The Virginia Housewife

i am a pear

2006-06-01T10:09:00.000-07:00

Pregnancy is not comfortable. It's like being stuffed with 5 million cheeseburgers, blindfolded and then sent on a scavenger hunt in a foreign city.

Today I'm a pear - my old self in most ways except the belly, which seems to have grown 10 inches outward overnight. There's just nothing normal about looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing a piece of fruit.

What did I used to look like? There's a bikini in my top dresser drawer that offers a hint, but today i'm pretty sure it isn't even mine. Someone very evil planted it there to make me miserable.

It's not that I'm not grateful. I am. Our baby flits around like a little bat trapped in a box and it makes me happy, even when he pumbles my ribs. I hear his heartbeat and I tear up. I dream of the day I can hold him, even if he's a screaming monster.

But 7 more weeks? Seven more Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays of waking up to a new and more uncomfortable me? I can hardly believe I wished myself this way.

I'll do it. I'll do it for you little guy cause I haven't even seen your face and yet I adore you. But the day I wake up and see a watermelon, we're going to have a long talk.

yo, miss suzie, i got a question

2006-05-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

someone tell me what the purpose of an 18 hour bra is. please.

they've been lurking in my subconscious all my life. in childhood, they raised curiosity (um, fear) in the jumprope song "miss suzie." come on, you remember.

.... i know i know my ma, i know i know my pa, i know i know my sister in the 18 hour, 18 hour, 18 hour bra bra bra.

not yet in a bra, i figured it was something i'd learn about later. much later. maybe never. secretely i hoped never.

but they're back and this time advertised on tv. these days the 18-hour bra sports a makeover. with pointy sateen cups made of comfort-fit styrafoam rather than paper mache and now - oh our dreams have finally come true -- the 10 ironclad fasteners that used to be in the back are now in the front!

it's a straight jacket just for your breasts. and you're supposed to wear it for 18 hours.

lets assume it's totally normal for anything to be worn for 18 hours straight. that leaves 6 full hours away from the boob girdle. i'm guessing that's when you're supposed to sleep. oh sure some women are crazy and snooze a bit longer. but why do that when you know there's a polyester chest harness anxious to strangle you?

put that bad boy on the moment you rise and don't look back.

always hated the way your breasts flop around in the shower all naked and exposed, hogging the water and demanding more soap? no longer a problem with the 18-hour bra!

find the feeling of a soft towel against clean, bare skin terrifying and uncomfortable? calm your fears with the 18-hour bra!

at least the circle goes unbroken. the commerical i saw came on during american idol, a show young girls seem to love. i've got news for you paula abdul -- america's female youth isn't drifting off to sleep dreaming of being katharine mcphee and someday singing "somewhere over the rainbow" like an angel on national tv.

no friends. they're lying awake in a cold sweat praying away the large boobs they once wished for and hoping to god they never have to know what an 18-hour bra is or why it exists.

trust me.

Leftovers, part dos

2005-11-01T11:24:00.000-08:00

I have an unhealthy obsession with some things. Handbags, for example.

I do not have an unhealthy obsession with candy. These people, however, do. I really like this guy's gummi dissection. I wonder if there was anything left for his kid.

Oh and also, Mentos, the Messmaker. I'm going to try this at home and I think you should too.

Now this is a clever idea. Not clever enough obviously, but clever.

If you needed a little post Halloween fright to unsettle your skittles, cue up Prez B cause apparently he thinks we're all going to catch bird flu and die.

From AOL news:

Bush said no one knows when or where a deadly strain of flu will strike but "at some point we are likely to face another pandemic."

So, ok. I just. Ok. Um.

I just want to make sure I have my list of things to be afraid of/things Bush is spending gobs of money to "protect me from."

(1) Terror. Worldwide, at home, in the U.S. Except Saddam. He's eating doritoes in the slammer, and we can all feel good about that.
2) Natural disasters everywhere (NDE's). But keep traveling and driving around, cause it's keeping the boysin Texas happy
(3) Disease. All kinds. No exceptions, but mostly the flu because I have a little deal (get it?) with pharmaceutical companies
(4) Drugs. From heroin in Afghanistan to candy bars made of hash. See before-mentioned pharmacy deal.

Pop quiz: What's the difference between a pandemic and an epidemic? Do you know?

No, of course not. And neither does Prezzy.

All he knows is that it sounds SCARY and that anything that is scary is (a) easy to get money for and (b) fun to talk about cause it gets people all rowled up and forgetting about other fuck ups.

It's like this. When I was a kid, any time I'd want to do something illegal, I'd create a "problem" for my brother. The parents would be so caught up in dealing with his "problem" that I could pretty much hang the hag next door from a tree out front and no one would notice.

That is all.

left over city, sweetheart

2005-10-31T17:22:00.000-08:00

i have left over halloween candy. i had approximately one trick or treater. he was dressed in his pjs and lives upstairs. i think his parents sent him down because they knew i have candy and felt bad that no one had come to my door.

i just counted. i have 20 kit kats, 27 recees cups,17 almond joy bars and 8 hershey bars.

i'm thinking of melting the hershey bars and making a sculpture, and i just ate one kit kat.

that leaves 63 pieces of candy that i need to do something with.

KITTY KAT QUICHE
1 c. chopped up kit kat
2. c. cubed almond joy
1 1/2 c. bourbon
4 oz. celery
27 recees cups
2 sticks of butter
1 bag of sugar

melt chocolate goodies. add butter and sugar. whip into batter. take a shot of the bourbon. smooth chocolate mixture into pan. sprinkle with celery. freeze until next year.

that's all i got.

time is just a magazine

2005-10-31T16:38:00.000-08:00

ok, a short recap. in the time since i last blogged...

(1) it has been cool, then hot, then cool again
(2) i have highlighted my hair twice
(3) a supreme court justice has died and another has resigned
(4) four supreme court justices have been nominated (count roberts twice)
(5) i have acquired three pairs of designer jeans for free
(6) two white house staffers have been indicted
(7) i have changed the oil in my car approximately once
(8) new orleans got wiped off the map
(9) hunter s. thompson was shot from a cannon
(10) tom cruise went insane

i don't have much to say except that i miss it here.

did you read about the woman who hung herself in her front yard, but no one took her down because they thought she was a halloween decoration? seriously. isn't that sad?

2005-05-04T14:32:00.000-07:00

Ah, Gwennyth. You're just what we needed after that nasty burger.

Some amazing and lanky and wonderful in so many ways. And older than me, which makes me hopeful.

toodles.

kittyb

Meet the 15 Pounder

2005-05-03T13:32:00.000-07:00

Ta-da.

2005-05-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

Wow. I'm so grossed out right now.

No Housewife in Housewife

2005-05-03T08:25:00.000-07:00

So I'm back, but there was very little housewife in yesterday's housewife, so today I introduce you to the 15-pound burger and all of the reasons why it's wrong.

From USA Today today:

Dubbed the Beer Barrel Belly Buster, the burger comes with 10.5 pounds of ground beef, 25 slices of cheese, a head of lettuce, three tomatoes, two onions, a cup-and-a-half each of mayonnaise, relish, ketchup, mustard and banana peppers — and a bun. It Costs $30.

Honestly, why bother with the bun? It's so high in carbs and white bread is so not good for you.

Also, 4.5 pounds of condiments could feed a tribe in Africa for 7 years.

This burger comes from a place called Denny's in Pa., and is the new version of what was a 6 pound burger with 5 pounds of toppings. I'm guessing, but I think Denny's was probably offering a free meal and t-shirts left and right to the lard ass who could eat the entire thing in a 3-hour sitting and laughing their butts off at the morons who paid $23 for the thing, but had heart failure trying. Things were going along swimmingly.

