurs when you are doing it correctly. It doesn't hurt, but it definitely feels like there might be something really excellent taking place. Once I lose suction, the sound changes so I immediately know to reposition it. Afterward my skin is red, but very smooth. It's not sore at all. I applied the cooling gel that comes with the kit. Seems weird that I'm going to bed like this -- without applying a night cream, but I actually don't feel dry.  I think that I'm glowing and ask my husband how I look. He replies "good" which either means I look good or he can't be bothered to look away from the Orioles game. I have him feel my face and he nods enthusiastically even though his eyes reveal he has no idea why he's touching my face. I leave well enough alone.

Week 2, August 25 -- Couldn't wait for the night to come because I was so looking forward to trying this out again. The Macro E comes with a pre-programmed setting which makes it dummy-proof. It shows on the little screen exactly which part of your face to use it on and it beeps when it's time to move to a different part. I'm having better luck with the suctioning this time and am figuring out how to use my left hand to assist. By next week I should be a pro. I check the filter at the end and see it's full of dead skin and I'm giddy. Still have some of the snakeskin-like peeling that stayed on my face and never made it to the filter. This doesn't bother me and I cannot believe how much dead skin I have. It's very rewarding to see results immediately. Already looking forward to next Monday.

Week 3, September 1 -- Tonight was one of those nights where I really didn't feel like washing my face. I have one of those about every few weeks. I was totally going to skip it, but then I remember it was Monday: Macro E night! So I happily cleansed, toned and dried. I'm still enjoying this little gem. I didn't get as much gunk off my face this time which I'm assuming is because I've exfoliated the past 2 weeks and means my skin is in better shape going into the treatment. Next week is the last in my series. I'm already feeling disappointed this experiment is coming to a close.

Week 4, September 8 -- Yep, tonight was my final installment in testing out the Macro E. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't experiencing a healthy dose of bummed-outness. I do think I've gotten more skilled as the weeks have gone by, but my technique isn't perfect. I'm still struggling a bit with getting suction in a couple of areas (forehead, outer cheeks) where others adhere perfectly (nose, chin, neck, chest). However, I don't feel discouraged because I just work these areas a little extra til I've gotten it right.

Conclusion: Tomorrow I'll be returning this thing to its rightful owner. I've known since week one that I'd likely be purchasing my own. This is definitely an item I want in my arsenal and plan to keep up the Monday Night Exfoliating.

Other thoughts:

• If you are prone to broken capillaries, rosacea, eczema, psoriasis, seborrheic dermatitis, facial warts, active acne, infection, open wounds or sensitive skin you probably shouldn't use this. I however, do consider myself to have sensitive skin and had no issues. 
• The Macro E runs about $279, but discounts are available. 
• According to a 2013 statistic from the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, the average cost of microdermabrasion is $148, so this seems like a pretty good investment if you are in the market for something like this and don't need "professional strength" treatments. Personally, I don't think my skin could handle anything much stronger.

If you want more information about this, message me.

Get a Blog: Help! I'm Leaking Famous People.

Get a Blog: Help! I'm Leaking Famous People.: I think the change of life is hitting me. Not the hormonal mood swing type. Well, yes, that too, but this blog is about something else. I ...

Help! I'm Leaking Famous People.

I think the change of life is hitting me. Not the hormonal mood swing type. Well, yes, that too, but this blog is about something else.

I used to be considered one of the foremost authorities on TV and movies in my own circles. (For the record, I never claimed music or theatre.) But these days my hippocampus seems to be on hiatus. I think I've taken a deep dive in my knowledge of all things celebrity. It used to be if you needed to know Doogie Howser's BFF, I was your girl (Vinny, played by Max Casella).

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Did you know all the castaways on Gilligan's Island have last names? Some we knew all along: Thurston Howell, III and Ginger Grant. But how about Jonas Grumby? That's the Skipper. The Professor was Roy Hinkley. Mary Ann's last name was Summers. And Lovey Howell, well, just Lovey.

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But now I recognize my gift is atrophying and as far as I can tell the demise is due to a 3 ingredient recipe. Here's how you make it.

Losing My Mojo
a frozen beverage

• 1 part: aging memory
• 1 part: onslaught of cable channels, social media and the internet
• 1 part: people who are simply "famous" for reasons I don't understand, know or care to know
• Add ice (not Rob Van Winkle, Vanilla Ice) and toss in the blender.  You now have a delicious summer concoction of what it feels like to see your prowess be sucked through a bendy straw.

It's really a sad dose of reality that my best cocktail party babble is behind me. I always thought I'd be hip and cool and be able to carry on a celebrity-driven conversation in any situation. But how far can I get when I honestly don't know the difference between Kristen Cavillari and Lauren Conrad.

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Other than Kim, I know no Kardashians by sight. And I've loved Amy Adams since Wedding Crashers until I realized she was actually Isla Fisher.

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Could it be only a matter of days before Dermot Mulroney and Dylan McDermott face the same fate? Someone help me.

Cool Mom Wannabe

Now that school has been officially over for a couple of weeks, many of us have settled nicely into our summer mode. 

The time of chilin' and talking about humidity. Making half-ass plans and then keeping/altering/canceling as the day dictates. It's a 2-1/2 month excuse for letting go of the get-in-the-car/gotta-be-somewhere/running-late-again we perpetrate the rest of the year.

I can totally do this. Stay up. Sleep in. Seat of my pants-flying. I'm cool. Leave the dishes. Ice cream for dinner. Another sleep over? Sure. Skip the hair brush. Day 3 on those socks? See if I care. 

All this structureless time should be cathartic. A power down and a reboot on the "time to the make the donuts" monotony it seemed we'd never shake. Not to mention the daily happy dance of knowing the Vera Bradley lunch boxes are hidden away for months.

But the truth is: I suck at summer. This new groove does not come naturally. Flexibility and go-with-flow are like me at synagogue. I nod along, but really I'm an outsider. As far as summer break is concerned, I realize I'm wound a bit too tightly and I'm afraid If I don't relax soon I'll ruin it for everyone. 

