Sarah Santucci

So, we’re married!

You’d think that alone would have been cause for me to return to my blogging ways, but as it turns out, I took that particular story to another blog. Since my zeal for blogging has been on a downward trajectory for years, I wasn’t sure I’d continue on here. But, as it turns out, I am not totally out of Very Important Things To Say.

In which case, let’s catch up.

I haven’t posted in a year. Here’s what happened:

We Got Engaged:

For me, being engaged was incredible. No one really tells you this; all you really hear about is how hard and stressful it is to plan a wedding. And I suppose that’s true, but being engaged is also just completely tops. There was always something to look forward to! Nearly every month there was a major happy event: a bridal shower, an engagement party, multiple visits home to New Hampshire, a visit from my mom and sister to take me dress shopping, a trip with my folks to meet Jon’s parents in New Jersey. Bountiful phone calls with family and friends, hours spent curled up reading Martha Stewart Weddings, stealing ideas from other brides and envisioning the day. Stuffing envelopes with my fiance and being completely grateful that he wanted to be so involved, because I sure as hell couldn’t have done it alone.

I ate it up. Along with everything else, apparently, which might explain why I am the only bride in all history to not drop a dress size or two prior to the big day.

(Whoooooops, I forgot to get skinny. Oh well. I can state with certainty that had I been able to force myself into something resembling in shape in time for my wedding, our engagement would have been approximately 63% less fun. And who wants that?)

We Got Married:

Again, just see here. Pictures, my thoughts on the day, some touchy-feely treacle. Whole nine yards.

Also, this was our first dance song, and I think it sums up my feelings, which is why I cribbed the lyric for my post title.

We Went To Hawaii:

Our honeymoon; well, I cannot do it justice. Should you ever have the opportunity to spend almost two weeks (or any time at all, really) in Hawaii, just do it. Kauai was jaw-dropping. Honolulu was bustling. The North Shore is a place I’d like to return and spend more time (if only for the shave ice, because hello? Delicious.). Even the parts that weren’t so great were great. I didn’t care much for Oahu, but it still had some of my favorite parts of the trip, like seeking out local eateries (tater tot nachos, anyone?), watching surfers, and visiting “LOST” filming locations in a giant Hummer. Just go.

I Got A New Job:

This part happened at the exact same time as the wedding and honeymoon, and yet it still managed to be a fairly seamless transition. This is probably due to my new gig being pretty awesome. Want to talk about business? Find me here.

Married Life:

If you’ll allow me another musical indulgence, at my wedding I walked down the aisle to this ditty from “UP!” How I made it down the aisle without bursting into tears is beyond me.

The biggest lesson I’ve taken from four months of marriage (four months today actually!) is that changing your name is a massive pain, the unsolicited uterus inquiries begin the moment you say “I do,” and that I was all wrong to be so worried about my parents fighting when I was a kid.

For reals, married people fight. And it’s completely, totally, fine. Sometimes it’s even fun. I kind of want to smack my 8 year-old self upside the head for being such a weenie, especially when you factor in that my parents didn’t even fight that much, if you really think about it. And that their marriage is and always has been terrific, even with the occasional war of words.

But when you’re a little kid, and you hear your parents yelling downstairs at night (when you’re supposed to be sleeping but are actually huddled up next to the not-so-bright glow of your alarm clock hoping it will cast enough light onto your Sweet Valley High book that you can get through the chapter and find out whether or not Elizabeth and Todd are like, broken up for real this time), it’s completely traumatic. It’s omgtheyaregettingdivorcedtomorrow!

I remember one time when my parents were bickering, my sister tearfully asking from the back seat of Ye Olde Minivan whether or not they were getting divorced. My mom’s completely exasperated reply: “If you ask me that one more time, I swear I’m going to just go out and do it!”