Then two very bad things happened.

A 100-pound college student somewhere in the midwest ate an entire one in three hours, and soon after a diner across the way introduced a 12.5 pounder called Zeus.

All hell broke loose, and the 15-pounder was born.

So let's presume, for a second, that Denny's means for a family four to order the burger to share. Does it come out on one plate and everyone dives in like with nachos? Do the condiments come on it? Does it get sliced like a pizza? Does it come with a fork or a spoon? Or both? Does the $30 include fries (or substitute a side salad), or is that extra? Won't I also need, like... a gallon of Coke?

And, again, just for a second, let's think of all the things that weigh 15 pounds.

Newborn twins.
A very healthy Pug dog.
A Pug dog and one newborn twin.
A Mini Lacrosse Folding Goal made of galvanized steel tubing.
The average steering wheel.

Denny's manager to waitstaff: "Now look folks. We got to get people in this door, and I really believe a 10.5 pound hamburger and 4.5 pounds of toppings will do the trick. We debated the 10 pound burger and 5 pounds of toppings, or the 11 pound burger with 4 pounds of toppings, but, well frankly, 11 seemed too much and 10 seemed to little."

Right now, as I type this, Denny's Owner Vern McMahhammon is crunching the numbers on the Beer Barrell Belly Buster. $30 times 1,000,000 sold, minus $5,000,000 in law suits and $7,000,000 in condiments is ...

Dang. Not even near enough profit to make it right.

It's a slow work day

2005-05-02T12:38:00.000-07:00

What?

What is up with the freaky hand placement? I mean honestly, who does that? Why is his hand on his sternum? Or is that his liver? Does he have a tumor? I don't even know what part of the body is there and why it might even be important enough to put one hand there, much less two.

"Sweetheart, put your hand right here. Feel that? Do you? That's... heartburn."

Wait, I know. Tom's pregnant!

What Hollywood couple goes to such lengths to be photographed in public? Name one. While you rack your brain, I'm moving on to...

His smile -- I was laughing like that this weekend, only it was because I was telling the funniest joke in the world and just couldn't get through it. Tom knows what that's like, cause his 'girlfriend' and the photos and the press -- well, it's the most hilarious joke ever.

He must have to grin like that. He must have to to keep from crying himself into a pool of tears. (he is gay, afterall.)

Arguh.

2005-05-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

Ok. So.

Sorry.

It's been a while. But I'm back and with photos, so let's forget the catching up and get right to it.

What in the world is going on here?

People, look. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are not dating. They aren't a couple. I doubt they're even friends.

That's because -- yoohoo -- Tom Cruise is gay. And this... well, this is a quintessential Hollywood deal. He's gay and hiding it and she's in desperate need of a career spike before she becomes a has been.

Frankly, I commend Katie's PR people. They've done their homework. Tom's quite gifted in rising women to stardom. Think back. What was Nicole Kidman before Days of Thunder, for which Tom picked her? And Penelope Cruz before "Vanilla Sky?" Well, let's say this: They were huge in Australia/Spain.

Tom's folks are no dummies, either. Get a young gal, a really young gal. The youngest legal gal possible. It'll make a better, jucier story.

And so while we're talking about it, let's just be honest.

(1) No, there's nothing wrong with being gay. Gay is great.

(2) No, most certainly no, Tom Cruise will never just come out of the closet because no one's going to believe that a gay guy can save the world and there is absolutely no audience for a gay dude version of "Ellen." Would you cast Jack McFarlin as a fast-livin' hard lovin' race car driver/fighter pilot/bar tender? Yeah, me either.

In case you're blind, these are the clues:

1. Only a gay man would hold a woman's arm AND hand like that when getting out of a car. It's either one or the other or neither for straight men. But never both.

2. She's snickering like she can barely hold back how freakin' funny it is that she's in on Tom's joke on the entire world.

3. Look at Katie before. Dark. Mysterious. She's a bit less inhibited now and quite a bit more whymiscal. He's obviously giving her fashion advice, as any good gay-guy friend would. In fact, I bet she negotiated that as part of her deal for being seen with him. (It's true, he would have been wise to suggest an actual color for that dress, but there was a reason for that, too. See #4)

4. Now focus. A pictures worth a thousand words. He's wearing black, she's wearing a very light color... he fades into the blackground, she stands out against him. And that grip... he's leading her, almost falling behind her. This is not about Tom and Katie. This photo's all about her making an entrance that takes her beyond 'that girl on Dawson's Creek.' He's holding up his end of the bargain to get her noticed, and is doing a damn fine job. But then again, he's had years of practice.

5. Also, what's with his smile? It's totally scaring me.

I wouldn't have spent so much time on this, except it's important for you all to embrace the truth. Take it and free yourself from the lies.

Namaste

Happy Noon Year!

2005-01-05T13:15:00.000-08:00

Two thousand and five is the year I turn 30. I hadn't really thought about it until New Year's Day, when I woke up at 8 a.m. after 11 hours of undisturbed, sober sleep.

My last memory of 2004 is hearing Devo's "Whip it" on the television and thinking it certainly should rank higher than 35 on VH1's list of one-hit wonders.

Happy New Year! I shouted upon waking to my husband, who was already up. He's 35.

"I'd rather welcome 2005 alert than send 2004 out the way I might have 10 years ago," he said when I mentioned that I felt a little ... lame.

35 and wise. We agreed that a party we read about over coffee, where people too feeble to stay up until midnight instead popped balloons and threw streamers at 12 p.m. on New Year's Eve, may have been the party for us. Happy Noon Year!

Our New Year's party was the day before, anyway.

The Ralph Lauren shindig was a smash and I now know that apres-ski is Apsen for "you figure it out." Not one single person looked like the other, and everyone seemed to interpret Apres-ski in their own special way. The attire was wonderful and tragic, glamourous and budget, and we were right there in the midst of it all. Ralph Lauren has a better sense of humor than I ever thought possible.

Still looking for inspired ideas the afternoon of the party, we picked up a copy of Aspen magazine. Inside, there was a real estate ad that pictured a British looking dude standing in a field. He was dressed in knickers, a tartan hat, a tuxedo shirt, a sweater vest, a bow tie, knee socks, saddle shoes and was holding something that looked like a tap dancing cane. Underneath the copy read: "Loyal. Trustworthy. We sell Aspen's most distinguished homes."

Later that night, we had the privledge of meeting Knicker Man in the flesh.

I think I saw him first, standing alone with a glass of white wine. It was all I could do not to shout, "It's Knicker Man!"

We all snickered and giggled and tried not to make eye contact. My husband, possibly the bravest man I know, approached him.

"Only a gentleman could pull off such a get-up," he said. If Knicker Man was the fightin' kind, I'm sure he would have socked him.

To recover, my husband turned the corner. "You sell real estate right? I saw you in a magazine."

Knicker man scowled and said nothing. "How could a man wearing knickers take himself so seriously," I saw my husband wonder.

After several uncomfortable seconds, my husband stuck out his hand and formally introduced himself. Knicker Man responded (finally) and introduced himself not as a real estate agent from a magazine ad, but as "the gentleman who owns this building." That would be the Ralph Lauren building. The building we were in. Quite possible the most expensive piece of real estate in all of Colorado.

"I deal in tribal rugs," he said. Talk about a conversation ender.

Aspen is absurd.

