Did I Paint My Nails for This? | I'm a Grown-Up Now

I can remember a time, in the not-so-distant past, when I thought nothing of spontaneously inviting a pal over to my house to drink wine and watch The Bachelor. Impromptu happy hours at the end of the work day were a regular occurance. I could meet a friend for a Saturday lunch at the drop of a hat. Those days are over.

Now that my days are spent with my little boy, I require a bit more structure in my schedule. Ok, a lot more structure. If I want to see my friends, we have to get out our planners and schedule our get-together weeks, even a month in advance. We arrange for childcare, put on our lipstick, and dust off our favorite high heels. And now that it's an event, and it's a rare event, it has a name: Girls' Night Out.

Amy and I have been longing for a Girls' Night Out. It's been nearly two months since we last spent time together. We've had the date circled on our calendars, we've been counting down the days, and sending text messages to each other: "T-19 days until Girls' Night! Woo Hoo!"

We're getting decked out in our cutest outfits, and leaving our husbands and babies behind--so that we can sit on a patio somewhere and talk about our husbands and babies--while drinking an ice-cold Coors Light.

Because Girls' Night Out is an organized event, there is protocol that should not be ignored. It has come to my attention that some people are unaware of Girls' Night Out protocol, and so I am here to shed some light on this neglected topic. You're welcome.

Now, I use "Girls' Night Out" as a broad, general term. It doesn't have to be at night, and it doesn't have to be out. It could be Sunday Brunch, it could be Bunco night or a book club meeting at your home. Girls' Night Out's only requirement is that it is a gathering of two or more female friends for the purpose of recharging one's batteries and renewing the bonds of female friendship. This is important. It helps us to retain a sense of self and it makes us better wives, mothers, bosses, employees...whatever.

Girls' Night Out is the perfect place to talk about your new boyfriend. It is not the perfect place to bring your new boyfriend. Do you see the distinction here? I have a husband. I like my husband. If I'm going to spend the evening with a man, I would prefer it be him. I don't want to hang out with your dude. Even if you have declared he is "The One."

"Hey, Samantha. Stop being such a bitch."

Fair enough. But if I only get one night out in six weeks, don't I have the right to choose with whom I spend that time? Sure, my friend thinks this guy is "The One", but she thought her last boyfriend was "The One". She called him The One as they waxed each other's eyebrows. She called him The One as they whispered baby-talk in each other's ears while gently caressing each other's face and hair and calling each other "Babe" . She called him The One as they made out at the dinner table in the middle of a crowded restaurant in front of my husband and brother. She called him The One as they disappeared to the bathroom for 25 minutes without explanation and missed dinner entirely. Old Boy was totally The One. He was The One until they were separated by an ocean. And later by a court order.

So, yeah--call me what you will, but going forward, if I'm being invited to a meet-and-greet with this friend and The One, I'm gonna RSVP "No".

So that's our lesson for this week, Grown-Ups and aspiring Grown-Ups: Girls' Night Out is a chicks-only affair. For co-ed mingling, let's plan a cookout, let's drink beer and watch the ballgame somewhere with a big-screen TV. Trivia night at the neighborhood bar is always a good time. Outside of Girls' Night Out, I rather enjoy the company of the fellas, including your new dude.

All images by Anne Taintor

Sad Day: Bravo TV Shooting Reality Show in Dallas--Without Me

Damn. Since 2006, I've been waiting for the press release that Bravo is expanding their Real Housewives franchise to Dallas. You know, so that I can attend the casting call. How fun would it be for a camera crew to follow me around my palacial 1,800 square foot home and hob-nobbing with my glamorous friends? Could you imagine seeing film footage of me, cleaning my oven while watching Grey's Anatomy reruns on DVR? That's some pretty riveting shit, I tell you. I mean, I'm Real. I'm a Housewife. I'm exactly what they're looking for, right?

Whomp, whomp.