Granted, this is not a nice thing to say to your tearful young daughter. Then again, my sister was always a bit melodramatic and I’m pretty sure she asked this question every time my parents had so much as a minor disagreement. Which is just ridiculous. The way I figure, in the absence of deep problems that require more serious attention, most things married people fight about are completely inane. Here’s a sampling of things we’ve fought about, in fights ranging from the minor gripe to the door-slamming, silent-treatment giving, storming out of the house for a cool-off, yell-fest. And you’d be surprised about which is which:

Things We’ve Fought About Since The Wedding:

The toilet seat (duh)
Toilet paper (what is it with the toilet, right?)
The kitty litter box*
Thank you cards
Parking spots
Chicken Parmesan
Grey’s Anatomy
A cardigan
Shampoo
Modern Warfare (ha!)
Sleeping positions**
Nail clippers
Meatballs
Using military time

There is no need for you to know the details of these fights, of course. I just have been reflecting on a couple of my parents’ especially big barn burners from my childhood (including one that resulted in a dented sauce pan that turned into a beloved family artifact that I can’t believe I sold, along with all my other pots and pans, in a moving sale a couple years back), and truly understanding how something so silly (in the case of the sauce pan, I believe it was a family fire drill that went awry) can turn into a screaming match.

In short, when you love someone that much and live with them for long enough, somehow a discussion about the family smoke detector can turn into a five alarm fire, if you’ll forgive the terrible metaphor.

So mom, if you’re reading this, forgive me for being such a weenie. I’m sure my kids will take their revenge by asking me, repeatedly, whether we are getting divorced every time Jon and I snark at each other over changing that damn toilet paper roll.

*We managed to solve this one in an epic win of Marital Negotiation: as long as the toilet seat remains down, dealing with the litter box will never be a Husbandly Duty. Should the toilet seat find its way up on any given day? The very next day said husband will be on Scooping Patrol. So far he that toilet seat has been down every. single. day.

**An illustration of how having a king size bed really doesn’t solve the problem of needing lots of space to stretch out in:

People have been expecting a detailed engagement post. Oh, did I mention we got engaged? We did. Here’s all you need to know:

It was in New York City at Christmastime, and Snooki was there. I mean is that epic or what? Okay fine, the rest of the story can be found at our awesome wedding website, about which I have no qualms in pimping, because it kind of took a long time. So go check it out, I’ll wait.

~waits a reasonable amount of time for you to be wowed by our very ordinary wedding website~

Oh, but did you turn the sound on? Jon added the song. He’s very proud. Now you should go back and check it out again so you can hear the song.

~humming~

Ah, you’re back. So, here are the top three questions I’ve received since getting engaged:

- When is the wedding!??? (No joke, it’s not a cliche, that starts the exact moment you put on the ring. We were in public, and some nice yentas surrounded us to congratulate us, and immediately inquire about when the big day would be and whether they would, as our official engagement witnesses, be invited. Hoo boy.) (It’s September 24.) (That is either an excellently lengthed engagement or excessively short, depending on who you ask.)

- Are you changing your name? As a well known feminist crank, I am still in deep thought about this question. Most people ask it with a great deal of amusement, and most people cackle as though they themselves personally have acheived a great victory against women’s rights when I tell them that I’m about 98.3% certain that this blog will soon be sporadically updated with semi-amusing and poorly drawn cartoons under the name SarahSantucci.com. What can I say? Maybe I am old fashioned at heart after all. Bring on the bon bons!

- Are you fighting about the wedding yet? Uhhhhh….

And of course, there’s the obligatory frenzied weight loss efforts. Which so far, have not exactly been successful.

But all in all, it’s been pretty great. I couldn’t be happier, and maybe now you will leave me alone about writing about my wedding plans!

I have developed, in my unbridled lust for autumn finally showing itself in DC after months of humid, sticky, historically disgusting summer weather, a real love affair with Maple Pumpkin Butter.

It’s rich, sweet without being sickly so, fat-free, and delicious on everything from toast to fruit to oatmeal. I love it. I love it so much, in fact, that I texted my sister, who also enjoys finding good healthy snacks (especially now that she’s a mom), a picture of it to share in the delightfulness and wonder that is Pumpkin Butter.

Yummy and nutritious!

Too bad I don’t think I can ever eat it again.

Lately, my sister has taken to amusing herself on occasion by texting me “hilarious” photos of my 2-month old nephew’s dirty diapers. In my opinion this only shores up my long-held belief that it was not actually me who had the fecal fixation as a child.