And not it's a memory, too. But I can't leave it without imparting a little V. Housewife judgement. Here's my top five list of things not to do if hosting a benefit:

(1) If you're only going to offer drinks on party platers and no bar, don't offer ice drinks. Ice melts, the drink becomes watered down, and thus tastes like poo, no matter how la te da the vodka. What's worse, party-goers opt for champagne and get shit faced very quickly.

(2) Don't say the word "fabulous" more than twice during a 10-minute conversation. I spoke to one hostess for five minutes who said "Fabulous" 15 times, sometimes twice in one breath. Yes, I counted. If used at all, limit "fabulous" to your greeting and your farewell and tie it into a compliment towards the person with whom you're speaking. Note: "Hello, darling, don't you look fabulous," "So long Mrs. Lovely, you made our party fabulous." Avoid: "My pants are fabulous because Ralph Lauren, who is fabulous, made them from fabulous material, had them fabulously sewn and now they're sold in this fabulous store for a fabulously outrageus price. Fab!"

(3) Don't wear plaid anything. Especially plaid pants. Most especially plaid cargo pants. Repeat this mantra: Plaid is bad. Forgo the cargo.

(4) Don't invite more than 50 guests who've had plastic surgery. Any more than that and your party will seem like an alien festival on Mars.

(5) Avoid smoked elk on toast as an appetizer.

I'm with him

2004-12-27T14:09:00.000-08:00

I have made no progress. And last time I checked (one second ago), the clock was still ticking.

My favorite idea so far came from my cousin Anne, who said, "Wear one of those t-shirts that has a big arrow on it and says 'I'm with him.'" It could work, especially if I'm standing next to Leo DiCaprio.

I've been obsessing about what to wear to an apres-ski party for 17 days, yet have produced no tangible results. I've been utterly unproductive. Therefore, I'm not thinking about it anymore.

This frightened me at first, but then I remembered that the best things happen when you don't think about them happening. Keenan Brown never gave me his chocolate pudding at lunch when I wished he would. I can never draw a perfect heart when I concentrate. Not once have I ever lost weight on a diet.

Likewise, I can't possibly expect to find something fancy schmancy to wear to a fancy schmancy party if I'm actually looking for it.

Things happen when you let them go.

So I'm not looking. I'm not waiting. I just am. Exhale apres-ski wear stress.

Kitty Bouldin, zen housewife Virginia Yodi master, I am. Proud of me, you are. Humble bow.

Anyway, InStyle suggests that the perfect thing already lives in my closet. That could very well be true, and I could very well find it if only I could open my closet without an avalanche happening on my head.

I knew there was a problem I could solve in there somewhere. Tonight (or maybe tomorrow night, but most certainly before Thursday night) I'm going to clean out my closet. Instead of buying a new pair of pants or a sexy, snazy top, I'm going to buy a hanging holder for my shoes and some place to neatly store my sweaters. And then, something wonderful will happen.

If it doesn't, at least I'll come home to a clean closet.

Wear where?

2004-12-10T10:03:00.000-08:00

I have really great news!

Kate Hudson (Almost Famous) has invited us to a party to celebrate her donation the foundation my husband works for, mingle with some stars and brush shoulders with the likes of Ralph Lauren, who's brand-new store we'll be cocktailing in.

I have some really scary news!

I'm going to a party in Aspen hosted by Kate Hudson, who has like a zillion dollars, is four years younger than me and I think is married to a rock star.

Do you know this kind of news? You're so excited you want to pee your pants and you're so scared you want to pee your pants?

Must quell the fear. Must quell the fear.

First, I studied the invitation.

Never, ever go to a party without seeing the invitation. The first thing a woman wonders when she hears "invited to a party" is "what will I wear?" (just before "how soon is too soon to get a manicure?" and "Where's the closest Neiman and Marcus").

The invitation has the answers, it sets the mood. You can always tell when people have been invited somewhere by word of mouth -- they're usually in blue jeans.

More importantly, never ever believe your husband when he says, "we're going to a cocktail party" because to men, every party is a cocktail party.

I realized this only yesterday when for a few hours I thought I was going to a cocktail party in Aspen. Then I saw the invitation, which read in fancy silver letters:

Kate Hudson cordially invites you to après ski cocktails
to celebrate the opening of
R A L P H L A U R E N

Apres-ski. Apres. That's French and it means after. After skiing cocktails, which is different entirely from apres-dinner cocktails.

Understandably, none of this really matters to my husband who will wear pretty much the same thing to a wedding that he will to a funeral or a Lakers game or a squash match. Had I not seen this invitation, I would have probably purchased, packed and worn a cocktail dress with his encouragement.

When I then had to put on my best "yes, I ski in a cocktail dress" attitude and then blamed him for my resulting discomfort, he would have replied, "Who cares. They're serving top shelf bourbon."

Next, I'd normally go shopping.

I love fashion and I love to shop, but I'm tormented with questions and can't focus. Trust me, I've tried.

Fur, fleece or wool? Dolce and Gabbana or Patagonia? Uggs or Stetsons?

Chiefly, what the hell is an apres-ski party? All I can picture is a wood-laden chalet and big, wool snowflake sweaters. That can't be right.

Plus, I haven't skiied in, like, 8 years, but I know it never left me feeling like doing anything apres. And oh, the hat head.

Do I actually have to ski in order to attend an apres-ski party? Am I supposed to wear my apres ski party outfit under my ski clothes or are my ski clothes supposed to be so fabulous they can dub as party clothes?

Cause, let's get real. Ski slopes, even in Apsen, are overflowing with fashion disasters. How am I to stay on the hip highway when the byways are clogged?

I'm stuck. And the clock is ticking...

Four letter words

2004-12-01T03:02:00.000-08:00

Hot damn, a four-letter word tops Webster's list of words of the year and it's one I can pronounce, use in a sentence and say around children.

Blog. B-L-O-G. As in, I would write a novel, but I'm too busy updating this darned blog each week.

Country of orgin: USA.
Prefix: Web.
Suffix: Log
Makes: Blog.
Get it: Web Log. Weblog. We, blog!

This is confusing if you're my mom, who the other night actually said, "I read your blob today."

Wait! There's more!

It's a cracker jack day, people. Also in the news, a porcelain urinal was named the most infulential piece of modern art. No, I'm not kidding.

"Fountain" - an ordinary white, porcelain urinal - was more influential than anything else created by artist's hands in modern times.

Than ANY ART MADE in modern times. We're not talking invention or functionality here. We're talking art, like paints and clay and stuff.

Warhol, Jackson Pollock, Pablo Picasso. Prints of the gorgeous Ms. Monroe, stary nights, the devistation of war. Eh, eh.

"Fountain" made something of a critical splash (oh, i'm busting at the seams with puns) when Marcel Duchamp introduced it in 1917. Had I been alive then, I'm pretty sure I would have thought he'd lost his mind.

Even for a moment today I thought maybe the person who chose this piece got swirlied too many times in middle school.

I had to think for a minute when I read about this story. (And by think I of course mean I had to do a Google search). What in the world is special about a tub a man pee's in?

Nothing! (sorry, fellas). And that's just it. Duchamp planted the seeds of what would become a grand avant-garde movement. In English, that means he started thinking in ways that no one had before.

An everyday object as art? Now that you mention it, that's not a bad idea.

Before that, art was kinda pretentious. Full-figured ladies lying on couches and lots of big, beautiful nature. The urinal (do I have to say it?) pisses on aesthetic beauty. So, yeah, there's nothing exceptional really about a urinal or a sink or a comb for that matter (Duchamp made both of those things in a similar fashion) but that's the point.

And so it is with the blog. Once upon a time, Web posting was tough. It was complicated, like math.

Then a few smart people got together and figured out a way to make it easy for everyone. And poof -- We blog!