Camden and Duke

Luckily I've pinpointed my major downfall: I can turn a molehill into a mountain in 2.0 seconds. Particularly if that molehill is messy. For a week in June we fostered two of the cutest puppies not sold by WebKinz. My kids were mushy and gushy in all the right ways and and took great care of them. But for some reason, all I could focus on was each and every piddle puddle and poop swirl not dropped outside. Even the piles that successfully landed in the yard stressed me out. My kids made it known that I managed to suck the fun out puppies. That's so sad. Insulting. True. Fun and puppies seemed Crazy Glued together, but apparently when I'm around it's just worn out Velcro and I pulled those right apart. My name is Ellen and I'm a buzz kill. 

If it's true that admitting you have a problem is the first step, then I already feel a smidge less cranky. I will honestly try to take it down a notch and not wish away these precious remaining 53 days of summer. Oh, I gotta run. I think I just heard a blob of brownie batter hit the counter. 

A Birthday Present You've Probably Never Received

This week I turn sumpin' sumpin' years old. I'm hoping for jewelry, but who really cares. I definitely have everything I need and pretty much everything I want. However, the most unusual and best present I ever got came on my 2nd birthday, but I wouldn't realize it for years to come. On June 14, 1969, I turned two and my mom delivered my brother, Gary. As the story goes, the doctor had theatre tickets to see Hair on June 15. I'm sure my mom didn't argue about going in a day early. She was probably on her second gin gimlet when he called to offer the option. It was the 60s, people.

Let's get the regular stuff out of the way: Yes, my brother and I have same birthday. No, we don't have any other siblings. Yes, our parents only did it in October, exactly twice.

When we were little we hung out all the time making up skits and playing in the yard. But around the my 14th birthday, something terrible happened. I remember it vividly. We shared a bathroom and I was in there putting on my Revlon Marine Blue eyeliner (way too heavily I'm sure) and he walked in and momentarily paused behind me. In that unplanned moment we both knew the game had changed forever. Gary was taller. It was a swap in the balance of power that would last for years, right up until he acknowledged we could be friends again. Usually he was gentle and used his size advantage with a humorous approach. But one time he and a friend thought it would be funny to scare the crap out of me by launching bottle rockets from his bedroom window while I rode my bike (orange with a purple banana seat) up and down the street. I'd like to think he didn't mean for one to shoot through my hair and explode next to my head.

But throughout the hassling, elbowing, tripping, and full nelsons, we were friends deep down. After all, he knew he had to stay somewhat in my good graces or I wouldn't let my friends make out with him anymore. But that's a different post.

Having a big little brother was and is awesome.

One Friday night, my senior year in high school, I got dropped off at home from a party and was a little banged up. I was not at all surprised to find my brother shooting hoops on the driveway. Here's how our conversation went:

Me: Gar, do you have anything for my breath?
Gary: All I have is chewing tobacco. Opens the tin can to show me.
Me: Thanks! Grabbing a big league-sized scoop, I chew and swallow it.
Gary: Look of horror and disgust. Wait, don't!

I walk into the house

Mom: Hi honey, did you have fun tonight?
Me: Yes.
Mom: What's in your teeth?
Me: Brownies. Good night.
Mom: Good night.

My brother loves this story because he's seen guys twice my size taken down and puke for hours when a little bit of Skoal accidentally slipped down their throats. I think in his redneckian 15-year-old way, he saw me in a different, cooler light that night. And we've been looking out for each other ever since.

Happy Flag Day, Gary!

No Rest for the Injured or the Sugar Addicted

My first attempt at video blog. Why now? Click it!

Grammarvelous #2: The Apostrophe Catastophe

I know what you're thinking: it's the end of April and last month I said I was going to write a monthly grammar blog. Glad we both remembered in the nick of time.

It's finally feeling like spring and in the mid-Atlantic that means two things: allergies and baseball. Assuming we're all properly dosed up on Zyrtec, let's get right to baseball (and grammar).

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Our beloved home team the Baltimore Orioles is ubiquitously known as "the O's". At least to the locals. If you haven't once, in your best Baltimorean accent, uttered "How 'bout dem O's, hon?" you probably didn't eat fries'n gravy down de ocean to celebrate the nuptials of the Utz girl and Natty Boh guy. But that's ok because not speaking in or understanding the Hon dialect is forgivable (and arguably preferable), but improperly using punctuation is whole different bird (black and orange in this case). 

Let's get back to the O's and the purpose of this blog. I offer up for discussion a grammatical conundrum and something that has been gnawing at me for years: is it correct to have the apostrophe in O's? To argue it's grammatically incorrect, we must first agree that O's is a nickname for Orioles. Given that, Orioles in its stand alone form is plural not possessive and would require no apostrophe until the time is becomes a plural possessive. Have I lost you? Look at these examples and then it should all make sense.

• The Os are going to crush the Yankees this year. plural
• The Os' fans were voted best looking in the MLB. plural possessive
• The Orioles play at the beautiful Camden Yards. plural
• The Orioles' Manny Machado is working hard to come back from surgery and rejoin the big leagues. plural possessive

Still with me? 

However, a case can be made if you think O's is not a nickname, but a shortened version of the word Orioles. Is the apostrophe simply acting as a place holder for the remaining letters -- riole? Similarly, we use an apostrophe as a place holder in contractions such is don't, can't, won't, and so forth.  

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When I sat down to write this blog I was planning on venting years of annoyance about the misuse of the possessive apostrophe. But after careful thought and research, and mostly to move forward with my life, I'm going with the second theory: the apostrophe acts a place holder. I feel so much better. Have you been struggling with this too? I didn't think so.

Now that we've got that cleared up, I have a little bomb to drop. And I realize once I detonate it, you might go AWOL. Brace yourself: on pretty much all merchandise sporting the O's logo, the apostrophe is upside down and backwards. I know. I couldn't believe it either, but just look for yourself!

How did this pass through the Orioles' marketing gurus, MLB proofreaders and god knows how many other muckety mucks? After all these years I'm finally willing to accept the apostrophe belongs at all and now this? 

Who wants to start a petition?

Hey Gringos! 10 Thoughts on Our Mexican Vacay

Buenos tardes de Cancun, Mexico!

I chose this view for the day. Can you blame me?

