May 31, 2006

my dryer won’t, and other reasons I wish I were Carrie Bradshaw

I may well be the last girl in America still addicted to Sex and the City. And yes, some substantial portion of my obsession has to do with my inexplicable attraction to Chris Noth, an attraction that dates back to the early days of Law and Order, but doesn’t extend to his new gig on Criminal Intent, for whatever reason. It’s not Chris Noth I want; it’s Mr. Big.

Seriously, how can you NOT love Big? The bespoke suits, the town cars, the APARTMENT for god’s sake.

Big wasn’t just a boyfriend; he was a lifestyle. A really sexy lifestyle. One that didn’t include any food served in nugget form or furniture made out of plastic or a daytime bag the size of New Hampshire. Big was about swank restaurants and fabulous shoes and incredible sexual tension.

That’s what I want.

My day has been, among other things, about a dryer that doesn’t dry; the dryer, however, is both the most AND least sexy thing going on at my house. There is nothing sexy about wet laundry, particularly with two small boys who seem to be human dirt magnets, but there IS something sexy about a man who, when he hears about the broken dryer, says, without batting an eye, “Let’s get a new one! Tomorrow! And have them haul this one away.”

I love my husband. That’s not what this is about.

I envy Carrie Bradshaw (yes, I realize she’s a fictional character, just go with me here, it’s been a long day of wet laundry)–I envy Carrie because she has the luxury to mull endlessly about her relationships, to think about who said what and when and why. I envy her because when she goes on a date, she throws herself into it–the clothes, the shoes, the speculation about whether she will or won’t have sex. She never has to worry about the sitter showing up late, or the kids crying when she leaves or maybe still being awake when she comes home.

So maybe this really IS about how much I love my husband.

When I met Wade, I fell immediately and completely in love with him. He was smart and funny and sexy. He still is, but now we have two kids and a mortgage and very little time to lounge around and read the New York Times in our underwear or drink coffee and talk about the origins of rhetoric or The Simpsons or Jane Austen’s influence on Patrick O’Brian. Or to fantasize about our future. When we go on a date (which, honestly, isn’t often enough and involves more planning than the invasion of Iraq), we talk about what’s new with the kids or our investments or my plans to return to work and how that might influence where we buy our next house. And while it is reassuring and still romantic, it’s not the same.

It’s not dinner with Mr. Big.

I want to have a Carrie Bradshaw date, the kind she had with Big–I want to wear the Naked Dress and not even make it to the swank restaurant. I want to go back to the part of my life where this relationship, with this man I adore, was everything. I want to be Carrie Bradshaw for just one weekend–I want to drink too much and wear fabulous shoes and be with this incredibly sexy man who absolutely is The One.

And I want Carrie’s cleavage, while I’m at it. Because the Naked Dress looks better with the cleavage.

Drink of the day: the tartini (or the Tangier tartini, if you prefer grapefruit). Bottoms up!

May 30, 2006

booze, boobs, and babies (of the water variety); or, How I Spent Memorial Day Weekend

Look! It’s my fabulous Fussy tee! The shirt showed up about 36 hours after I broke the camera, thus preventing me from properly and publicly saying THANK YOU to Mrs. Kennedy, and telling her how much I love it because it’s cool and it makes my boobs look bigger!

Yes, really. That is a GREAT shot of my cleavage. Isn’t that sad?

Today, to entertain myself, I Googled “bra size calculator” and then went to about ten different sites to see what size bra I should be wearing. I got everything from “size 36 (does not require a bra)” to a 34B, which seems overly optimistic to me, to “ERROR our system does not recognize the numbers you have inputted.” Mostly, though, I seem to be a 34AA, although the three sites that told me that ALSO told me that they don’t carry bras in that size.

Like I didn’t already know that.

For the most part, I don’t mind being flat chested, but swimsuit season is always a nightmare. It is nearly impossible for me to find suits that fit both my Mom Ass and my pre-teen boobs. One piece suits are out of the question, as is virtually any suit with built-in padding (which is REALLY depressing, because if ANYONE could use some padding, it’s me). I can find bikinis that fit, but seriously, who wants to see me in a bikini? (Keep it to yourself there.) This weekend, I managed to find a basic black tankini, although I tried on no fewer than TEN size SMALL tops before I found one that fit (I love that the SAME article of clothing in the SAME size and color can fit so differently–no, actually, I don’t).

We went to the pool on Saturday, which was lots of fun if you don’t count the fact that I got a sunburn, right in the middle of my back. The boys had a huge time; Henry jumped right in and started swimming, and Charlie discovered that he can touch the bottom in the shallow end of the big pool this summer, which is a little sad because THIS year, when my kids seem to have outgrown the baby pool, the club has installed a fantastic umbrella to shade the deck next to the baby pool–you know, so that all the mommies don’t have to sit in the sun while their kids swim. Like I’ve done for the past THREE YEARS.

It’s a good thing I found a swimsuit that fits, because I’ll be in the water ALL SUMMER, apparently.

Charlie does his best Michael Jordan impression.

You’ve gotta love those goggles.

Henry and Charlie check out a cute little girl in the baby pool, while Wade checks out a cute big girl on the deck.

We swam and ate and drank and ate and played at the park and ate and watched movies and ATE and drank and drank and drank. Oh, and Wade worked, which kind of sucked for him, and I went shopping, which would have been really fun except that I was shopping for a bathing suit, which just made me wish I had eaten less. And also made me want a stiff drink.

Speaking of stiff drinks, everyone needs to go back to the comments for this entry and see Adria’s drink suggestion. You also need to pick up some margarita mix at Williams Sonoma and try that out (shake them up your martini shaker, of course). And don’t forget about Ramblin’ Educat’s margarita slushies.

Margaritas for everyone! And I’ll be sporting my Fussy tee at the pool, because my boobs can use all the help they can get.

May 26, 2006

this weekend, I plan to . . .

. . . take my kids to the pool (which will involve wearing a BATHING SUIT oh my god let’s not dwell on that), eat some ice cream (thus my dilemma with the swimsuit), sit in the shade at the park (and maybe read a book! or a magazine! while WADE plays with the kids!), drink something icy and delicious (frappucino? margarita? both! but not together because eeew), love on my sister-in-law’s baby (all fourteen pounds of him), visit with my husband, have coffee with my friend Caroline, sleep late, write, eat, relax.

Really, I’m just planning to show up and hope everything else takes care of itself. Because that’s what summer is all about.

Mostly, though, I just hope to see a lot of this:

Happy first weekend of summer! What do YOU have planned this weekend?

Homestead has posted an update on Nadine. Think of her–and her family–this weekend, and SEND THOSE CARDS. And if I haven’t already said it, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.