It's nothing really. A few pages and a few thoughts among millions and millions. But anyone can do it. And anyone can read it. And anyone can get it.

Like Duchamp's urinal, it's the commonality in something once so complicated that makes it beautiful.

Ringle in your jingle

2004-11-30T14:26:00.000-08:00

SLACKER ALERT: Only 24 shopping days remain until Christmas morning. Have a nice day.

Just like a prayer

2004-11-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

There are several good things about Thanksgiving.

The food. Pile it high, pile it wide, pile it deep, and then go back for more. No one's going to look at you funny.

The company. Even if it isn't good, it's almost never bad.

The prayer. It's a delicate thing, prayer.

In my husband's family, prayer is remains the same, no matter if it's a Wednesday night in January or Easter morning.

"Lord, bless this food to our use and us to thy service. Bless those of us who aren't here. (short pause). Amen." If they're feeling particularly windy, "amen" is embellished with "in Christ's name we pray, Amen."

They're no dwellers, Episcopalians. Plus, they pray in the morning, they pray at night, they pray at church and they pray when they say something bad about someone. When it comes supper time, there just isn't much more to say.

The only time dinner prayer really gets interesting at my husband's home is when my Jewish stepfather-in-law says the blessing.

My family is Episcopresbian. We went to Presbyterian churches until (1) they asked for money too many times (2) the preacher made more than three house visits in a year or (3) they stopped serving wine at the Church Men's gatherings.

If any of above things happened, we'd find ourselves in at an Episcopalian service. Just about when we had the hang of kneeling to pray and sipping, not gulping, the wine from the Communion cup, we'd be back at our Presbyterian church, drinking grape juice.

The result is a blend of new and old, equal parts King James and Revised Standard, reserved God-fearing and emotional Jesus-loving.

Season that with some whiskey and wine, a few strangers my mother's met at the grocery store or gas station and invited over, and a table full of food just waiting to get cold, and you've got yourself a Thanksgiving prayer.

"Heavenly father," it starts, and that's when you know there's no way in hell you're going to get a warm biscuit. If the verb doesn't come in the first sentence, it'll be a short novel before you eat.

"Lord, let me first start by saying how glad we are you're here with us." Yes, Lord, we gave you the good seat. Be sure to try the gravy.

"Father you've blessed us in so many ways throughout our lives. Where do we even start, Lord, with all of the ways you've blessed us." Hope you had a snack earlier, big guy, cause this is gonna take a while.

"First, with these wonderful children and friends, who've travelled here to be with us. And you watched over them Lord, and cared for them, and guided them and persuaded them and helped them and kept them." Err, God, about that keeping thing...

"We all love so much, Lord, yet there is so much trouble in the world. So many people who go without. So many people who are hungry today. So many people hurting, in hospitals, asleep in gutters, alone on deserted islands, with sexual diseases, bad handbags and fake furs ." Pay attention, now. We're about to go over a cliff.

"Oh there are so many things we're thankful for, Lord, like Edna and James Marie who had the foresight 40 years ago on the occasion of our wedding to give us the silver-plated pickle knives that adorn our table today. And blessed Aunt Bets, who on her death bed willed us her collection of crusifixes and this lovely hand-made table cloth, even though Martha Lee kissed her ass trying to get it."

"Finally, Lord, thank you for pulling brother Tom through his hernia surgery and allowing our dear friend Bill to pass that gall stone so quickly and easily. And me, Lord, I had a bowel problem earlier this week, but I prayed to you and it cleared right up." Yowza. Are you there, God, it's me, Kitty?

"Well, I guess that's about it. You're good, God. Darn good. And we love you for it. We'll never forget you God -- not ever. Not any day. Never, ever, ever, will we forget. Every single day from this day on will be just like Thanksgiving. Without all the food and beforementioned gas, of course."

"In Christ's name we pray..."

Amen.

Kissy face

2004-11-19T09:05:00.000-08:00

One more quick note on Condi Rice and I'll leave it, I promise.

Um, did you see the sloppy one the goofy Texan planted on her cheek the other day? Gag me with a spoon.

The Washington Post noticed and published an interesting column in today's paper, asking just what a professional man should do when he wants to congratulate his female couterparts with whom he is close. Good question, really. Discuss amongst yourselves...

Oh, who lives in a pineapple under the sea?
SpongeBob SquarePants!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he!
SpongeBob.

Raise your hands if you're happy the Sponge Bob Square Pants Movie is finally out!

What?? No hands?? Come on -- how bad can it be if just a few kids learn what "porous" means. Plus, he goes to work at a place called the Krusty Krab and Sponge Bob and his purple starfish friend get rescued by Baywatch hunk (and German rockstar) David Hasselhoff. Admit it, that's funny.

Whoa, man, Thanksgiving is fast approaching isn't it? Ahhh, I love this time of year, and I'm certain that's because I don't have to worry about not being ready. We're still packing around to various family Thanksgiving holidays, thus releaving me of any cooking/cleaning duties. I'd love to be able to offer some housewifey tips on staying sane, cooking and setting tables, but apparently I haven't grown up that much...

That's not to say I'm not anxious. I cannot wait for the new U2 album, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, to be released on Tuesday. If I was cooking and cleaning and entertaining this holiday, I'd certainly be doing it to the sounds of Bono and his band.

Errrr, rats. I can't resist. OK, here are some Turkey day tips --
Set the table a day ahead
Do any remaining baking, including that apple pie, the day before.
Pick up turkey dummy!
If you're not into over-stuffing yourself, try filling up on veggies first. Eat healthy throughout the day!
Buy the new U2 album and rock out while cleaning dishes.

And, drum roll please, my number one tip: Be thankful for everyone around you, and most certainly make time to be thankful for yourself.

Moving on

2004-11-16T08:05:00.000-08:00

Begone slump.

Well, Condi Rice is movin' on up. The goofy Texan has officially named her his new Secretary of State, replacing Colin Powell, who resigned yesterday. Ahhh, Condi. Head of the WNBA, Sec. of State .... same diffy, right?

Ladies and gentlemen, hope has left the building.

Powell was known for his disagreements on foreign policy with Veep Cheney and Defense Sec. Rumsfeld. He's a super star for a lot of reasons (he wrote a whole book, for heavens sakes), but we love him most for pushing the administration to increase its commitment to the international fight against AIDS and for promoting the administration's Millennium Fund.

Oh and disarming Libya. That deserves a check in the good column, too.

And with all that work, he must be tired. That's what the Bushies want us to think, anyway.

Aw, heck. He said he was only good for four years anyway, and we're inclined to cut good 'ol Powell loose so that he can retire to Florida and live out his days by the pool. Whew, it's tough bein' president.

Condi's a puppet. She agrees, it seems, with just about everything the Prez. says and does, it seems, just about everything the Prez. says to do. Chant it with me now, "Four more years!"

But there now. Let's not be so negative. It's unbecoming.

Instead, let's search desperately on the bright side and pray our efforts aren't transparent.

Maybe she'll do something about the crisis in Sudan, where tensions between Arabs and Africans has displaced more than a million people and somewhere in the ballpark of 50,000 people have died.

If Sudan were Iraq, we'd SO be there.

The skinny on Sudan: The ruling Arab elite and three African ethnic groups are fighting for scarce natural resources. The elitist folks are doing what their kind does best -- you know, axis of evil kind of stuff -- women raped, villages destroyed, help blocked, food supplies ransacked so that pretty much anyone they don't want to live starves. Keep in mind that things weren't going terribly well for Sudan to begin with. There's been a civil war there for something like 20 years.