I myself drew one (ONE!) picture of a horsey moving its bowels in kindergarten (what 5-year old wouldn’t want to document in crayon the first time she, on a trip to Benson’s Animal Farm, saw that particular act of nature?), and have borne the brunt of my family’s poo jokes ever since. It’s been a quarter of a century, and my dad still thrills in telling my boyfriend about “Sarah’s drawing of a horse with poop coming out its butt!”

Meanwhile, my sister is the one who broke into my diaper pail as a toddler and used it to draw on the walls of my nursery, along with several other poo-related incidents that I won’t even share here. And now with the texts.

But what on Earth does all of this have to do with my love for pumpkin butter?

Well, see below.

My pumpkin butter photo ended up on the same screen with her dirty diaper photo, and I am now forever traumatized. Stupid iPhone.

(See last year’s Merry Ch(aos)ristmas!)

“No, don’t buy that, it needs to be Blu-Ray.”
“What’s a Blu Ray?”
“I don’t actually know, I just know that’s what we need.”
“Well I don’t get why, when it’s right here.”
“No, that’s a DVD!”
“I just don’t–”
“You can play Blu Rays on a DVD, you just can’t play DVDs on a Blu Ray. Wait, is that right?”
“Let’s just get a gift card.”

“Why are you adding corn starch to that?”
“Because it’s in the recipe, silly.”
“Yeah but you really should have added the milk first.”
“I’m doing it this way.”
“You really should add the milk.”
“I’m going to add the milk to your FACE in about–”

“Oooh, yum, good dip!”
“DIP!?!?”
“Oh, hush you–”
“No. There is no DIP coming into this house.”
“It’s clam dip! Mmm—”
“NO.”
“You really need to get over this dip issue of yours.”
“NO. NO DIP!!!”
(For reference, this feud between my aunt and father over the proper amount of dip to serve at the holidays has been going on, I’m not even joking, for decades. Her dip is really good though, so she always wins.)

“This bread is frozen.”
“Yeah, it’s easier to make them that way.”
“Yeah but if it’s frozen why does it have mold on it?”
“It doesn’t!”
“Oh, ok so bread is SUPPOSED to have blue spots.”
“OH, that’s not the frozen bread that’s the bread I used to make Grammie and Grandpa’s sandwiches.”
“Uhh….”
“What?….Oh. Ooops.”

Unlike last Christmas, I am crazy, chockerblock, shoot mistletoe up your butt til it comes out your ears, full of holiday spirit this year. Maybe I’m just in a better mood this year than last. Maybe it’s because I am not single at present and won’t have to get any “oh well I’m sure you’ll meet someone who enjoys corpulent, sarcastic misanthropes eventually, Sarah” remarks from family members. Maybe it’s a sugar-cookie induced psychotic episode. But I am psyched, just psyched, for Christmas.

I decorated the apartment. I’ve been burning smelly, pine-scented, candles. I’ve even been contemplating getting Christmas outfits for the kitties.

Okay, maybe not.

Regardless, I love Christmas. I’m going to force my boyfriend to watch “Elf” with me on Friday night, as (blasphemy!) he’s never seen it. I assume he’s next going to tell me that he hates freedom, cupcakes, freedom cupcakes, and everything else in the world that is awesome.

Speaking of “Elf,” let’s do a list!

Top Ten Favorite Holiday Movies That Aren’t “A Christmas Story”

(You love “A Christmas Story”, I love “A Christmas Story”. We ALL love it. Let’s see if we can do this list without it, shall we?)

10) Babes in Toyland – There have been several versions, I believe. But this 1986 version with Drew Barrymore, Keanu Reeves, and Mr. Miyagi as the Toymaster? Tour de force on all counts, and VERY 80s. Not convinced? There’s an entire song in it all about the awesomeness of….Cincinnati.