Today my family is out on an excursion to Chichen Itza to see some Mayan ruins. Eddie and I went in 1992 and I'm still trying to recover. It's a long story, but let's just say the lowlight was having my hair yanked by little Yucatanian girls through the open sides of our rented Suzuki Samarai, and the other lowlight was trying to recover from heat stroke (did I mention there was no roof on said Samarai either?) upon our eventual arrival. Moral of the story: don't rent your own transportation in a foreign country, with foreign maps before GPS is invented particularly when you don't share the same definition of "air conditioning" on a 110 degree day. Anyway, I'm sure the rest of the Virdens are whooping it up on the giant, luxurious tour bus, but I passed on a re-do. Instead I'm roughing it poolside, banging out a blog on my phone. 

Mi diez observaciones de Mexico (still with me?):

1. Explaining to the hotel operator at midnight that you need more towels and a giant plastic bag because your daughter has uncontrollable food poisoning isn't as uncomfortable as you might think. Explaining to your other daughter who slept through whole thing why she woke up splattered with her sister's vomit is. 
2. Plagued by a Napoleon complex? Come here where no one grows past 5'5".  
3. Turns out that someone, somewhere is still selling Crocs and fanny packs.
4. The hotel staff, taxi drivers and waiters are the friendliest people ever. I don't know if they genuinely love their jobs, but if not they could be in Hollywood collecting Oscars. 
5. My hair and tropical weather are like Kidman & Cruise, Holmes & Cruise; and why not, let's go really old school and throw in Rogers & Cruise. They seemed ok for a hot minute, but then you realized it was a marriage (or 3) made in hell. 
   
   
   
   
   
6. You really reacquaint yourselves with your family when you share one bathroom for a week. Do that in Mexico and you re-up the bonds of the circle of trust. 
7. Even a large, bulbous zit can't deter one poolside vacationer from donning her thong. If she walks by one more time I might go all baboon on her ass and pick it. 
8. Apparently every woman on the Yucatan Peninsula wears a bikini except me and #7 isn't helping lose my inhibitions.
9. Zip lining 12 stories high really helps you face your fears. Seeing your 9-yr old come to a complete stop and dangle over a canyon because she's too light to zip all the way to the other platform makes you realize you have a new list of untapped fears. 
   
   
   
   
   
10. Turns out giving your severely ear-infected daughter Mexican antibiotics from a doctor who makes house calls with a fishing tackle box full of meds is a surprisingly easy decision.

My day alone was really nice, but when they got home I hugged them liked they'd been at sleep away camp. They had a great time and on this trip to Chichen Itza the only hair pulling was between sisters. 

They don't let you climb up these pyramids anymore.
Tour guide said too many people were peeing at the top.

How was your spring break? Anything remarkable happy to you?

Product Review! Nerium AD Skin Care

To date, I have published 32 blog posts. They've been all over the map topic-wise, but there's one category I've wanted to explore and now is my chance: a product review. If I'm going to weigh-in on something out there, it's probably going to be something I think can enhance my life and/or the lives of my friends. So imagine my excitement when a new blog opportunity arose and it's something that might even make me look better. Here'a little background.

I love skin care products. I started using eye cream when I was 29 and incorporated sunscreen into my daily routine about 5 years later (I now know that was about 30 years too late). I've used everything from basic drugstore stuff to a high end doctor-dispensed 5-step line. Once, in a very low moment, I even put a gel version of a acai drink on my face because I'd heard the antioxidant properties could pause the clock. I should've warned my family because one of my daughters burst into hysterics thinking I'd been attacked by Lizzie Borden's axe-wielding ghost.

The product I'm reviewing is called Nerium AD. They have a day cream and a night cream and I was given a one month supply of each.

According to the Nerium International website, these products are designed to improve the appearance of: fine lines and wrinkles, hyper pigmentation, discoloration, uneven skin texture, aging or sun-damaged skin, enlarged pores and loose skin. The product is a patented formula derived from the Nerium Oleander plant.

I can't wait to find out if any of these amazing results are going to come my way. To make this more official, I pledge to use the products as directed, day and night, for 30 straight days.

A few things to note:

• I am almost 47.
• I have no Botox, filler or the like.
• I am not using a separate eye cream during this experiment because Nerium says I don't need to.
• I am using a separate sunscreen during the day because the Nerium Day Cream does not contain any.
• I took make-up free "before" pictures 

Day 1

Daytime: The instructions say 4 pumps, but 3 more than covered my entire face, neck and décolletage. I realize I might not get optimum results using a little less, but my face is really small and I have nowhere to put the extra product. Due to the extremely cold weather, I applied a little of my own moisturizer (mixed with tinted moisturizer) on top for added emollience. Nerium says this is fine.
Nighttime: The product has a nice heavy, almost sticky feel (it contains no water) and must be applied to damp skin which seems strange, but I guess that's to help spread it around. The smell is different -- earthy and and grassy. Not unpleasant, but certainly not flowery. As it dries, my skin feels tight. A little odd, but not uncomfortable. I can see getting used to that feeling in a few days. I am applying to same body parts as daytime, but also including the backs of hands -- I have some ugly dark spots. I found that I only had room on myself for 3 pumps of the night cream as well.

Day 14

I have been a perfect student and am using the product exactly as indicated. My favorite thing is probably how easy it is. I love that both the morning and night are only one step -- especially when I'm feeling lazy. My skin does feel softer and smoother and I like how my make up looks. I think I'm needing less to cover, but without makeup I cannot see a significant difference. I plan to rephotograph at the end of the month so maybe I'll see something then.

Day 30

Ok, so my 30 days is over and I really wasn't expecting to see much of a change based on the first 2 weeks. But surprisingly, I actually do see improvement, particularly in the overall evenness of my complexion. My pores are definitely smaller and without make up my skin is more even looking -- including the dark circles under my eyes which bother me more than anything. I still have broken capillaries around my nose (I think a laser is the only thing that can fix these) and I didn't see any noticeable changes in the dark spots on my chest or hands. I have come to enjoy the ease of these products and now find the smell delightful. The company's slogan is "Give us a year and we'll give you back 10". I'm curious whether I'd see even more improvement over a longer time, but this review was a one month experiment.

