When You’re 64

When The Beatles sang “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I’m 64...” I’m sure they thought that this number – this ripe old age – seemed pretty elderly and far off. But, now that I realize that soon my own parents will turn 64 (and The Beatles – the surviving half anyway – have long since passed that golden number) I can’t help but think that their depiction of people in their mid-60s is now inaccurate for this day and age (mostly anyway … of course everyone ages at a different rate. And, as evidenced by the band members themselves, some don’t live to see 60 at all). Maybe it’s the fact that I see my parents on a regular basis and, so, their aging doesn’t seem so sudden to me. But, I see them as pretty active, spritely, vigorous soon-to-be-64-year-olds. And I truly hope that this will continue to be the case well past 74, 84 and onto 94 (I really don’t think one can maintain much vitality past 100 though … not yet anyway). There you go Mom, there’s your Mother’s Day gift from me – vigor and vim well into your 90s! If only it were so easy.

My 34-year-old fiancé on the other hand is neither spritely nor vigorous nor, at the present moment, mobile at all. Yes, ever since he threw out his back “painting” (the quotation marks are there to indicate that while, yes, we say it was the painting that caused the injury it was, in truth, the mere act of picking paint swatches up off the ground that was the motion that actually snapped it out of place) my Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) has been locked up (literally and metaphorically) in a rigid, prone position that offers him only a limited range of motion. When he stands (or attempts to stand) it’s a creaky, cracking robotic stumble and his gait is both herky and jerky, to put it mildly. He pops so many prescriptions each day that I’ve considered investing in one of those M-Tu-W-Th-Fr-Sa-Sun pill boxes you’re generally inclined to see sitting on Granny’s bathroom counter. And, worst of all, his housework duties (and he does the vast majority of everything around our house) have been nearly impossible for him to perform. Meaning that *gulp* I’ve had to pick up some of the slack (but only some, the rest will sit and rot until he’s well enough to tackle them himself). I’ve even been forced to prepare dinner for us a few times. So help us all!

In addition to being mobility challenged, the medication he’s on makes him loopy and tired. Trying to explain something to him after he’s taken one of his pills is like trying to reason with a toddler. For an entire week now he’s been about as lucid as that time I accidentally drugged him. Oh, I’m sure we’ve all been there before – your fiancé asks you to please get him some Tylenol for his headache and you bring him those plus a few extra, just for safe measure. You then proceed to take him wedding dress shopping, then out to lunch with your sister, and then to three different theme parks all in the same day, staying out well past midnight. And, yet, the entire day he can barely keep his eyes open … struggles to even stand … can hardly speak … and basically becomes a giant, senseless lead weight you carry around with you for 14 hours. And then when you get home he goes to take another Tylenol and realizes that, instead of what he asked for, you gave him a double dose of the drowsiness-inducing Tylenol PM. Well that explains the sleepiness (and, at least somewhat, the drool). In other words, when GAR is medicated he essentially has the capacities of a 64- or, as I said before, 94-ish-year-old man.

In any case, I’m hoping his back snaps (or gently positions itself) back into place soon. I miss my young-ish (despite the sophisticated tufts of gray hair) future husband. But, in the meantime, at least I’m learning how to care for him when he really is an old man. Because, of course, I will still need him (for whatever housework he can still perform anyway). And I will still feed him (though here’s to hoping my cooking has improved by then). And, most importantly, I will still feel good knowing that when he’s a crotchety, crinkly old man at 64…74…84…etc. I’ll always be more vibrant, more dynamic and, of course, a whole year behind him in the aging process myself.

Until then I just have to keep him off the drugs. See how sleepy they make him? I am pretty much holding him upright in this photo from our Tylenol PM theme park outing.

He slept like a baby after accidentally mixing alcohol with the heavy doses of sleeping agents he didn’t know were coursing through his bloodstream.