9) “The Family Stone” – I am surprised by how much I enjoy this movie. I don’t really like Sarah Jessica Parker, and she’s the main character. They don’t give Rachel McAdams nearly enough screen time or bitchy remarks at SJP’s expense, and Luke Wilson is sorely underserved by the script (though does have a spectacular moment in which he is clearly going commando in his sweatpants). To say nothing of the involvement of the truly vile Dermot Mulroney, who will forever encapsulate the “douche that women fight over in movies even though he is not even worth the nailpolish they will chip during the catfight for his affections”. And yet? I freaking LOVE this movie. It’s just so Christmasy! And it makes you cry! And the DVD has a recipe for a delicious sounding quichey thing they make in the movie that ends up splattering all over everyone! It’s just really good. Plus I liked the poster–hehe.

8. “A Muppet Christmas Carol” – Um, hello? Statler and Waldorf as Marley? Genius.

7) Speaking of takes on “A Christmas Carol,” – “Scrooged” – This movie was made before the Bill Murray renaissance of the last few years, in which he has Vince Vaughned himself into the “playing the same role in every movie” mold so much that I’m almost experiencing a personal Bill Murray backlash. But when in doubt, I can always consult “Scrooged.” Classic!

6) “Gremlins” – No one ever thinks of this as a holiday movie! Everyone forgets that Gizmo started out as the world’s best Christmas present! You know, before the whole water thing resulting in Gremlins springing out of his back and trying to eat everyone. And you should love this movie based on the sequel alone, which stands as one of the most underrated sequels in movie history, and the first since “Godfather II” that honestly blows the original out of the water.

5) “Bad Santa” – Not even the sight of Lorelai Gilmore as a woman with a Santa fetish can diminish my love for this movie. Not even Billy Bob Thornton torturing some poor radio host interviewing his band and comparing himself to Tom Petty (snerk) can diminish it. It’s just that good.

4) “Love Actually” – I watch this movie approximately 5 to 7 times per Christmas season. This season I made my mom watch it with me, and even her repeated inquiries as to who was who, who was with whom, and whether Hugh Grant was the prime minister or Emma Thompson’s husband (repeated, repeated inquiries) couldn’t spoil it for me. That’s how it cracked the top five.

3) “It’s a Wonderful Life” – I know, I know. (No seriously, I know.) But despite all my sister’s repeated claims that I am a stone-hearted Grinch without a soul, this movie makes me weep every time. I’m powerless against it. I get choked up thinking about it, so we’d better move on before it gets dusty in here.

2) “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” speaks for itself with the cord-chewing wrapped up cat exploding.

1) “Elf” – “Did you HEAR that?”

5:40 a.m., Old Town

“You realize it’s still dark out, right now, right? And we’re about to run around and up and down hills and such? Dark out.”

“Yeah! Isn’t it great!?”

“Are we expanding the definition of ‘great’ to include ‘ridiculous’ and ‘nauseating’?”

“You’ll be so glad to have it done and out of the way!”

“I’ll be so glad when I can go back to bed. And what is this? Seriously, I thought the advantage of exercising before dawn was that it’s nice and cool. The air feels like pea soup mixed with phlegm.”

“Well, just imagine how much worse it would be if the sun were out!”

“This is supposed to comfort me? I’m going to end up like that rat in The Abyss that they made breathe in the liquid oxygen. That rat wasn’t too happy.”

“Maybe not, but it survived.”

“Damn you.”

HALP!!!!!

In related news, I received the following email from my dad last week. Now we see where I get it from.

“Wow.   I knew I was in bad shape as I have done nothing for some time now.  Did not realize how bad it was, but am determined to do something about it….again.  I took my man boobed, muffin top body to the treadmill yesterday at my hotel in GA and gave her hell for twenty two minutes (that means a fast walk with varied inclines).  After narrowly avoiding a major quad cramp, I survived.  So sore today, could not face treadmill, so I brilliantly went to the hotel pool, a small affair outside, but it is a nice day.  Water was warm, and while I never swam competitively, I know how to swim.  Nobody was mistaking me for Michael Phelps as I looked more like the turd from Caddyshack having a seizure as I wheezed my way across the pool with a vicious breast stroke.  Laps and lengths be damned in this event, I  carried on for my twenty plus minutes, and now am totally crippled.  Capped it off with a few sit ups on the incline board and can’t even laugh at how pathetic this situation is as the painful abs revolt.   Upside is I worked up an appetite, and a thirst so tall it casts a shadow.”