Other thoughts

• Sorry, but I'm not publishing any photos because it turns out, I'm too vain; and I took them on an iPhone in my bedroom with crappy lighting and frankly, they don't show what I see in the mirror. 
• The night cream is $80 and the day cream is $40 for a one month supply, but I think the company occasionally runs specials to get better pricing. Nerium is not the most expensive product around, but it's certainly not the most affordable either. 
• I think it's worth a try if you want your overall complexion improved and don't mind spending a little more. I was considering a peel of some sort, but now think I can put that off for a while. 

I'm just a tester, but if you want to know more, email me: evirden@me.com

Someone Get Me a Hair Net and a Nametag

He looks harmless, but once he opens his mouth
you realize he's a whiny tool.

What's the worst time of day in your house? When my kids were little it was unequivocally "the witching hour". Well hours, plural. Sometime between 3-6pm, my kids would go through a hideous transformation like Michael Jackson in the "Thriller" video.  In retrospect, I think they were like that all day, but my tolerance was shot by late afternoon and I was counting the minutes til "the great American handoff" (as I mentally called it) when my husband walked through the door and I could seek reprieve in the privacy of my closet or liquor cabinet. How I used to envy his being stuck in traffic choosing his own radio station while I struggled to not let my kids turn into Caillou. Gone are the days of little, little kids and the interminable afternoons, but they were replaced by my current and longer term mommy hell: the making of the school lunch.

Sound completely ridiculous? I totally agree, but I loathe it more than laundry on sheet changing day. I loathe it more than running out of hot water on body hair management day. When you have three kids who like three different meals, leave on three different busses to attend three different schools, making their lunches is no easy feat. And of course this is all happening before the damn rooster's Ambien has worn off. Yes, I realize I could make them the night before or even have them do it, but for some reason I keep this hideous task to myself. Maybe the control freak in me wants to make sure they have a somewhat balanced meal. Maybe I subconsciously enjoy the self-torture and the "I've done more by 7am than most people do all day" warped sense of accomplishment. Most likely it's simply self preservation: we will all fight less if I just do it myself.

I dream about the days when they bought school lunch. Well, at least the high schooler did, but that was so far back Obama had brown hair.

The middle schooler says she bought one time in 2nd grade out of necessity and wears her nearly perfect home-brought record with pride. Sometimes I secretly hope she will leave her lunch at home and have to buy something.

However, when it comes to bringing school lunch, the 3rd grader takes the cake (but she'd probably reject that too). She eats a wide variety of food at home, but declares them all disgusting when placed in the confines of a lunchbox. For years I got away with a thermos of soup, but now that's out. Also eliminated: pasta, yogurt, and sandwiches of any kind. Good times.

But today is Friday and Fridays rock. And not just because I've seen my modern day witching hour of 6:15am for the last time this week. For the next 60+ hours I get to stash those Vera Bradley lunch boxes out of sight and mind; leaving plenty of space in this kooky brain to mentally reminisce about the olden days when my biggest concern was deciding which guy from Blue's Clues was hotter.

Joe, on the left, replaced Steve, the original dork-a-licious host.

Blue was definitely the best looking one on the show.

Grammarvelous #1: Gold Meddling

Today I start my first monthly column and I'm so excited. If you've ever hung out with me IRL (in real life), sent me an email or tagged me in a Facebook post, it may have crossed your mind that my mental red pen might do some automated editing. Well, I find that assumption insulting. True, but insulting. I admit it's beyond my control and I find it funner* than most other things I learned as a student.

Sure, when we were in school, we were spared the Common Core and all its flaws, but we did have to take on other cockamamy things such as diagramming sentences -- possibly the most dreadful assignment ever. I still have no idea what it was all about or why we had to do it, but I'm sure it was enough to get most of the class to tune out subsequent lessons. Yes I love grammar, but don't pretend to know everything. So in the words of the dreamy Troy Bolton, "We're all in this together."

Let's kick off with a really obvious mistake -- and one you've probably never made and are in no danger of ever making -- so we can all feel really good about our linguistical prowess. Mostly I just thought it was funny and sometimes funny just wins over practical.

A few days ago I watched about 5 minutes of Dancing With the Stars and boy, was it totally worth it. I actually heard a certain celebrity contestant (for the record, English is his first language; and yes, I'd be more merciful with the heavily-accented Eastern European professional dancers) describe his debut dance as "an outer body experience." I know! I couldn't believe it either! Of course we all know he actually had an outer brain experience when he meant to say "out-of-body experience".

See, don't you feel smart? But alas, that certain celebrity contestant has a gold medal in ice dancing and all we have is our high horse.

Join me next month for Grammarvelous #2! And if something has been stumping you, please send in your questions, conundrums or queries. I'll keep them anonymous of course.

* Testing you! While not accepted as a real word, many people use "funner" informally albeit incorrectly.

Quiz: Do Kids Make Terrible Roommates?

Yesterday morning, I found a hairbrush, one Homer Simpson slipper and a tube of toothpaste in our bed. When I told my husband, he matter-of-factly declared, "Kids make shitty roommates." Damn that's profound. Almost too simple. The synapses started firing. But perspective is everything. That's why I'm turning that frown upside down and offering a little quiz.

Ten reasons living with kids is so awesome. 

True or false? Give yourself one point for each sentence with which you agree.

1. It's totes adorbs how they think my things are also their things. Bonus point when said things are not returned.
2. The "let's leave the empty popsicle box in the freezer" game is still a hoot after all these years. Bonus point if they blame a sibling.
3. Sharing bath towels (even though we have plenty of clean ones nearby) is so endearing and sanitary. Bonus point if I find mine on the floor.
4. I'm living the Vic Tayback dream and honing my short-order cook prowess. Bonus point if they are miraculously full by the time I put the waffle, grilled cheese or chimichanga on the table.
5. It's shrewd to test the durability of a fresh manicure on a day-old smoothie-encrusted glass. Bonus point if they left the blender unsoaked as well.
6. It's incredibly charming when I get my iPad back and it's dead. Bonus point if I had to go on a late night scavenger hunt to find it. 
7. It's been a while, but I still can't underestimate the value of a good science lesson; particularly if it involves a sippy cup full of milk turning into yogurt under the seat of your car. Bonus point for having to sell that vehicle for that reason.
8. I just adore the sound of my own voice and find repeating things to be sheer merriment. Bonus point if you use your kid's given name. Extra bonus point for including the last name.
9. Despite their continued efforts I still don't see the Rorschach in the toothpaste phlegm they carefully arrange in my sink. But I won't give up. Bonus point for color.
10. I've come to derive true satisfaction from washing clothes that aren't really dirty. Bonus point if they haven't been worn at all.