Topless Dining - More Than Meets The Eye

On all of those television cooking shows – “Top Chef,” “Hell’s Kitchen,” The “This Risotto Tastes Like Cardboard” Hour (why do these aspiring chefs fail so badly at making risotto? It’s just pasta. I burn toast approximately 98% of the time but even I can pull off a mean, albeit boxed, risotto) – you hear judges, taste testers, chefs, etc. mockingly insult contestants’ cooking skills by comparing their culinary creations to banquet food. So often you see chef Gordon Ramsay screaming, spittle flying all about (which seems rather unsanitary in a kitchen), calling someone on his show an “arse” and telling them that their peas are mush and their salmon tastes like wedding food.

Ah yes, at some point “wedding food” became synonymous with things that are bland, boring, poorly cooked and, frankly, an insult to one’s taste buds. In fact, our expectations of banquet-style food are so low that when we actually attend a wedding where the food is decent – adequately seasoned and not over/underdone – we are pleasantly surprised (“Wow, this steak is actually edible and, for once, doesn’t resemble a brick!” is a phrase that is sometimes thrown around at more upscale events). It’s understandable why this happens though. I mean, imagine trying to cook a 4-course meal for 150 people. How good can it be? If you think about it, banquet facilities are really just prettier versions of your school cafeteria. They need to serve a large number of people in short order. And they’re not just doling out greasy pizza and little cartons of milk here – they’re expected to perform feats of delicious extravagance. While a regular restaurant would never seat 15 parties of 10 all at once for fear of overloading the kitchen, that is exactly what happens at a wedding.

Since my Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) and I are somewhat decent foodies (which I have decided is just another term for people who enjoy eating food that actually tastes good – novel idea, I know) we really wanted to offer our wedding guests something to eat that, if not totally fantastic, would at least knock their socks off in an “Okay, that was better than I thought it would be … for wedding food anyway” sort of way. And so, when looking for reception venues, we sought out places that are primarily restaurants that just happen to offer banquet facilities on the side (as opposed to venues that are designed explicitly for hosting catered functions, which generally have more homogenized menus). And naturally we chose to look only at restaurants that we think offer really good food. I was also leery of dining concepts that are “trendy.” Right now the big craze for weddings is customized chef-manned food stations and we were pitched this idea at most of the venues we visited. While I love the idea of everyone having food that’s created just for them, just the way they like it – made-to-order omelet and crepe stations, assorted combinations of mashed potato creations served in a martini glass, you-pick-it pasta selections – I thought that, realistically, doing things in this manner would take too long. I was picturing 100 people queued up for half the reception while they waited for the chef to torch the top of their individual-sized crème brûlée. Sure it’s cool, but is it practical to have to balance half a dozen tiny plates of food back to your table?

In the end we selected a venue with fantastic food, Ceviche. The menu at Ceviche offers more than 100 dishes to choose from (a daunting enough task when you’re in the dimly lit dining room straining to read about each one in Spanish, but even more daunting to sort through when you’re trying to pair together an assortment of dishes to serve at your wedding) served tapas style (if you’re not familiar with “tapas” it’s basically just the Spanish term for appetizers, and when I say it aloud everyone seems to think I'm saying "topless." Generally you order a bunch of different tapas for the whole table to share and sample … and as you sip on sangria you order even more … and then when the bill comes you wonder why you spent your whole paycheck on olives and exotic cheese). Acknowledging that Spanish cuisine is not everyone’s cup of tea I poured through their menu and selected a great combination of items with a good flavor, but which would still please pickier palates. So while items like oxtail and chicken livers may be delicious (I said “may,” I actually have no idea how they taste), they got the axe. As did the items that GAR and I would normally choose for ourselves – squid, shellfish, tofu, anything smothered in a spicy “diablo” sauce, and even the namesake dish of ceviche itself. And when you break it down to the items people are most likely to eat – salad, chicken, fish, potatoes (and, yes, some of those exotic cheeses I mentioned previously) – it does start to look like any other wedding menu. And, heck, we even ordered one of those trendy chef-attended stations, though ours is serving up paella.