So, the good news is that Bravo TV, my favorite channel (previous reports that I live for the E! Network have been greatly exaggerated) that is known for shining the spotlight on real people in cities all over the country, is finally paying some attention to a greatly overlooked city: my (new-ish) hometown of Dallas. The bad news is, instead of spotlighting Real Housewives, they are producing a show entitled Dallas' Most Eligible, which focuses on hot young singles in the city. I should tell you how I learned of this fascinating news, so allow me to rewind a few clicks:

I wake up every morning at or about 6:40 AM. For no reason whatsoever. I am of the belief that nothing good happens at 6:40 AM, so I change the channel to NBC (so that the Today show is waiting for me whenever I begrudgingly agree that morning is upon me and I am forced to greet the day) and I lie in bed, face down, eyes tightly shut, spooning whichever dog has hopped onto Steve's side of the bed, and I try to will myself back to sleep. Sometimes I catch another hour of shut-eye. Sometimes I'm just lying there in a half-stupor. You're probably brushing your teeth and getting ready for work at that time. It's ok, you can be annoyed with me. I deserve it.

On this particular day, I'm snuggling Laney, trying to catch a few more zzz's while Steve gets ready for work. When the local NBC news anchors start talking about Bravo TV coming to Dallas, my and Laney's ears perk up (she is also a fan). They explain that the network is in town filming this new series about hot young singles in Dallas, and then they go to Reporter Babe on the scene--even though she's on the scene of a completely unrelated, actual news story.

Reporter Babe is a reporter whose name I don't know, but I always see her on the air in the wee hours of the morning, usually wearing a reflective safety vest while reporting from the side of the road, and no matter what time it is, she is always boasting expertly-applied eyeliner, premium hair products, and optimal hair "poof". She's your basic beautiful nightmare.

So, the anchors, who are unusually aflutter over news of a reality show filming in our city ("Big whoop", I say, TLC filmed a reality show in Dothan, Alabama. Why wouldn't Dallas have a show?) and so they cut to Reporter Babe who is standing on the side of the road in a reflective safety vest with impeccable hair and makeup, and they ask her if she knows anybody who is being featured on this new show.

Blogger's Note: When reading this, you should know that Reporter Babe, who usually speaks with perfect diction, inexplicably transitions to Valley Girl when the subject turns from "real news" to her personal life. She begins drawing out her words and her consonants. The transcript will reflect this shift. Also worth noting: Anchor Woman goes from being a credible, professional news anchor to acting like an excited school girl, thrilled to be discussing the latest gossip with the school's most popular girl while in the cafeteria. It was surreal.

Anchor Woman: So! Do you know anybody on the new Dallas' Most Eligible?
Reporter Babe: Yeah. I pretty much know alll the people on the showww. Actuallyy, I was approached to be on the showww, but I thought it would be a conflict of interestttt.
Anchor Woman: Wow! You know them? So does anything exciting happen?
Reporter Babe: Well, I was with them for a lottt of the shootingg, and I have to sayyy, it gets prettyy dramatic.
Anchor Woman: So they're pretty interesting people, huh?
Reporter Babe: Uhh, yeahhh, they're all my friendsss.

Steve has paused his morning routine to walk back into the bedroom to watch this breaking story unfold.

Steve: Is she serious?
Me: I had to open my eyes, just so I could roll them. [face smacks back into the pillow]
Steve laughs and makes a wise crack
Me: [face-down in pillow] You didn't know Ashley is a journalist now, did you?
Steve laughs louder. I have a friend named Ashley who speaks fluent Valley Girl. To know her is to love her.

For the rest of the day Steve makes me say (in Valley Girl voice) "Uhhh, yeahhhh, they're my friendssss."

Sooo, will you be watchinggg Dallas' Most Eligible? I knoww I will. Ummm, yeahhhh, they're my friendssss.

Dumpster Baby Comes Out on Top

The title of this post is both misleading and inaccurate, but it stays. Steve had two fantasy basketball teams this year: Dumpster Baby and Curious Mole. When Steve came home last night and told me that he won, I was excited to share the news with everyone. I had assumed Dumpster Baby was the winner, but in fact-checking this piece, I learned that it was Curious Mole who was the victor. He just barely beat Bean's team, Achilles Heel. Better luck next time, Bean.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, but you find yourself mildly intrigued, you can catch up by reading here, here, and here. Steve's 2010 fantasy baseball team, Temporary Paralysis, won, and now his fantasy basketball team, and his actual baseball team, the Texas Rangers won the American League Championship, and his college football team, the Auburn Tigers won the BCS National Championship, so if you're sitting at your desk this afternoon asking yourself "How do winners feel?", I say that Steve would be a good person to answer that question.