In September, Powell called it genocide, a word that should ring a bell when combined with Rwanda and maybe Bill Clinton. Under U.N. law We the People are required to prevent and punish genocide. We've tried to figure out what to do, but up to now have pretty much only threatened to consider sanctions which I imagine is pretty laughable to the likes of rapers and pillagers .

What else? Oh, Condi is the only black woman to ever be Sec. of State. Go Condi, Go Condi, it's your birthday...

She's Marilyn Monroe compared to Madeline Albright. That's bound to work in our favor.

She's single. Smart, somewhat sexy AND available...

She's graduated college at 19, speaks Russian and plays classical piano. Driven!

Will that help her set American foreign policy priorities for a president who has virtually no foreign policy experience and who has rarely traveled outside the United States?

Ah, shux. Who cares really.

Four more years!

Long time, no write

2004-11-15T19:38:00.000-08:00

It's been a while. I blame myself.

I've been in one of those slumps that we work ourselves into when not much else is going on.

Pick one: The pre-winter slump, the self-pity slump, the lonely slump, the I-quit-smoking-and-feel-like-being-a-hag slump.

My slump was a combo. Three for one. Equal parts self-pity, pre-winter and non-smoking hag. I was a real pleasure to be around.

It starts the way these things usually do -- for no apparent reason.

The days are sunny and bright! You've slept for seven hours two nights in a row! Gone are the urges to murder the slow grocery store check-out woman! More work, less pay? $2.10 for a gallon of gas? A goofy Texan in the White House? Zippiedty-do-dah!

Any sane woman knows that a little alone time is a good thing. A little more than a little is a pretty good thing, although dangerous. Some alone time is not a good thing. A great deal of alone time should at all costs be avoided or you can kiss your good mood goodbye. (For the record, alone means truly alone. Either you're alone on a mountaintop in Tibet or your neighbors are out of town, your housemate's gone, your cell phone's been cut off and your friend at work is on vacation... you get it)

I consider four days alone a great deal of alone time. My slump was coming on fast.

Day one: I feel good.
Day two: I still feel good. Strange...
Day three: Why do I feel so damned good?
Day four: Something bad must be about to happen. Joy without pain? It's virtually unheard of.

The details are so boring they aren't even funny. So I won't bother.

When I was tired of hearing myself think, when the sound of my own voice in my own head irritated me, I knew slump had just about run its course. There's a fine line between slump and self-loathing, and it isn't one I'm willing to cross.

Hello, inspiration? Yeah, doll, it's me Kitty. Look, I've been on a major self-pity bender, and I'm over it, ya know? Special delivery me a large dose of reality with a side of get overits. And a large glass of be gratefuls why you're at it.

Sheesh, me.

Heart of steel

2004-11-02T05:51:00.000-08:00

I follow football the way most women do. There's a direct corolation between my allegience to a team and the man in my life.

Start with my dad and, having grown up in Charlottesville, the Redskins and UVa. Then college, a boy from Virginia who's family moved to Chapel Hill -- the then-new Panthers and, again, UVa.

Then college later, a boy from New York who went to Virginia -- the Bills (I actually braved a game in December in upstate New York for that guy...or did I do that for the hot dogs?) and still, UVa.

Then an artsy fartsy guy who hated football, so I chose my own team -- the Packers -- because Brett Favre was and is hot hot hot. Of course, good ol dad still loved UVa so I did, too.

Then I think there was a bit of a drought. That must have been an introspective time.

Next a guy who didn't much like football, but all of his friends did and for some reason they were Raiders fans. So... so was I (I always thought their uniforms morbid). And, most certainly, UVa.

Don't think me shallow. I had a real pro football loyality battle going on inside.

But sticking with one pro team would have meant that I would at some point have to explain to boyfriend number 15 that boyfriend number 12 was a Panthers, Bills, Raiders fan. And that would have been relationship suicide and a definate end to some very nice, very free dinners. So I flip flopped. No one seemed to mind.

Until I met my husband, who is a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. He's devoted to me. He's devoted to the Steelers. His mind, I believe, draws no distinction.

My football infidelity is a thing of the past. I love him, I watch the Steelers and I most certainly make no mention of how cute Tom Brady is. Especially not this season.

I first suspected my Steeler-liking might not be a passing fancy when I caught myself waving a yellow terrycloth towel over my head and obeying my husband and brother-in-law's silly, superstitious rules about what I could and couldn't do during Steeler game time. (No leaving the room when they're on a good streak. Don't let the towel touch the floor. Only one cookie per quarter).

I also suspected it when I could name the team's last three quarterbacks.

But on Sunday, I knew I'd fallen in love. On Sunday, I forewent my usual Sunday routine of cleaning and yogaing and grocery shopping to sit useless on the couch and watch the Steelers play. Alone. Just me and the dog and my at times very amplified voice. I didn't even have to give myself a manicure for distraction.

This was my own doing. A choice I made. My husband was on another continent in another time zone -- probably asleep.

On the way to the airport Sunday morning, he divided his time between telling me how lonesome he'd be without me and telling me how much he hated to miss the Steelers-Pats game. I understood. It was a big game.

I waved goodbye and almost immediately forgot about football.

But then, the Redskins lost. I knew that the Redskins lost because I briefly turned on the television to get election news. I cared that the Redskins lost because when the Redskins lose on the Sunday before the election day, it means the incumbent in the national election is going to lose. And that was good news.

On that brief high, I remembered the Steelers. I manipulated the remote and found it. Steelers-Patriots. Maybe I'd watch a little. I had time. Yoga didn't start for.... 30 minutes.

Two hours later, I was drinking beer and whooping at the television. I didn't have the towel, but I didn't know that. Hands in the air, the wave, yelling dooooo-ssssssssss, obeying all the stupid rules.

The Steelers were winning. They were winning big. They had run backs and touchdowns and sacks and steals and challenges and fieldgoals -- all the good stuff. I settled down when they had a 21-3 lead, and I realized I'd turned a corner.

There alone in my living room, I became a fan. For better or for worse, I would stick with this team. Things wouldn't always be this good, I knew. We wouldn't always break the Patriots lots-of-games winning streak. There were going to be rough roads. Fumbles. Bad choices. Losing seasons.

But I'd be there, waving my towel and shouting. Even if I was completely alone.

Go Steelers.

Tongue tied

2004-10-20T07:58:00.000-07:00

OK, so I commend Yoplait on its ten-year effort to fight breast cancer.

And it rocks that it and its parent company General Mills have already given $14 million for breast cancer research.

And Yoplait yogurt is really yummy, especially the smooth and creamy orange Julius flavor they came out with last year. For that, I forgive them for cashing in on consumer sympathy and in effect capitalizing on a disease with the "Save a Lid Save a Life" campaign (As if. We get it already, you want us to buy yogurt).

However, I have to draw the line on props with its latest spin on that campaign. "Lick a Lid, Save a Life. Together we can lick breast cancer."

Esshs. It hurts me. They went from"Vive la Yoplait" to licking breasts?

Together we can lick breast cancer. Together... we can lick breast cancer. Together we can lick breast cancer. (it just doesn't work, does it?) Someone should have read that outloud. If they had, they surely wouldn't have made the TV ad.

They did make a TV ad, though. They made an ad that features women wantonly French kissing Yoplait's signature pink aluminum yogurt lids and then tucking them into envelopes .... which they also lick.

Obvioulsy they've tapped out the 22-45 American woman money pool and are now focusing on the male 21-55 demographic.

This beats a t-shirt I saw in a South Carolina Piggly Wiggly a few years ago that said, "We support healthy breasts." (why didn't I buy that shirt?)