That said, we did our menu tasting this week and wow! It sure doesn’t taste like bland wedding food. We sampled so much (for our guests’ benefit, of course) that we practically had to be wheeled out of there due to overstuffing. GAR didn’t even get to enact his plan to try all of the most expensive, crazy items on the menu for free. There just wasn’t any room left for that. In the end we think the menu choices we made will knock it out of the park. Although, once everything is made in mass and placed on a buffet I can’t help but worry that it will still feel a little like dining at Golden Corral. But, hey, at least it will be an exotic Golden Corral … I mean, “El Corral Dorado!”

In the end, what do we care? After all, everyone says you’re too busy to eat on your wedding day anyway. Although, if it’s up to us (and frankly I think it should be), we’ll try to break that silly fasting tradition by continuously shoving patatas bravas and croquetas in our mouths while we do the electric slide (except, of course, there’s no way we’re doing anything resembling the electric slide at our wedding) because, hey, we picked this menu and we’re going to enjoy it.

Bon appetit! (Okay, I don’t know how to say that in Spanish.)

Love Is In the Air … And I’m Furiously Squashing It

My Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) wanted to get out of painting the exterior of our house so badly he “conveniently” threw out his back to avoid it. After spending all weekend lugging around 5-gallon cans of paint, rolling large sections of stucco, contorting and twisting around obstacles in our path, toppling over bushes, reaching up high (and bending down low) to access trim and, above all, sweating it out in the hot sun for hours on end, he somehow managed to twist or pop or pull or strain (or possibly all of the above) his back. And this is bad news for me because, frankly, there’s still a lot to do. About 75% actually. Because, even though 2 full days of work seems like a lot, it’s still a really big house. And in a nation where everyone wants to go big or go home – big SUVs, big paydays and Big Macs – this is one instance where having a house big enough to leave us with at least 3 superfluous rooms we almost never use is a bad thing … because, use it or not, that extra square footage still needs to be painted … inside and out.

The timing of GAR’s medical mishap is all too coincidental though considering that we had just embarked upon this project and, more importantly, he had promised me that he would work on painting it this week while he is between semesters and has lots of extra time … extra time that can now only be put to use sitting on the couch watching “Maury” and “Cheaters” (yes, these are his two favorite daytime television programs and he often calls me at work to tell me about paternity test results and confrontations gone awry). Nonetheless, he has some medically prescribed painkillers, along with a doctor’s note instructing him not to perform any manual labor for 2 weeks, to get him off the hook. Look at him – just lying there propped in awkward positions with stiff pillows as he yelps in pain every time a slight breeze hits him. What a lucky dog!

I know I sound insensitive, but you don’t understand what I’m facing out there alone. Not only is the heat brutal (as always I procrastinated long enough on this project to let the weather get to an unbearable point before I actually set out to make myself miserable doing it), but GAR spent most of this past weekend warning me about snakes he saw in our bushes (and he just happened to mention this fact to me while I was standing waist-deep in said bushes). Still, that’s not the part I hate the most.

You know that scene from “The Birds” where the birds descend upon Tippi Hedren, squawking and pecking relentless as she tries in vain to swat them away? Well that is exactly what it’s like when I step out my front door.

Except it’s not birds who are attacking me – it’s lovebugs. Thousands of them coming at me from all directions. They’re relentless, swarming and buzzing and, worst of all, no matter how much I attempt to push them away they just keep on coming at me. For those of you who have never lived in the Gulf Coast area, let me explain – lovebugs are small pests with a singular purpose: mating. You rarely, if ever, see a single lovebug in flight. No, they fly in pairs – attached and constantly copulating – so that they can produce more of their kind who will, naturally, do nothing but make sweet, sweet love to another lovebug their whole life long. Fortunately lovebug season lasts just a few weeks (though there can be 2-3 “seasons” of this per year including, if the past is any indicator, the week of our wedding), but during those weeks they make a serious impact on outdoor living in Orlando. They don’t cause harm, but they pester you non-stop, destroy the visibility on your windshield, spoil more than a few picnics and (granted I’m just assuming on this one) lead parents to have some difficult “the birds and the bees” (or “the bugs and the bugs”) conversations with their children. And they can’t be shooed away for anything (something more pressing like, I don’t know, continuous acts of ecstasy, seems to distract them from caring about us mere humans). They’ll land in droves on your car and no amount of smacking them with your handbag will force them to fly away (don’t I know it!)