Now we're on to baseball. The draft was a couple weeks ago. In honor of our infant son, the name of this year's fantasy baseball team is:

Footie Pajamas

and here is the logo for Footie Pajamas:

I don't mean to brag, but I think I have a natural gift for naming fantasy teams and choosing and creating logos. If you ever need help in this department, you know where to find me.

Robinson Doesn't Want Smoosh Smoosh

Our friend Bev came over for dinner last week. While we were sipping Sauvignon Blanc and chatting in the kitchen, Robinson was playing quietly in the living room a few feet away. He was being really fussy, but once I gave him my phone to play with, he was happy.

A few minutes later, Steve is bringing in the salmon off the grill. Robinson, who is still sitting on a blanket in the floor with my phone, begins screaming and crying at maximum volume. I look over to see my son, whose face has turned purple with fury, hysterically throw my phone down on the floor with all his might. It was as if the phone had transformed into a killer bee and stung him. Tears are streaming down his face.

"What in the hell is going on?!" said Steve, Bev, and me, collectively.

I run across the room and pick up the phone*, because I hear sound coming from it. This is what is playing on my phone (Rob begins freaking out around the :38 second mark):



So, it turns out that Robinson used his chubby little paws to add the Video Player app to the home screen of my phone. He then opened the Video Player and chose "Snooki Comes to South Park" from a list of videos on the main screen. It also turns out that Snooki offends Robinson's delicate sensibilities. Like mother, like son.

*Only as I'm proofreading this post for the third time do I realize that when my child was screaming in panic, I ran across the room and picked up the phone. Then I picked up the child. Submit this post with my Mother of the Year nomination.

Two Mutts and a Baby

Thanks to my monthly "Robinson and Laney" photo session, history will remember Laney and Robinson as best buddies. This is the untold story.

Libby thinks she is Robinson's nanny. She sits nearby and watches over him as he plays. She gamely allows him to tug her hair and pat her on the head. If Robinson spits up, Libby is cleaning him up faster than I am. It's gross. If he cries, she gives him kisses to comfort him. When that doesn't work, she finds me, to make sure I'm doing something about it.

Libby is either on the run from the law, or she's embarrassed to be seen with a baby, because she refuses to allow her photo to be taken with Robinson. I'm determined to capture at least one image of Robinson and Libby playing together for his baby book. She's making my job tough.

Libby just told Robinson a funny joke

He's laughing hysterically, but she's gone in an instant

 

Playing together

Guarding him to ensure his safety at all times

 They were playing until she saw the camera. She quickly moved to distance herself.

Libby just gave Robinson kisses 

Laney's attitude towards Robinson is...different. Laney is eight. She's been treated like a person her entire life. She's smart enough to recognize that Robinson's arrival has bumped her down a notch in the family pecking order. And what's so great about a stinky ol' baby anyway?

Laney cooperates with this monthly photo session for two reasons: 1. She enjoys having her picture taken. 2. She loves attention. She has come to resent her role as photo prop, but she begrudgingly complies.

Laney feels the same way about Robinson that The Office's Michael Scott feels about Toby Flenderson.

I'm sitting on the couch beside Laney, with Robinson in my lap. He reaches out and begins patting Laney's head and tugging her hair. She glares at him. I'm working to free her ear fur from his tightly clenched baby fists. He does it again. She grumbles. Rob waves his hand in the air. She takes his hand in her mouth and just holds it there. She looks me in the eye as if to say "Do you see what I could do to him?" Duly noted. I banish her from the couch and give her the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. I've learned through the years that Laney views being shunned as the worst punishment.

A couple days later, I'm sitting in the floor with Robinson and Libby. We're all playing together, and I'm praising Libby and giving her hugs for being so sweet to Robinson. Laney is watching us from across the room, seething. She gets up, walks over to us, sits up straight and tall with her head held high, and then--with as much affection as she can muster--she gently rests one paw on top of Robinson's head. Then she looks at me. It's as if Laney is saying to me (in Janeane Garofalo's emotionless monotone voice):

"Boy, I tell you what. I've never considered myself a 'baby' person, but with one as adorable as little Robert here, I can't help but love him. It must melt your heart to witness this tender moment between a boy and his dog. I bet it makes you want to cook me an omelet. Maybe take me for a walk."