I know the feeling, Dad–but the thing is you’re pushing sixty and I’m supposed to be young and strong. After two days of Jillian Michael’s evil “Shred” and one early morning of cross training through Old Town, I am weak in the knees like Timer. I clearly need some cheese.

A slice, a slab, a chunk-a!

Hey, remember when I was training for the marathon? Yeah, technically, I still am. But in reality, I’ve been sidelined for weeks now and I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to do it. My sister claims otherwise. By the plantar fasciitis pain coursing through my foot right now after a morning that included only some running (and also some stairs and some hills and lots of power walking after two girls who claim to not be in great shape but, uh, are) is really saying otherwise.

Regardless, I guess it’s time to get ready for work, to say nothing of my currently desperate coffee situation that needs attending to.

Driving a Duck Boat

I have admit, while I am much happier in DC, I miss living in the same state as my mom. Back home I had easy access to lunches and shopping and manicures and mojitos whenever I wanted. My mom is in her late 50s, but probably still one of the coolest chicks to hang out with.

Even if she does give me a hard time about my domestic failings, she manages to refrain from giving me a hard time about just about everything else that’s wrong with my big, dumb, life. And for that, I am grateful. She’s also totally trendy, loves Coach bags and highlights and fun shoes, tries to like the movies I recommend, and can hold her own drinking beers and playing cards until 2 am. She’s the coolest.

I’m not really into shmoopy sentiments, and frankly neither is she–a true Mainer, after all. And so I’ll just say Happy Mother’s Day, to Brenda (aka Mean Mouse), the coolest mom ever. And probably the best shoe shopping/mojito drinking partner I could ask for.

I’m a big fan of Meg Fowler’s blog–she’s funny as hell and writes about interesting things, but she also does one of my favorite blog staples really well. List writing! I don’t know why, in the last couple weeks when I’ve been a bit tapped out for things to write about, I didn’t turn to list-making sooner.

Meg usually calls them “love lists,” so here’s a list, with full hat-tip to Ms. Fowler, of things I’m Loving This Lazy Saturday:

Corn Pops–I took some grief from a couple different people for mentioning eating Corn Pops in my Facebook status update. What’s wrong with Corn Pops? They’re delightful! Let me tell you something, I go on plenty of health kicks from time to time where I will only buy Kashi. If you have ever gathered up a bunch of twigs and pine needles to make a fire, except instead of making a fire, dumped them into a bowl and poured milk over them, then you know what Kashi tastes like. I reserve my right to corn pops!

Moving on with the rest of the list:

- Chipotle guacamole
- New bright green springy handbag from Target
- New living room chair! (Which is this one but with a totally different color pattern.)
- Convertible weather on the horizon
- Irish drinking songs
- Jameson
- Being Elaine
- Plans for summer
- Liz Lemon (yes, this is 9 minutes long, but WORTH it)

- Jack Donaghy

- The smell of fertilizer in my building’s courtyard (”stings the nostrils!” but means that soon there will be flowers)
- Pandora
- New Blackberry–still longing for an iPhone, but it’s an upgrade I am psyched about!
- Underdogs and Upsets
- Candles that smell like clean clothes (how do they DO that?)
- Back cracks (James, why do I have to do this alone? When are you done chiropractor school again? I need adjusting!)
- Scandalous behavior
- Rationalizations
- Coach Taylor:

- My mom, who came to see me while here on business, and agreed to split the cost of the chair so my living room would stop looking so barren!
- Breakup songs, for no reason in particular, as I’ve not been through one in a year. But I can’t stop listening to “More Like Her” on my iPod, make of that what you will. (Oooh, and “You’ll Think of Me“)
- Shooz
- The fact that there is a huge treasure trove of “fake ‘Lost’ opening credits” on YouTube that I only recently discovered. My fave:

(They also have “Veronica Mars” set to “Buffy” music, and while thinking of that, maybe I also present this, as I remain ever-hopeful that the VM movie WILL one day happen…le sigh.)

RIP, buddy.