Out of a possible 21 -- how'd you score? Did anyone else get the bonus point for #7?

Smells Like Teen Spirit....and Maybe Some Other Stuff

When I was a teenager I took it upon myself to defend all other teenagers on principle alone. My mother regularly made, what I considered baseless accusations. She'd see a car speeding down the street and say, "Those teenagers need to slooooow down." To which I'd snappishly reply, "You don't know how old they are." Ok, I never said I was clever, just defensive. It seemed to her, at least in my mind, the root of all shenanigans began with teenagers.

It's funny how over time, things change. 

The way I feel about teenagers now is pretty much the way I feel about cats. I might really like you if you weren't so shifty, unpredictable and up to something I probably don't approve of. And of course pretty and taut, cellulite free, and fast approaching expert status in eye rolling -- I'm back to people in case you were still on my cat analogy. 

On a recent trip to the mall, I was buying a gift card at one of those overscented, overpriced stores Gen Y'ers love and here's the verbatim conversation I had with the teenage female employee (who had an amazing French manicure) upon checkout.

Her: How much do you want on the gift card?

Me: $40

Her: Please swipe your credit card. And what's your email address?

Me: Why do you need that?

Her: To complete the transaction.

Me: I still don't understand why you need my email. 

Her, all attitude-y: Then don't give it if you don't want.

That's where the verbal, out loud conversation ended. But in my mind I said" Soooo.... you don't need it to complete the transaction after all.

She hastily shoved my receipt at me and welcomed the next customer who might be pleased as punch to blindly hand over any personal information she requested.

But really why should Checkout Chickie care? She was just doing what she was told, right? And maybe that's fine for now. But still, I wanted to say -- stand up for yourself, sister. Tell your boss that you aren't going to mislead customers anymore. Tell us you want our email address so your corporate headquarters can send a daily useless message that will join its brethren in the inbox onslaught that occurs before our eyes even focus at 6am.

The irony, of course, is I used to be you -- we all did. Well, you with an abacus instead of a fancy cash register. You with giant foam shoulder pads, a middle part and 'wings'." 

But the more I think about it I realize here's a high schooler with at least some drive and ambition. After all, it's Friday night and she's at work; not hanging out at the McDonalds on the corner of New Hampshire Avenue and Randolph Road with 25 friends and a rent-a-cop trying to track down a field party with a trashcan full of grain punch.

Props and unspoken apologies to all the teenagers I have misjudged and will misjudge for lesser crimes than this. I used to fight your plight, but now I'm older, wiser and more crotchety. So this one-way conversation happened in my head. Plus I need all my stamina just to corral the three that fall under my care. And if I'm going to embarrass myself and anyone in public, shouldn't it really be my own daughters?

Love Language: A Stupid Ass Name for Sure, But...

As you undoubtedly know, today is Valentine's Day. The day we are supposed to tap into our love language. Can you even say those words without sounding like a complete douche? I'm not really sure what it means since all the love advice I get is from Bravo and everyone on there is nuts, but I do have an opinion.

My personal love language is most evident when discussing a recent shopping trip.

Friend: Oooh!! I love that jacket!
Me: Thanks, $80 at Nordstrom Rack.*
Friend: Wow! That's awesome.

Did you see what happened there? It was quick and subtle and you might've missed it. That's why I cleverly dropped in the asterisk. *My friend did not ask where I got my awesome new threads or how much I paid. But I provided that information automatically. It's the implied next step.

Have I lost you or are you nodding your head in agreement? I thinks it's evolutionarily innate in women, however my husband thinks we're a little nuts. Why on earth would I volunteer these details and who really cares? My answer: anyone who considers me interesting or their friend probably understands and participates in this ritual. It spews out involuntarily as if I were blinking or hair flipping.

Boiling it all down: I want you know to know that I hunted and scored an amazing and fashionable kill. You want to know if the store has any more and do I care if you get one too. I'm just saving you the step of asking. I have a side theory that the better the deal, the faster and louder I share it, but I have no scientific evidence to back this up. It's a match made by cupids's arrow and dropped out of retail heaven.

Even though this unprompted communication is foreign and weird to my husband, there is a love language involving food that he does understand. What do you think of this one?

Setting: any restaurant...
Him: How's your meal?*
Me: Great...do you want to try it?
Him: Sure.

*Notice he didn't come right out and ask me for a taste, but by asking if I'm enjoying my food, I magically offer it to him. Of course I'd have given him a taste if he asked directly, but you gotta test it out. Works every time.

Happy Valentine's Day no matter what your love language is!

Love is Not in the Air, Yet...

Valentine's Day is just a few days away. And because Hallmark says so, love and affection (and overpriced, underyummy meals) become the focus for 24 hours. So why not dump off some negativity in the form of a list. You may notice I left the "S word" off completely. I don't even want to think about the impending forecast, salt (unless it's on a margarita rim) or not hearing the beautiful music of the last schoolbus pulling away at 8:26am.

Here they are, six pretty unimportant things that might be preventing me from embracing Valentine's Day:

1. when i have to type using uppercase letters. i even spell my name (in real life) with all lowercase. lazy, yes. but do i type faster than you? probably. 
2. when you thank someone and they reply "not a problem". it totally diminishes the sentiment.
3. when i go to wash my hands at a sink with an automatic faucet and it doesn't turn on. i wonder if i'm actually invisible. luckily frantic waving and cursing seems to get it running.
4. when i'm driving down the road minding my own beeswax and someone on a side street suddenly cuts in front of me. without exception there are never ANY cars behind me. why???
5. when sponge bob speaks
6. when someone says "should have went" or "should have came". nails on the chalkboard to this journalism major. 

so, now that i've vented and typed most of an email without caps, i do feel a little better. will i be cutting out little paper hearts or baking cupcakes for friday? of course not, but i'll definitely be digging into whatever treats my husband brings home for all the girls in his life. i might be a little lackluster when it comes to this holiday, but i'm no fool.