And now, with GAR incapacitated, I have to face these beasts – and the snakes and the heat – all alone. But, so help me, if they keep getting in my way I will squish them. I’ll roll paint right over them if I have to. But don’t think me cruel for causing a crushed ending for these perpetual sweethearts because I do it out of love – love for my fiancé and my desire to keep his back safe so he can heal in comfort … which should be accomplished just in time for lovebug season to be over. How nice for him.

Without A Trace of Grout in My Mind

Tonight I kicked butt at the gym. Or I kinda worked up a sweat. But, either way, I know it’s not enough because I still need to lose 10 pounds by this weekend. Of course I realize this might seem like a slightly unreasonable accomplishment but, you see, I have to find a way to squeeze back into my bikini right away because ...

My pool is officially done!!

Or, it will be done after we do a little last minute touch-up work and whatnot. But the hard part – the re-tiling, the re-surfacing, the re-filling with a garden hose for what seemed like days on end (we’re dreading that water bill) – is over. And, really, the whole thing is already green lit for splishing and splashing immediately. Except I’m not ready. I planned on being much more svelte and significantly less curvy (oh yes, people say they like curvy women but if I’m to believe the images shown in mass media I would be swayed to think otherwise. Perhaps I should try whatever diet turned Kate Middleton’s waif-like figure into pure skin and bones in time for her wedding) by the time this day came. And, as we humans are prone to do, I really fell off the eating healthy wagon … and then continued to stay down on the ground munching on chocolate and scraps of fried goodness for far too long.

And all of this comes after I bought myself so much extra time to get fit too. I mean, I dragged out the tile selection process as long as humanly possible, hemming and hawing … comparing the tile samples I liked to the pool surface color choices … going back and forth mixing and matching colors to achieve the perfect combo … asking for expert (and not at all expert) opinions on what they would do … holding off on getting the work done and claiming I needed to think about whether we should even do it … I mean, the indecision I subjected myself (and GAR … and the pool company …) to was extensive. Surely I could have used that time to also work out and eat some leafy greens, right? And then of course there was Grout-mageddon 2011.

Okay, perhaps I exaggerate a bit, but when I awoke one morning to find the pool guy putting white grout – WHITE – in between my brownish tan and goldish glass tile combo that I had spent weeks fretting over I had a little panicky moment where I knew (and complained to GAR) that it just did not look right. Of course it was my fault … I hadn’t thought to specify a grout color up front. But, being the color combo perfectionist that I am, I knew it had to be undone … but I also had to get to work. And so I left GAR in charge of telling the workers to please cease and desist … oh, and could they kindly remove the white grout, undo all their work and start again with a color of our choosing (which had yet to be chosen). I then had to hurriedly make the final grout color selection via text message images, all the while worrying that the colors I saw on my iPhone were not the same as how it would appear in the water. I was further panicked when told by someone that the original pool surface color we picked would cause the water in the pool to appear greenish, which sent us into a “we’ve changed our mind” tizzy as well.

But, in the end, it all turned out beautifully. Totally sexy and lagoon-y in appearance. There is not a grout – errr, I mean, doubt – in my mind that we made the perfect choices. And, see, I really did so much to buy myself extra time. I don’t know what else I could have done … except, of course, used all that additional indecisive time to actually work out and eat right so that I could enjoy this perfect pool once this day came. Instead I have only enjoyed swimming in it thus far while fully clad – a tradition GAR and I started when we first moved into our home last year and cannonballed, clothing and all, into our pool to celebrate. So, yes, we repeated this tradition again now … to break in the new pool in the same manner. But, let’s face it, next time I’m going to have no excuse not to put on slightly slinkier bathing materials. And now that we finally got around to painting the house I’m going to want to use it as much as possible to cool down. Unless I can find more ways to let my indecision slow things down. Hey, now that I mention it I really should do some swimsuit shopping first … and maybe I don’t really like the color we picked for the house – I should rethink that as well … and this weekend is pretty busy anyway with Mother’s Day and graduation and … and …
But it does look so inviting!