This weekend, I took my cat Butters (diagnosed with incurable effusive FIP about a month ago) in to be put to sleep. I decided to go by myself despite requests from all my friends to come along for moral support. I’m not really good with the whole “public weeping” thing, no matter how much a situation calls for it. (You could cut off my arm, and if people I knew were present, I’d be sitting there trying to choke back the tears, because how embarrassing.)

It is written somewhere, mostly likely in the Official Sarah Wurrey Catalogue of Things That Are Crappy, that if you own more than one cat, the cooler one is most likely to meet its maker early. Or at least this has been my experience. Allow me to present, my Feline History of Death and Despair:

Example #1 – Rocky and Apollo.

Rocky and Apollo were my first childhood cats. While Rocky was a perfectly serviceable, if a bit persnickety, cat, Apollo was the absolute man. Dad called him as his “dog,” as he was prone to coming when called, playing fetch, and following my dad around like a puppy. (It is unclear if he also enjoyed wearing short-shorts and frolicking on the beach.) Like his namesake, he was cut down in his prime, albeit by kidney stones the size of cantaloupes rather than a taciturn Russian boxer (I like to think of the kidney stones as “Little Dragos”). All I remember about Apollo’s death is that my dad brought me and my sister candy after it was done, and it was the first time I ever saw him cry. I keep meaning to ask my dad if he dressed Apollo in a crazy Uncle Sam costume and listened to James Brown on the trip to the vet, which might have brought some much needed levity to the situation.

So while Apollo only made it to the age of 3 (a common trend, you’ll discover), Rocky lived a long and nice life, killing rodents and one day growing so fat she became unable to keep her backside clean, leaving little “Rocky Roads” all over the window sills and making my mom nuts. It is unclear why she chose to refrain from moving to Russia, growing some disturbing facial hair and single handedly ending the Cold War.

Example #2 – Roo and Tucker

After Rocky’s ultimate demise when I was about 13, we got two new kittens. I named mine Tucker for no reason whatsoever, and it quickly became clear that Tucker was basically the greatest cat since Apollo (once we got rid of his humping issues…Prior to being fixed he was really fond of violating blankets, there are some nice afghans my grandmother knitted that really, will just never be the same). Although even after the old “snip snip,” he would still curl up in a blanket and knead it with his paws as if he were making biscuits, and try to suck milk out of it–this compulsion was his only real downfall as a cat, because he ended up having hairball issues due to his love of the nonexistent afghan breast milk.

Regardless, he was a huge weirdo, and also totally awesome. He liked sleeping in the sink, stretching out on the floor with his back legs extended behind him, and following me around on my bike like a dog (another dog-like cat!). He would also wrap his paws around your neck like a little kid when you picked him up, which totally killed me. Roo, my sister’s cat, was also quite cute and loveable and all that, but she had about one tenth of Tucker’s personality. So naturally, he croaked a the age of 3 after getting hit by a car. Second time I ever saw my dad cry. Roo would live to be about 13. How is this fair?

Example #3 – Butters and Chloe

I decided to adopt a two shelter kitties a couple years ago, almost on a whim. I guess I just missed having cats around, and probably hated how clean and puke-free my carpets were and how un-ripped up my furniture. I wanted to name them Jack and Chloe after my favorite terrorism-fighting duo on “24,” but it became clear, no matter how much butt she may have kicked, Butters was no Jack Bauer. So I named her after another goofy-yet-loveable TV character. (Chloe, on the other hand, was a perfect fit for her namesake, snooty and full of herself, and lacking social skills.)

Butters had only half a tail, and some would argue half a brain. She would chase the laser pointer in a circle until she dropped, could never figure out the best way to drink water (her preferred method was to dunk her paw into the bowl and lick it one drop at a time, and wagging her little half a tail rapidly back and forth like a dog when she was pleased. When she and Chloe would play fight, her standard move was to drop immediately to her back and use her back feet as waving defensive thumpers (this never, ever worked, and Chloe was always, always victorious). She also was the apparent guard dog of the bed, keeping it safe from the evils of those “feet” things that would move around under the blankets (always a fun treat at 3 in the morning).

These clothes didn't seem to have any hairs on them. Just fixing that for you.