Oh No You Di'-int: Adding Insult to Injury

Hey, did you notice the weather is pretty godawful? If you didn't, just check Facebook and I'm sure some of your clever friends will be posting clever photos of snow piling up on their deck furniture.

But those photos -- I'm assuming there are numerous shots out there (although would we really notice if all our FB friends just kept reposting the same pic?) -- got me thinking about my own house and how two years ago, after 8 years of redneck grilling on the driveway we finally decided to build the thing that would eventually collect snow all winter and bird crap all summer.

Sitting around our kitchen table on a Saturday morning a couple of Augusts ago, my husband and I conducted the first of three construction company interviews. We were discussing possible layout ideas when our three daughters walked in the room. The owner of the company looked at the kids, looked at me and back to the kids. Then he said with a big smile, "Oh, I had kids later in life too."  Wha-wha-wha-what?? Is this some cockamamie attempt at bonding? My husband started shaking his head and knew there was nothing left to be said. Buh-bye and get out jackass dude who works in sales and should be saying (lying) that there's no way I could possibly be old enough to have a teenager.

The good news is we found a great company that did an excellent job. And should I ever encounter that charmer again, I'm prepared to marinate, skewer and conveniently grill his ass right out back. Now that might be a FB-worthy deck photo.

Window to the Soul and Other Sundry Body Parts

If you've ever walked into an Abercrombie store two things are immediately apparent:

1. You wish you'd have brought your own oxygen supply. Yes they spray all of the merchandise with 10 spritzes of cologne every hour!
2. The models for this clothing store wear no clothes.

However, this weekend you might have seen something that has brought in-store promotion to a new level. American Apparel is decorating its Lower East Side storefront windows with 70s porn bush-adorned mannequins. It's not that I'm prudish about nudity, but what on earth could be the reasoning behind this decision?

Focus Group Moderator: Thank you all for coming today. We'd like to show you some ideas for our upcoming window display.

Focus Group Attendee: Those look good and all, but what is really missing is a woodchuck  pelt glued to her genderless fiberglass crotch.

Focus Group Moderator: Excellent idea, but let's scratch the woodchuck and go with beaver.

Ok, so who knows how it went down, but they thoughtfully added areolae (yes, I looked up the plural) to complete the look. I haven't a clue if this will sell more clothes, but it has reminded me to add Gillette Mach 3s to this week's shopping list.

You'd Think Someone Would've Mentioned Something, Right?

Aging sure beats the alternative, but just like when you had your first kid, there are a lot of things no one tells you. Remember when you thought you'd go home from the hospital in your regular-sized clothes? Or couldn't someone have mentioned that first post-birth poop would be like squeezing out a porcupine? Well, a porcupine dipped in kerosene and set on fire.

Now that I've crested over the proverbial hill and am on the fast boat to 50, I'm realizing there are things you simply learn on-the-job. Here are 10 of them, in no particular order.

Things I never thought about before they happened to me:

1. I only sneeze when my bladder is full. Said bladder is as sturdy as the no-name paper towel the Bounty people compare to themselves.
2. The day comes when you have to start shaving your toes. 
3. I have one tooth that likes to double as a display easel for whatever I eat.
4. My gray hair is not coming in as highlights like I'd planned.
5. I can no longer predict what effect any meal will have on my digestive system.
6. Night sweats can really ruin a great blow-out.
7. Sometimes when I put my driving glasses on top of my head, I discover my reading glasses have already claimed the real estate.
8. It's not unheard of for me to wake up with an injury I incurred while sleeping.
9. I order my cocktails based solely on the hangover level I'm willing to put up with.
10. I may have already published this list, but frankly I can't remember. (And is using the word "frankly" automatic AARP board member status?)

Taking the Fall: The Stumble and Crack Heard 'round the School

Yesterday at tennis, my friend Meredith went teacup over teakettle. She was taking an overhead feed in a lesson and down she went. For the record she hit the ball for a winner down the alley. Or at least I told her I'd write that if she let me use her real name. She also looked thin, pretty and young. In any case, seeing her drop to the ground faster than Lady Mary Crawley hearing of Matthew's car accident, brought me back to 1983: the year that will forever remain a defining moment in my klutzy life.

I was a scrawny 10th grader with a big crush on the senior who helped out in my gym class. The course unit was indoor floor hockey and I was all about making a plan to get noticed by Steve Austin (unlike Meredith, this was not his name, nor was he bionic as far as I know). Here's how the plan was supposed to go down:

• Pretend to get checked during floor hockey game
• Fall to ground and pretend to need help
• Steve Austin will rush over and help me up
• We make eye contact as he double checks to make sure I'm ok
• I get to think about that for the rest of the day and possibly the semester

Here's what really happened:

• I pretended to get checked during floor hockey game
• I overacted the fall, lost my balance and stumbled backward
• I landed in a seated position cushioning my fall with my hands
• I broke both wrists in said landing

Technically the left was broken and the right was sprained, but I showed up the next day with one permanent and one removable cast. My awesome plan to get noticed sure worked. Every kid in the school called me "Broken Arms" -- everyone except Steve Austin who never called me anything.

One more thing: I owe a 30-year-old apology to Mark Maizel -- the guy who happened to be standing next to me when I took my flop and assumed he'd knocked into me. Out of sheer embarrassment, I never corrected him. Luckily he's on FB. Hi Mark and I'm so sorry (if you even remember this incident)!!

New Year's Resolutions and Babies: Easy to Make; Hard to Deliver

Yep, it's that time of year: absolutely no open parking spaces at the gym. You'd think people would actually choose to park far away from the entrance in order to add a few more notches to that shiny, new pedometer they got under the tree last week, but it doesn't work that way. New year's resolutions are as old as Baby New Year himself and broken as much as a Kardashian condom.

Year after year I make the same resolutions as everyone else: eat less crap; burn more calories. I don't really write them down or say them out loud, but they dangle there in my hippocampus for the first few weeks of January until I forget that I meant to not order cheese fries and blow off Body Pump for a pedicure. But as Popeye put it: I am what I am. Which reminds me, eat more spinach... and olive oil (or is it Olive Oyl?).