You can really see how our tile and grout decisions paid off in the hot tub.

Pimp Club

If you read GAR’s last post about carefully choosing music for our wedding day then you know that these selections are something we’ve given a lot of thought to. However, I would like to – if I may – call him out on his claims that the actual lyrics to these songs were also highly scrutinized. In fact, I don’t think he listened to the actual lyrics at all … not that he knows the correct lyrics to songs anyway. You see, one of GAR’s favorite hobbies is to serenade me. Very sweet, but also very humorous given that fact that he – much like Weird Al – changes the lyrics to the songs he sings, giving them a humorous (albeit made up on the spot) spin. But, ask him to sing that same song with the correct lyrics and he’ll only get about every 4th word correct.

Case in point – Are you familiar with the Gorillaz and their song “Feel Good, Inc.”? The song repeats the words “feel good” repeatedly (hence the appropriate title). But, when GAR sings it “correctly” he instead sings the lyrics as “Pimp Club.” And this is just one of many, many examples. Don’t even get me started on the “relax yourself with piece of clam” lyric debacle …

I find it endearing. And, besides, I much prefer his parody versions anyway (the themes of which almost always revolve around the dogs). But, when selecting songs to include on the CD we plan to give out as a favor for the wedding it did lead to some frustrating conversations.

GAR: I want to include that song “Sex Type Thing” by STP on the album.
Me: Are you serious? No.
GAR: Why? Because the name of it is too sexual?
Me: No, because of the lyrics.
(GAR BEGINS PLAYING SONG) I said I wanna get close to you. I said wanna get next to you …
GAR: See? Nice.
Me: Keep listening.
(SONG CONTINUES) You wouldn’t want me to have to hurt you too. HURT YOU TOO …
Me: It turned a little dark there, didn’t it?
GAR: Yeah, but I really like the music.

So, see, I’m calling B.S. on his whole “make sure you pay attention to the lyrics” theory. When it comes to what we like, lyrics don’t matter. And, actually, I am totally fine with that. Besides, picking songs for our wedding favors even convinced us to change our first dance song to one which we had originally discarded because the lyrics are not very obviously romantic. So, lyrically off putting or not, we picked it. And we’re both very happy with that choice.

And now our only debate is what the cover art for our CD should look like. GAR (who clearly has far too much free time on his hands) took the liberty of mocking up some samples for me. The first one is from our "early years."

I'm certainly intrigued, how couldn't you be?

This one is a little bit country... 

And this one is very Rock n' Roll. 

Because riding a ... ummm ... smiling bear? makes for a fierce album cover.

GAR is channeling Don Draper. Does that make me the paranoid jackalope?

This one is for my mom. All good rock stars honor their mamas. Unfortunately, GAR misunderstood - my mom does not like Banana Cream Pie.

This is where our "band" started getting a little more edgy in our art. 

Then, of course, GAR turned into a diva and decided to go solo. Apparently he's part of a very lonely posse.

Naturally I needed a solo effort of my own. I went classy with this one.

Thankfully we settled our creative differences and got back together in the end.

Upon seeing all these (wonderful?) choices it might (MIGHT) be hard to decided what creative direction we should go in with this CD. However, it did make me question why it was I opted against getting engagement photos stating that "We already have hundreds of photos of us together! I don't want cheesy posed shots, I want real shots." After seeing these I now know that, if these are our "real" shots, perhaps I should have thought more about someone professional trying his/her hand at this instead.