Offensiveness aside, I wondered if my licking and stuffing would really pay off, so I did the numbers.

For every pink lid mailed Yoplait will donate 10 cents to raise money to battle breast cancer. I would have to eat (or at least open and lick the lid of) three cups of yogurt every day for four months — or 360 containers — to raise the rather paltry sum of $36.

On average, each low-fat cup contains about 80 calories and costs about 80 cents. Multiply by three, that's 240 calories and $2.40 a day. Add it up and you get $288 spent on yogurt and 28,000 calories consumed.

Yeaaahhh, no thanks. We're ya hopin' we wouldn't add that up?

I have my own fight-breast-cancer plan. I call it Kitty Bouldin's "Keep your damn tongue to your own damn self" fight breast cancer campaign. KBKYDTTYODSFBCC for short.

I buy a self-adhesive stamp and put it on a self -adhesive envelope. I stuff the envelope with my $280 check (I do love Yoplait and may need that $8 bucks to buy some custard-style over the next couple of months) made out to the National Breast Cancer Foundation and put their address on the front. I seal it, mail it and later at tax time, count it as a charitable contribution.

No licking necessary. Vive la difference?

Put down that Swifter

2004-10-19T07:51:00.000-07:00

CNN reports today that rocky planets like Earth form when dust motes around a nascent star gather to form rocks. Rocks collide, and some stick and grow. A Haaavvhard planet-formation theorist compared the process to the common, household dust bunny, saying that after a million years, a dust bunny, like a planet, can get pretty big.

Praise Jesus. Now not only can I make grits and ham biscuits, I can make planets, too.

So last night I'm cleaning up around the house and in doing so did what I sometimes do when I clean, which is put any little scraps of paper I find lying around in my pocket.

Later walking to dog, hands in pockets, I thought maybe I'd come upon previously lost money. I grabbed the paper and held it up close to my face so I could see it in the dark.

Not a million dollars. Not even one dollar. But a million and one tiny, blue, dry cleaning tags.

Urgh. (where has all my pocket money gone?)

Truly, I hate the dry cleaner. I hate dropping the stuff off and I hate remembering to pick it up and I hate the stupid little ticket they give you and expect you to keep up with for three days.

And -- cleaned, pressed clothes aside -- if it comes from the dry cleaner, it's going to be hateful. Those wire hangers? Flimsy and unreliable. The icky, staticky cellophane they drape over my clothes? Curse to it and the space it takes up in my trash can. And these little blue tags, the ones that tell the dry cleaning lady that that blue sport coat belongs to us? Little demons of clutter.

If there are a million in my pocket, how many are there under the sofa?

To heck with 'em.

My only hope is that they find love in soft, dog hair heart of my dust bunnies and stick around long enough to create another planet (which will be suspiciously vacant of dry cleaners).

I'm wondering

2004-10-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

Who really thinks John Edwards is sexy?

Nerve asks this question this week, breakin' it down into 51 short thoughts on whether he is or isn't.

Truth is, sometimes he is. He's fit and wears nice suits and has a really, really white smile. If I was needed a date for a charity auction, he'd do in a pinch.

And Nerve is right, he does resemble a soap opera star -- a hunky doctor. A hunky single doctor. A hunky single doctor who lives on a farm. And cooks. And cleans. And gives a good massage. With oils.

But we don't watch soap operas. (We only read about them in the super market check out line.) So we wouldn't know.

But then other times, like when he's campaigning in South Carolina and his accent goes way south or when he poses on the front of "Runners World" magazine wearing his t-shirt tucked into his shorts, I think: not so much.

Speaking of half-breeds, Animal Planet airs the first installation of "Nuts for Mutts" tonight. Billed as the Westminister Dog Show for mutts, dogs compete doing things dogs do best, like licking in inappropriate places and drooling (my dog would win that one -- and he isn't even a mutt).

The event benefits "New Leash on Life Animal Rescue" a wonderful non-profit you should read more about. If you miss it tonight, the show will be back on Oct. 23 and yet again on Oct. 24. (Housewife is happy to promote good causes).

Let's see... what's Martha up to? Oh, that's right. She's in jail.

Good thing Mrs. BSF isn't. Good news, ladies. Brit is taking some time to "chill" (it's her prerogative) and joining the ranks of U.S. housewives everywhere. Check out her blog, where she says she's excited to start a family. We can't help but be excited, too.

Behind every good man...

2004-10-14T08:33:00.001-07:00

...there's a woman who can talk right.

Thanks, GW, for pointing that out so eloquently in last night's final debate. [WP] For the record, we approve of Laura's advice -- stand up straight and quit scowling. Bad posture and wrinkles are very unpresidential.

Lynne Cheney is busy giving our nation's leaders a lesson in civility, too.

The Veep's wife accused John Kerry on Wednesday night of "a cheap and tawdry political trick" and said he "is not a good man" after he brought up her daughter's homosexuality at the final presidential debate. [WP]

She's right. It was hard to miss how forced the comment sounded. Even Kerry himself seemed uncomfortable saying it. But a bad man? Lynne, don't even get us started.

Here's yesterday's #1 bad idea: Everyone's favorite trailerwife, Britney Spears, says she wants to take husband Kevin Federline's last name. [Yahoo] Britney Federline. We just aren't sure what to say.

Today's #1 bad idea: Making breast implants available to men. [Boston Globe]. Yikes.

The ever-enterprising Martha Stewart is reportedly considering writing a book in jail (prison diaries?)and publishing it this summer. [CNN]. She's barely been there a week and already she's found something worth writing about. Must be going well.

And finally, here's a Web site I wish I'd found a few weeks ago. Just upload an image of yourself and see how different hairstyles will look on you.

A for effort

2004-10-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

Who says romance is dead?

Not a 27-year-old Oklahoma man who staged a break in at his house so that he could be his wife's hero.

CNN reports today that high school teacher Trent Spencer paid two of his students to break in to his home, tie up his wife and steal a stereo. If all went according to plan, Spencer would arrive home mid-robbery, break a board (which he sawed pretty much in half before the event) over one of the kids heads, chase them off then dash to his wife's rescue.

This, he thought, would save his marriage.

But all didn't go according to plan and Mrs. Trent Spencer broke free of the duct tape the boys used to bind her to a chair. Once back on her feet, she called the cops.

Nice try Trent. Next time, maybe just some flowers will do.

You say you want a revolution

2004-10-08T09:02:00.000-07:00

I would have loved to have lived in the 50s because of all the wonderful household inventions that came on the market during that decade.

Two words: Tupperware's Wonderbowl

It's true. Take a look back and you'll see that advertisements promised unimaginable efficiency at the push of a button for the American housewife, as well as modern, stainless-steel elegance.

And Americans bought it: In the first five years after World War II, the amount of money spent on household furnishings and appliances rose by an incredible 240 percent.

Who wouldn't buy it? Appliance companies promised freedom from the back-breaking drudgery of housework and the ability to look elegant doing it. One ad pictures a woman in an evening gown preparing a cake by pushing a button. If she wasn't about to dash off to what was obviously an upscale and important party, she'd probably have time to squeeze in a quick tennis game before Ward got home. (As an aside, that ad should have told us that something was terribly amiss, but that's another blog for another day...)

Today, a similar revolution is happening with today's domestic products. Only we've pretty much already made things as easy to use as possible.

As any good Southern lady knows, the only thing left to do is accessorize.

Now we're hard at work on making our functional products cute -- so cute we can't help but use them.

Take, the Lysol "Ready Brush" called a "revolution in toilet bowl cleaning" (is this the same revolution the Beatles sang about?).