She was just a really fun, cute, ridiculous, awesome cat. So naturally, at age 3, she’s gone. Feline Infectious Peritonitis. 100% fatal, rapidly advancing, one second cat’s fine, next thing you know you’re signing the form to authorize the “procedure.”

RIP, Butters, you were cursed by your own coolness. Tell Apollo and Tucker I said what’s up.

Tonight, I bought an iron.

“Um, Wurrey, aren’t you 29 years old?”

Yes! Yes, I am.

“So….you honestly didn’t own an iron until now?”

What? Isn’t that why God invented dry cleaners?

“Yeah, but when was the last time you did your dry cleaning?

Oh. Okay, so check it. I don’t really iron. What?

I am always presentable, I actually do enjoy wearing nice things, and I personally don’t think I ever look gross or rumpled or unkempt. Well, at least not when it’s unacceptable, I make no excuses for the delightful “drunken hobo” outfits I tend to sport at, say, the gym, or the grocery store, or dinner at my parents’ house (see, you think that’s a joke, but the number of times my mother has said the words to me, “What are you wearing?” upon arriving at home, well…).

And let’s face it, the fact I look as good as I do as often as I do is nothing less than a five-star miracle. I used to think I’d like to be a full-time freelance writer and work from home, but I’m fairly certain if I did I’d end up owning nothing but Homer Simpson mumus and never leaving the house.

Not a good look for me.

But it occurs to me that my FAIL at domesticity is comprehensive, rather than ironing-specific.

Cooking:

My pots and pans are all from the early 80s, when my parents purchased them. They are my own personal antique collection, complete with the funny story accompanying the dent on one of the saucpans–acheived when it hit the wall after barely missing my dad’s melon. We Wurrey women are hot tamales, okay?

I love these pots and pans, but they are ancient–so it’s probably a good thing they don’t really get used for cooking. Example: We attempted to use the amazing “Batter Blaster” to make pancakes in my 25 year old frying pan when my friends were visiting a couple of weeks ago, with purely disastrous results. They blamed my pots and pans, I blame the Batter Blaster. Which is a shame, because it seems like such a brilliant concept.

Batter blaster aside, my attempts at cooking generally skew between “minor gastrointestinal distress” to “moderate kitchen fire,” and that’s just when I try to like, boil water for pasta.

The cooking gene, I no has it.

And honestly? I could give a crap–I work until 6ish, sometimes go out after, sometimes go to the gym after, my average arrival time back at the homestead is between 7 and 8, why would I take an hour to make dinner, then have to eat it at 9pm, which everyone says is bad to do, and then spend another freaking half an hour cleaning up after the dinner and then it’s 10 o’freaking-clock and I’ve missed “Lost.” I don’t think so.

Cleaning:

I am not a slob. My apartment is very cute and always looks fine. I clean, but it’s like…something is always wrong. The vacuum clogs or breaks (I’ve gone through three vacuum cleaners in two years, no lie, and let me tell you what, those things don’t come cheap. I’ve spent enough of on vacuum cleaners to get at least one pair of Louboutins, and that ish is not fair–which would YOU rather have?). No matter how much I swiffer and sweep and scrub, there always manages to be stray dust or kitty hair somewhere. Me and a spic and span perfect apartment? Just doesn’t seem to want to be.

Maybe it’s all a part of having cats; kind of hard to keep a clean house when you have to put a box of poo in the corner.

Laundry:

I own a fairly neverending supply of underwear and a fairly large wardrobe for the sole purpose that I despise doing laundry. It’s just such a pain. Especially when the laundry room is in the basement, and is frequently either crowded or populated by weirdos (okay, that was more true in my old building than in my current one).

And yet, every time I let it pile up, then ultimately break down and do it, I say to myself, “This time will be the time that I keep on top of it! This time will be the time that it will not take one of those giant-sized Hefty lawn bags to transport everything down to the laundry room! This time, I swearz!”

And yet…fail.

Please, no one tell my mom about this post, she already thinks she’s failed as a mother somehow just because of my complete inability to make a bed properly or fold up a fitted sheet.

Sigh. Wait–is this why I’m still single?