This year I'm going to try something new. Instead of making the same old short-lived promise to myself, I'm making three resolutions I think are actually keepable.

1. I will take a risk and do something outside of my comfort zone. I actually might try to drive over my nemesis, the Bay Bridge, but since my hands literally started sweating as I typed those words, I'm definitely going to need some backup ideas. I'd like to try skeet shooting. Or stand-up, perhaps? Maybe a new hair color is more my speed. But definitely something this year. And I'm up for suggestions.
2. I vow to finish a decorating project in my own home. You know, the shoemaker's children and all that? This one might be a little more challenging than #1, but since we just got a new washer and dryer, I'm thinking the laundry room is already on its way. It's small and I'm in there a lot so I think the payoff will be definitely worth it. 
3. I pledge to watch more TV. I'm not sure this is possible, but I will definitely give it my all. Having multiple premium channels and renewing Netflix and Hulu should help. The DVR has been purged, my remote has new batteries and I'm looking for recommendations. 

And you know that I'll let you know how it goes.

Tickling the Ivories: And Other Dental Nightmares

Ok, so I just walked through the door from a root canal. Sadly, it's my third one and I'm confident it won't be my last. The weird thing is it went great. And no, it's not the nitrous talking. I'm serious. However, this is a new and recent feeling and maybe tomorrow when I'm experiencing the throbbing after-effects I might feel differently.

I wasn't always this embracing of dental work (like earlier today, for example). Here's why. For some genetic reason, I have an abnormally small mouth (go ahead, make all those jokes in your head) and it's been a complete pain in the ass (biscupids?) for my whole life. To this day, getting X-rays makes me long for the soothing comfort of a mammogram -- particularly that fun one where they do the side smush and twist.

When I was a kid I needed to have teeth pulled and not just a few: 16 of my pearly whites.  If that seems extreme I completely agree. Luckily only (only??) 8 were permanent and it was over a 10-year period.

Like many people, I went to the same dentist for the first 20+ years of my life. This guy was great. And by great I mean cool. I have no idea if he was skilled, but he sure was nice. There was the time I was all nitrous'd up and felt I was floating around the galaxy with the Great Gazoo. Dr. Awesome says, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if you could bag that stuff up and when your mom yells at you, you could just open it up and breathe it in?" See what I mean. So cool. Creepy. Unprofessional. But cool.

I think because I made so many visits to the dentist in my formative years -- I won't even get into the crazy reaction I had to the sodium pentathol during the removal of four impacted wisdom teeth, or the hideous gut wrenching reaction I had from the post-surgery Percoset -- I developed a legitimate dental anxiety.

Luckily, in my 20s and 30s I pretty much avoided extra work such as fillings, crowns, etc., but was still terrified of cleanings. So much so that I asked for nitrous at most of those routine appointments. My mom told me a lot of dentists themselves use nitrous when they get their own teeth cleaned, but now I realize it probably has less to do with anxiety and more to do with legal hallucinatory escape. Eventually I gave it up when a pregnant technician asked if I'd be willing to skip it for the safety of her unborn child. Of course I agreed and was surprised to learn I really didn't need it after all.

However, a few years ago I had a major set back getting a crown. Here's my actual Facebook post from that event:

Despite that hideous experience, I've come a long way. Having a gentle hygienist and a trustworthy dentist have made a world of difference. Plus, I've had a major epiphany: the more I go, the less scared I am. How messed up is that? Not to say I look forward to going. That would be weird. Look, I got dealt a shitty hand in the tooth department, but so do a lot of people. It's a matter of having professionals who know how to manage your anxiety and concerns. Like therapists in masks. With sharp tools.

Coming Clean on My Engagement: 5,870 days later

Last weekend marked my 17th wedding anniversary. We got engaged in December 1995 on an amazing whale watching expedition off the coast of San Diego. It was the most perfect, romantic moment of my life. At least that's the story I've been telling. Up until now.

Even though on our second date, I'd have married Eddie Virden (yes, we actually discussed it), it would be a full 5 years before we finally walked down the aisle and he crunched the glass under his foot. Around the 2 year mark I started thinking every day was engagement day. It was exhausting and disappointing, but I certainly wasn't going anywhere.

I remember him calling me at my job in Bethesda to come pick him up at a mechanic nearly an hour away because he'd been in a fender bender in Baltimore city. Giving him mental points for creativity, I honestly thought we were getting engaged and drove up there expecting him on bended knee. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the hood of his 1990 Honda Accord all crunched up. Moments like that would repeat themselves for two more agonizing years: trips to the grocery store, dinners out, side-by-side Stairmasters at the gym. I was really grasping.

Right around the 4-year mark in November of 1995, things started to go my way: we started talking rings. He'd come home from work and draw a circle on a piece of paper and I'd draw a bigger circle. We were really getting somewhere. I don't think it was any secret that our upcoming trip to southern California was going to be all about the engagement.

Arriving in San Diego, it was like having a third person with us at all times. When was this ring going to make an appearance? We both knew it was going to happen and we were both acting odd. He looked like he was about to donate a kidney and I was like a lion staring at a free organ.

Our first outing was the San Diego Zoo and we had a blast watching the gorillas during feeding time. I waited for Memba to beat his chest, sending a "Bro, it's cool, do it now" signal, but it wasn't meant to be. That evening we went on a sunset walk on the beach, holding hands and marveling at the scenery. But no ring. The next day we toured the Gas Light District. Still nada.

Late afternoon on our second day, we took a whale watching boat cruise. Just as we were about to leave port, we were joined by a family with a small kids. Those blasted rugrats continually circled the boat's perimeter, breaking up any mojo we had working. One particularly obnoxious boy camped out next to Eddie and shouted "WHALE" every time he saw a wave. I, on the other hand, was only concerned about spotting one in the platinum species. By the time our boat turned back for the harbor, I knew this was not happening.

Back at the room, I think we were both drained. I was chilling on the bed reading "High Fidelity" by Nick Hornby, knowing that I really needed to get dressed. Eddie had planned some super secretive dinner and obviously this whole thing was going down at the fancy schmancy restaurant. But obvious wasn't as obvious as I thought.