Dawn has discovered the "future of dishwashing" with the cutting-edge Wash and Toss.(Dawn also makes a Power Dish Brush. Mind you, it still has to be held by actual human hands to work; however, it does vibrate. But again ... another blog for another day. )

And of course, dusting and mopping have gone precious -- Procter and Gamble's Swifter and Clorox's Ready Mop (of which I'm a fan. It's not any more "ready," per se, than my old sponge mop, but it tops the charts on cute).

I know first hand that all of this is working. I know it's working because even my dad will use these products.

His favorite invention is The Swifter. He swings the thing all over my parent's North Carolina home in his free time, picking up dust for fun. Recently he even took it up a notch.

This came in an email from my mother this morning:

I've got one for you on Dad. You know he loves the Swifter and is always going around the house with it dusting the floors. Well, I saw advertised that they now have a Swifter-Vac, so I got one. After charging it up for twenty-fours hours I used it yesterday and it works pretty good. So when Dad got home I showed it to him and he got the thing and started Swifting and running the vac part at the same time. He was all over the house with the it and said this is the cat's ass. Now he has a new cleaning toy to play with. I wonder how long it will last?

Presumably, Mom, until Swifter comes out with a Swifter+vac+TV remote, in which case you'll have to pry it from his cold, dead hands.

But ours is not to ask why or wonder how long.

Talk right

2004-10-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

Last week after winning Talladega for the fifth time, Dale Earnhardt Jr. -- in a fit of self-deprecating glee -- recalled the memory of his legendary father, Dale Earnhardt, who was killed in the 2001 Daytona 500, declaring, "It don't mean [expletive] right now. Daddy's won here 10 times." [Washington Post]

That got NBC and NASCAR's panties in a bunch, so they fined him $10,000 and docked him 25 points (whatever that means).

Thank you very much NBC for jumping on the George Bush bandwagon and protecting us from evil-doers. Heaven help the networks if the religious right no longer tuned in.

Of course cursing, especially when it's unnecessary, is tacky. We wonder, however, why NBC can't start start tackling the world's larger problems and impose fines for a larger sin -- terrible grammar.

Dale's is pitiful.

He's a 29-year-old man. It's time to talk like a grown-up. If his mother doesn't have enough sense to teach him to talk right, we'll take it upon ourselves.

First, little Dale, deddy's ded. Talking about him in the present tense isn't going to bring him back.

Second, [expletive] isn't a synonym for the word "anything." "Much" would have been a better alternative. We even would have tolerated "a lot." If you absolutely and positively draw a blank and cussin' is all you can think to do, try "crap," though it's not reccommended.

And finally, if it doesn't 'mean anything right now', are we to assume it will mean something in a few minutes? In a week?

Is this some sort of deal you have worked out with the networks to get us to watch the 11 p.m. news?

Dale, you seem like a "say what you mean, mean what you say" kind of man. How about givin' it a try.

Moving on...

My resourceful sister-in-law in Georgia passed on a great tip. Dryer sheets are as indespensible in the home as duct tape and superglue (no wonder they put so many in one box). Use dryer sheets to eliminate odors just about everwhere, including your husband's shoes.

While we like the smell, things that fly and sting don't, so stick one in your back pocket the next time you're working in your yard.

They're also super for picking up dust and, of course, removing static cling for televisions and computer screens. Thanks, MEB!

In other news, finding energy in exercise; good tips for ladies looking for love; save the world and make money, too; and a Virginia favorite, apple cider, falls on hard times.

This and that

2004-10-05T08:14:00.000-07:00

The Washington Post reports today that when the final Sunday stats arrive today, "Desperate Housewives" is expected to be the most watched program of last week, and it will have catapulted ABC into first place for the week among the 18-to-49-year-olds the network targets.

Clearly I've missed something, though I can't be sure what.

Speaking of the boob tube, TBS next week unveils "He's A Lady," a Fox-worthy show that hoodwinks 11 dudes who think they've signed up for a show called "All American Man." The winner gets a pile of money in exchange for his dignity.

I'll tune in. Who can resist watching a man wrestle with a pair of panty hose?

On to more important things.

Sarah Jessica Parker told fashionistas at the New Yorker Festival over the weekend that she'd never wear fur. Uh huh, that's nice.

Too bad she's made it known that she doesn't have a problem with $400 leather shoes. Where does she think alligator skin comes from, the leather tree? And certainly she's aware that tanning leather is a risky process that requires tanners (read: humans) to handle toxic, cyanide-based chemicals.

VH frowns on the uninformed (See Oct. 4 post, "Fur sure") . As we said yesterday, please spare us the naked model billboards a la 1995. That goes for you too, Ms. Sell-out-Gap-ad-Parker.

Barbie is a model of diplomacy these days. She settled a tiff with record label MCA over the very deep and moving song "Barbie Girl" by striking a deal to release her own MCA album titled "Barbie Girls." Afterall, there's more than one out there.

And finally, a bit of pure joy.

Now in your spare time you can browse through Boston.com's "featured weddings" , where you can see "I do" photos of people you've never met! It's ingenious, really, because I've been thinking that the five short paragraphs most brides use to describe their dress just isn't giving me the visual I need. (Having said that, some are lovely. Don't miss the album of Kristie and Doug, who were married during a blizzard in Boston.)

Fur sure

2004-10-04T17:47:00.000-07:00

Recently I swore off white shoes after Labor Day, but gave a tentative OK to white clothing post August (see "Tacky" Sept. 24).

Fellow blogger Pink Lady asked about season-appropriateness of fur.

Truthfully though, I can't think of any fundamental reason why fur isn't appropriate for seasons other than winter. It is, afterall, luxurious and decadent and wonderful. And we must be sensible. An animal has died so that we may be fashionable, so we best be liberal putting it to good use.

That's not to say some months may be off limits for pratical reasons -- I wouldn't wear a fox collar to an August wedding in Charleston, for example. But that isn't because it would look bad, per se. It's more because I wouldn't want to ruin it with perspiration and spend a small fortune on dry cleaning it (instead, save that money for more fur)

If J Lo can walk down a red carpet mid-summer in a rabbit stole and stay dry and lovely looking, I say go for it. If ya got it, use it.

Luckily, those warm month dilemmas are behind us. Fur is in for fall, dahling, and its fabulous! (Spare us the nude supermodels on billboards protesting fur al la 1995). Fur handbags, fur scarves, fur ear muffs in all the colors of the rainbow ... bring 'em on.

In other news, Martha spends some time at the beach; SNL boats an all-female "Weekend Update team;"; A queen skewers a queen -- Elton John blasts Madonna; and finally, Britney Spears' move of the week.

Puh-sleze

2004-10-04T08:08:00.000-07:00

In a CNN interview today, Desperate Housewives (Sundays, 9 p.m., ABC) creator Marc Cherry defended his new show, saying it isn't satire.

"Satire sounds like you're making fun of something. And the truth is I'm not making fun of the suburbs. ... It's just that stuff happens. I don't romanticize that life at all."

Cherry and ABC get a rotten tomato from Virginia Housewife and I'll tell you why: "Desperate Housewives" is demoralizing to women, playing on the stereotype that we're pent-up, irrational crazy people who would rather kill ourselves than look within and create a better, happier life.

It and the overexposure it's been getting is laughable -- a man making a show about desperate women. How very cutting-edge and oh how nicely it pairs with "Wife Swap."

"Look," Cherry seems to be saying to all his chauvinist buddies, "these women have everything they want and yet they still complain. Aren't women insane?"