One thing is for certain - this process is not yet over. And, yes, while our CD does contain some songs with not-so-child-friendly lyrics (approved by the "lyrically picky" GAR), I'm still making an effort to listen to the words a little closer ... for everyone's sake.

It’s not a Beautiful Day … Seriously it really isn’t

Let me explain. (Oh, it’s GAR here … hello, aloha and salutations.) Now, our wedding day will always be a beautiful day to us, and I think it’s because our words, experiences and descriptors will accompany every recounted memory. For this big day we (and many other brides and grooms) also get assistance with our words – thorough the use of song. Yes, music really does make the world go ‘round and all that crap. But, seriously, music is a big deal to us. With Rock n’ Roll as our wedding theme and concerts as our favorite activity, my beautiful Hard Hat Bride and I have spent a significant amount of time thinking about this. We want our playlist to be lively, fun and meaningful to our life together. For some of the more important songs for our big day, we were very selective.

“You're out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you're not moving anywhere"

Lovely, right? Well, many betrothed actually think so and my bride-to-be and I have heard these lyrics at many weddings in life, on TV and the silver screen as newlyweds walk back down the aisle together and into reception halls. These lyrics show up in the first verse of the overly used wedding song “Beautiful Day” by U2. And it’s not just the lyrics, a quick Goggle search on this song’s meaning will bring up many different origins – and not many connected to a beautiful wedding day. But who could blame anyone? It’s a wonderful title, has a great crescendo of energy during the chorus and it is indeed a beautiful day for any bride and groom. I mean listen to the chorus:

“It's a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away”

Well, it does have the word beautiful in it. Anyone else feel rushed to hold onto something before it “get’s away?” Now I’m not saying that it is the equivalent to playing “Taps” on your big day, but life has certain songs on its soundtrack for a reason. If you’ve ever intentionally listened to a particular song while running, getting over a break-up, etc. you know what I’m talking about. Here’s an experiment for you: listen to your iPod or portable boom box the next time you are walking through the airport, mall or favorite theme park. Play a random song and see if it tells a story when you are people watching or when you are in self-reflection as you people watch. It’s a pretty cool trick.

I should say that my bride-to-be and I are not the end-all be-all of selecting fine music, but we do know what we like. We are mindful about certain song meanings when reviewing it for our special day. The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” sounds lovely, well if you’re into stalking. Celine Dion’s “My heart will go on” and that guy from Derek and the Dominos’ “Tears in Heaven” – Gorgeous … Reminders of death that is (trust me, Celine won’t get a note at our wedding regardless – we care too much about our friends and family to do that to them). That Dollywood mogul’s “I will always love you” and that song that Cake covered “I will survive” are beautiful and fun … if you love break-ups. And what about “White Wedding” (which is about Idol’s distaste of his sister’s fiancé) and “Afternoon Delight?” Well … actually … we kind of like those songs, so they might just get played. And who would turn their nose at a little post morning fun? It’s not like we’re celebrating afternoon homicide. On another note, I don’t even have a sister. My bride does, but her husband is badass. So maybe I’m misguided about all this. Let’s give that U2 song another chance:

“You're on the road
But you've got no destination
You're in the mud
In the maze of her imagination”

OK, so I’m striking out here. But at least Bono isn’t singing about tuna fleets clearing the sea out, fires, oil fields and floods – that doesn’t feel very wedding-ish to me. I mean who would put that in … huh? … wait … he did what? Nevermind. I guess the point I would like to share (U2 aside) is that there are many things that will help you remember your wedding. It’s a wonderful time and if music isn’t important to you, then it’s not. But at least give it some thought as it is your day’s soundtrack. My Hard Hat Bride and I love “stage diving” into our planning - especially this part. Hopefully we will stay away from the warning I just provided, but with so many songs and so many complicated artists, we can only hope for the best.

After all, remember “It’s a beautiful day, Don't let it get away, It's a beautiful day.”