I could hear the tub running in the bathroom and figured Eddie was getting ready to shower up. He called me in and boy was I stunned. Laid out in front of me was the most beautiful setup: candles on every surface; platter of brie, crackers and grapes; a bottle of champagne and flower petals in the tub. He brought me back out to the room, said all the things a girl dreams about hearing and popped open that black velvet box exactly 1,490 days from our first date. Then he popped THE question.

After that shiny sucker was in place on my left hand he said, "Can we just tell everyone it happened on the whale watching trip? That's where I really wanted to do it, but that loud mouth family was  ruining the whole vibe. Plus I thought I might drop it overboard." Of course, I said yes to that question too.

A Stripped-Down Glance: What's All the Racquet About?

The year was 2009 when I met the frienemy: the game of tennis. A love/hate relationship, the likes of which I'd never known. But probably not for the reasons you think.

Yes, some days I suck so badly I want to drive over my racquet and never see another fuzzy, neon ball. But that's just par for the course. Warning: more stupid sports analogies ahead. 

Let me set the scene: Most Mondays and every Thursday for the past 4+ years I've played indoor tennis at one of the local gyms in town. The facility is amazing -- it's temperature controlled, the nets are in excellent condition, and courts are always clean. However, there is one contributing factor to playing tennis here that gives me a tinge of anxiety each and every time I enter the place: the locker room is always full of naked women.

Let it be known that I'm no prude. I was raised going to Loehmann's, and changing in the communal dressing room was something I'd done since high school, but this goes well beyond.

I'm just not super comfortable with the sheer quantity of garment-less bodies standing between the locker room entrance and the bathrooms in the rear (heh, heh). It's only 63 steps, yet it feels like a slalom course that only Lindsay Vonn could maneuver.

Any sociology 101 student, would immediately note that the majority (but not all) of nakedly comfortable women in this particular setting are over the age of 60 and of Asian descent. I would like to ask them if this is a cultural thing, but frankly where would I look during our conversation? Were they always so comfortable wearing nothing but a smile in a fairly populated situation? Did this come on later in life and they are experiencing a new-found freedom? Am I way over analyzing this?

Just last week I saw a woman who actually bothered to wrap herself in a towel, but only from her waist down -- breasts unleashed and on the loose. She was blow drying her hair and in no hurry to get dressed. Or sometimes the more disturbing: boobs contained behind a towel, but an abundance of lady bits roaming free and exposed below. Why? Why? Why?

I realize that I'm the outsider -- the freak who is fully clothed in the locker room. Knowing that the best defense is a good offense, I use the bathroom, wash-up and intently stare at the floor as I skedaddle the 63 steps back out, being careful not to whack a stray nipple with my shoulder-slung racquet. The good news is if I have a terrible day on the courts, I just blame it on the scarring sights I saw on my way.

First-World Problems and My Imaginary Hostage Situation

When's the last time you read a book that really stuck with you? My answer is easy. Last week I finished a little treasure called House in the Sky by Amanda Lindhout. Loosely, it's the true memoir of a world traveler who finds herself in the wrong country at the wrong time. While the story line is gripping and stomach churning, I found myself luxuriating in my insulated, routine, cushy life. It's extremely unlikely I'll ever find myself kidnapped and tortured for ransom in a war-torn country, but if it were to happen right here in my suburban utopia, there are a number of things that would get me to spill the beans and beg the US government to pay off my abductors.

In no particular order:

1. Make me watch Ghost...on a loop 
2. Force feed me blue, feta, goat or swiss
3. Have me help anyone over 5th grade with math
4. Take away my Keurig
5. Pick your toenails in my presence
6. Put me in a bikini
7. Insist I watch live TV, commercials and all
8. Discontinue keratin treatments
9. Leave me in a room with uncaged birds
10. Force me to pay attention while my kids recite their dreams 

Beware-y: Scary and Hairy

Who doesn't love Halloween? Well, me. I like it okay these days (don't tell my family), but about 20 years ago it was by far my favorite day of the year. I'd start thinking about my costume in August and pretty much obsess about it for the next 3 months. It's funny to think that Halloween started as a ritual to celebrate the harvest, but now has just become an excuse to dress like a complete idiot for a night. Please join me for an embarrassing walk down Mummery Lane (I can't believe I'm leaving that in).

It was 1990. My college friend, Amy, and I got invited to a party in Virginia -- one whole state away! I spent the day in the salon turning my hair temporarily red and getting it back-combed to high heaven. We drove an hour to meet up with 2 friends and 200 strangers. Incidentally, Amy went as Marge Simpson and we were swarmed by fans of the Fox network.

In 1992, Eddie and I were celebrating what would be the first of many memorable Halloweens. Our annual costume soiree located in the not-so swanky the Island Club Apartments party room would be the story of legends. At least to us. Prior to making this necklace, I'd only purchased those Styrofoam balls to represent Venus in an elementary school solar system wire hanger project.

Our favorite costume ideas would be ripped from the headlines or at least pop culture. Eddie as a slimy Long Island jackass pedophile mechanic and me as his underage murder-attempting girlfriend was just too much fun. His animal print sweatpants and my pink Suffolk County Jail jumpsuit still crack me up.

In the mid-90s, Pulp Fiction was the hottest movie around and I wasn't going to let this great costume opportunity pass me by. At least a dozen Fell's Point partiers asked to take a picture with me. And later in the night I couldn't have been more excited when I ran into strangers dressed as Vincent Vega and "the Gimp". It was the closest I've ever felt to being a celebrity. 

In 1997, we celebrated our first Halloween in our new digs -- San Francisco. We recruited friends and family to take a 3-hour tour, a 3-hour tour. Skipper's back fat was the talk of the town. I couldn't resist another go at being a redhead (and a movie star, no less) and dyed my head a coppery shade -- permanent this time. 

Flash forward a bunch of years, back in Maryland and pregnant with #3! I can't believe Eddie left the house dressed like this. I was so proud of him.

Taking this stroll down the haunted highway makes me realize I choose red heads 2 out of every 3 costumes. Next year: Carrot top? Ginger Spice? Prince Harry? Not a chance, because I also realize how much work a really excellent costume takes. But it sure was fun revisiting.