If the show is about the "stuff that happens" in suburbs (yawn) -- a place that isn't home to just housewives -- then why isn't it called "Desperate People," which quite obviously ABC and Cherry are.

There's a simple answer, of course. "Desperate People" isn't sexy, it's sad (not to mention way too true), and it wouldn't stand a chance of turning around ABC's pitiful ratings decline. I'm sure that decline has everything to do with the network's previously non-catchy titles (could "8 Simple Rules for Dating my Teenage Daughter" have done better as "8 Slutty Teenage Girls"?) and nothing to do with it's sub par programming.

No, Marc Cherry. Your show isn't satire. It's junk.

Tacky?

2004-09-24T11:35:00.000-07:00

I'm torn.

Normally, I say no no no to wearing white after Labor Day. It's SO New Jersey.

But celebrities are breaking all of the rules at this month's movie premieres and it isn't all bad. (of course, they are in California, a place where naked yoga is acceptable).

As a rule, anything Gwyneth Paltrow does is OK, even naming a kid after a laxative-like fruit. She and "Sky Captain" co-star Angelina Jolie both donned the snow color at that movie's opening.

I have to wonder if our rules shouldn't be ammended. I'm winging it here, but maybe wearing white after Labor Day is OK as long as (1) you're rich, (2) you aren't in Virginia and (3) you don't wear white shoes because I don't care what anyone says, white shoes are tacky.

Vola. Problem solved.

In other news, jump on the Product and Purses Party bandwagon, and you could make a killin', Botox goes on trial and why Sinead O'Connor is not our role model.

And like a good neighbor

2004-09-24T08:36:00.001-07:00

Living in close quarters is tough, but it's something just about all city-livers have to put up with.

Every day around 6 a.m. when the three-year-old who lives upstairs rises, for instance, she slips on her wooden clogs and tromps downstairs, into the kitchen, around the living room, back up the stairs, down the hall on a joy-run cat-chasing mission, back down the stairs and finally, about an hour later, out the door.

An article in today's WP adresses how to handle close-quartered neighbors with tact ("Snuff out the smokers without starting a fire"), but I find I'm not any more inclined to tell little tromper's mother that she should burn those shoes.

A few weeks ago, I was back from a walk and Tromper and her mom were outside in our shared front yard. Tromper was wearing a little pink skirt and a little white ruffled top. Her whispy blonde hair was in knots, her cheeks were round and peachy and she was sitting in a heap of fresh-cut grass she'd gathered into a pile.

She was wearing the clogs. And they were pink.

Damn were they cute.

Believe you me, if they hadn't been, I'd have executed my plan to yank them off her feet (how would I do it without being stopped?) and take off running down the alley en route to the dump ... or a large, burning fire.

But I imagined the screaming. It could last hours and that would certainly interupt Sunday afternoon football.

And then I imagined that to pacify the screaming, Mom Tromper and Dad Tromper would do what I would have done -- buy another pair. Only this time, I reasoned, they may have upped them a size so that she could wear them next season, too.

Then Mom Tromper hit me square in the face with the question, "Are we too loud?"

Holy shit, yes, woman. Do you have any idea what those shoes sound like from the underside of a hard wood floor?

"No, no. You're fine. I mean, sometimes we hear the girls," I said looking right at Little Tromper and smiling, "but they're darling." ... when they're asleep, I should have added.

We exchanged a few more words, smiled and went our seperate ways. It wasn't until later that night, as our IPod screamed Buena Vista Social Club and both televisions blared CNN, I saw the genius in Mom Tromper's Jedi mindtrick.

I turned the music down and shut off one of the televisions.

Now, Tromper has a new name.

Pitter Pat.

Real ladies read the news

2004-09-23T07:32:00.000-07:00

Top picks for today:

• Forget global warming and world peace.

The Washington Post reports today that the RSVP is near endangered status and experts predict the problem will only get worse as the fall party season approaches.

It's a tacky and rude world, indeed. The Virginia Housewife offers this suggestion -- Ditch the anacronym and just spell it out: Repondez, S'il Vous Plait. French = classy.

• Also from the Washington Post, reality TV guru Mark Burnett (Survivor, The Apprentice) is chatting with Martha Stewart about developing a prime-time series .

Housewife applauds Martha's decision last week to begin her prison sentence on Oct. 8. That graceful move bumped her stock up a few notches and this announcement will surely do the same (if only because Burnett was authorized to purchase 2.5 million shares of his own) .

She has nowhere to go but up. Burnett, afterall, is the man who's made Donald Trump look good.

• More...

How to plant bulbs from the Boston Globe
Mulching in the right places from the Seattle Times
Decorating for dummies from the Richmond Times Dispatch
Ready to wear window dressings from the Dallas Morning News

Give us this day our daily bread....

2004-09-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

Only please Lord, don't make it Wonder Bread because they've filed for bankruptcy and their stock isn't worth crap.

Heavens to Betty Crocker, it's finally happened. Interstate Foods, makers of Wonder Bread and Twinkies, announced the filing earlier today.

If you were bold enough to actually have held onto stock in a company that makes bread "kids like to play with" and sweet snacks that an adolecent in 1985 could have stashed in her hope chest and found 15 years later still in tact, then maybe you're due whats comin' to you.

Had we women of the new millennium been adults then, we'd of told you the company was doomed from the start.

We're the ones who had to eat the stuff, afterall.

Look, supermom, we aren't blaming you. We love the supermom. The supermom worked and cooked and came to our swim meets. We love the supermom because she took her own vacations, with out superdad. We love supermom because she taught us how to love life and how to add fractions.

And so we aren't going to raise an eyebrow at her for seeing a pratical alternative to baking her own bread and sweet treats, even if those alternatives were packed with preservatives and wrapped in cellophane.

Supermom, Interstate Foods led you astray. They made you forget Mrs. Randolph's famous words, "put everything to its proper use" by tricking you into believing that Twinkies were food meant to be eaten and not a bricks meant for stopping doors.

You were duped.

But now? Well, forgive them their trespasses.

Come on in!

2004-09-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

For this kind of thing, you have to be inspired, and so I was.

One Friday evening of late, after crabcakes and cocktails at the home of an elderly friend in Virginia's Northern Neck, I discovered "A Virginia Housewife," which was first printed in 1825 and is still in circulation. I suppose as long as there are Virginia housewives it will be.

It was dusty and of unusual size and hiding inbetween a gardening book and "Virginia Hospitality." Mary Randolph is the author, and a descendent, I presume, of the aristocratic Virginia Randolph family. I later read that she was at one time revered as the best cook in Richmond. (A title that indicates she must have fed every single person in that city, though hopefully not all at once. )

I'm newly married and so I'm thinking much more about domestic life than I ever have. Would I finally learn how to elegantly prepare a traditional Virginia meal for 250? Could Mrs. Randolph advise which is best -- bake biscuits before cooking bacon or after?

Would I finally and with good conscious be able to burn my Martha Stewart mags?

I opened the cover and began reading.

"The government of a family, bears a Lilliputian resemblance to the government of a nation."

I have no idea what Lilliputian means, but it sounds important and therefore must be true. I jotted a note down in order to remember to refer to myself as Commander In Chief and my husband as VP.

"Management is an art that may be acquired by every woman of good sense and tolerable memory."

True indeed, and something I should bring up with my boss come promotion time.

"When ice creams are not put into shapes, they should always be served in glasses with handles. "

I hadn't ever thought of it, but now that I see it in print, it seems only right.

"A late breakfast deranges the whole business of the day and throws a portion of it on the next, which opens the door for confusion to enter. "

Oh heavens. We musn't open the door for confusion. Absurdity, yes. But confusion? Just get back...