A Literal Meltdown

Remember how I complained about snow in my last post? Forget about that, I’m now fully immersed in the Florida summer and quickly turning into a melted puddle Wicked Witch of the West (or was it East?) style. To put it simply – I’m melting!! Melting!!

Now don’t get me wrong, I am actually quite fond of being warm. I will suffer through months of schvitzing in 100% humidity and consider it a vastly superior choice to spending any time at all in sub-70-degree temperatures. That’s how much I dislike being even slightly chilly. However, with Orlando’s hottest months still on the horizon I can’t help but feel a little silly saying that this week I’m more overheated than I really should be at this point in April. There are numerous factors that have led to me feeling this way (not the least of which is that I spent a good portion of the day today out in the blazing sun and came home looking redder than most any crustacean I’ve ever seen), but even as I rub soothing aloe on my crispy fried skin I know that there is one major area of my life that needs to take the blame for my sunstroke – my bathroom.

You might recall the many problems I outlined with my master bathroom, ranging from the useless bathing situation to the in-floor rock garden to the toilet/shower combo and, heck, just last week I even defeated an entire army of flying ants. But beyond all these complications, there is really one problem with my bathroom that overshadows all these (small in comparison) conundrums, and that would be the windows. I know what you’re thinking – don’t you want natural sunlight in your bathroom? And the answer is “yes.” However, in our master bath there is sunlight to spare. Several giant windows consume one section of the bathroom, flooding in light from floor to ceiling and, well, it can get bright. Like so bright that you can’t look directly at the mirror without fear of your retinas burning right out of your skull. And, even worse, all that sunlight makes it hot. No, not merely hot. It’s sitting inside a greenhouse on the surface of the sun hot. Add to that my normal beauty routine – blow dryers and scorching hair straighteners – and soon my face is dripping off into the sink like a wilted clock in a Dali painting.

During the winter I almost forget how bad it gets. The tile floor is cool on my feet and the sun coming in, while still toasty, is a welcome reminder of why I love living in Florida during the arctic months. But after I spring forward on my clocks it seems that the sun in now in just the perfect position to torment me through the windows as I prepare for work. Getting my makeup to stick onto my melting flesh becomes difficult and I need to take numerous breaks while doing my hair (and by “breaks” I mean that I run to the kitchen and shove my head in the freezer … right into the ice bucket whenever possible). Oh sure, I’m guessing the fact that I then put on heavy layers of work appropriate clothing (and by “work appropriate” I really mean “igloo-appropriate” because, if there’s one place I’m not the slightest bit warm, it’s my frigid office), climb into a car with no air conditioning and continue the sweating spree all the way to and from work, doesn’t help the matter. Plus, since we’re in the middle of refinishing the pool I can’t even cool down when I get home again. Oh, and then I like to throw in a nice steamy session in the gym just for added effect.

But no more. Today was officially my last day using the master bathroom (maybe I’ll keep my toothbrush there, but I’m hesitant to even commit to that at this point). I was already showering elsewhere, I guess I’ll just use that bathroom for all my beauty needs now as well. However, if you’re thinking this is an easy decision, think again. I’ve nicknamed our other bathroom “the cave,” and I assure you that the name fits. It’s dark, musty, poorly lit, ensconced in 80s linoleum and contains a few layers of grime I can’t seem to remove without just demolishing the whole place (which I plan to do but, as you might have noticed, I’ve got a few other priorities competing for my attention right now). Plus, if you’re not careful, the soap scum will pile up so thick that GAR has been known to write love messages to me in it (instead of cleaning it, of course, and then I feel bad scrubbing away his disgusting, and yet oddly romantic, sentiments). Nonetheless, applying mascara in a cave has got to be better than watching it drip down my cheeks in an oven … just try not to laugh if the poor lighting in my “new” bathroom means I show up to work having crimped my hair instead of straightened it, or if the eye shadow is piled on so thick I look like Mimi from the “Drew Carey Show.” I am merely a victim of our planet’s orbital path.

Here is my beautiful "cave" where I'll make myself look gorgeous every morning. I feel cooler already.