In keeping with tradition, we continue with our series of WORST HALLOWEEN PICTURES EVER.  The Mister and I love the peacock costume and when Mikey wore it, he loved it, too.  But Nicholas?  You would have thought I was poking his testicles with hot pokers the way he was protesting–and if you ask my brother in law, putting a boy in this costume isn’t much different.

Lucky for Captain Testosterone, I had Mikey’s old puppy dog costume shoved in the back of the closet underneath a pile of swim suits and beach towels.  After I shook the dust off, I crammed Nico’s near-three years of toddler into a costume sized for an 18 month old.  Have you ever seen a terrier wear capris?  You have now.

In other news, if you are old enough to, I don’t know, claim dependents on your taxes, don’t trick-or-treat at our house because The Mister and I will call you out on your douche-baggery.  Just ask the twenty something year old guy who strolled up wearing jeans and a sweater.

“Trick or Treat,” he claimed as he held open a bulging pillow case.  The Mister was not impressed.

“Dude.  What are you even supposed to be?”

Twenty something year old guy delicately extended a foot in The Mister’s direction to show him his worn Vans.  “I’m a skater dude.”

“Well, skate or die, bro.  Happy Halloween.”

Want more proof of our hostility?  Track down the Suburban filled with twelve families that would stop at each block, walk a few houses, and then drive 20 feet to the next block.  I’m sure they will advise you to heed our warning.  Hey, we all know I’m the laziest when it comes to exercise but, really?  You can’t walk on Halloween?  If you’re feeling a bit weak, start gnawing on the Smarties bouncing around in that Santa Claus-sized sack of candy and chase it with a Jolt or whatever it is you have rolling around under the seats of your Halloween Chariot.  In other words: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.

So, The Mister gives the lazies their candy with a healthy dose of stink eye.  I can almost see the slides of power point presentation on juvenile diabetes escaping out of his ears like steam.  Even then, there was no need for them to worry until the forty year old matriarch of this band of sedentary travelers moved towards The Mister like a barge heading into the Panama Canal.

“Now, come on!  What?  Who?  What are you?”

“Nah, I’m not trick or treating.”

“You’re not?”  At this point The Mister could only look pointedly at her outstretched bag of candy.

“Nope.  I’m collecting.”

“Collecting?!”  Collecting?  Like a bookie?  Is this the mob?  Was she planning to shake us down for some bite-sized Snickers and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?

“Yeah, for her.  She twisted her ankle.”

Her.  I see.  Just one quick question: WHO IS HER?!  Is Her in the Suburban?  Is Her a child?  A dog?  A figment of our imagination?  Whoever Her is, we know she has a bum ankle.  I can only assume the weight of two hundred pounds of candy collected in 3 hours over 20 city miles crushed Her’s bones like dry twigs.  Much like you, you behemoth woman, have crushed our hopes and dreams that there exist people out there who won’t go to any means necessary for some free candy.

Don’t even get me started on the young couple who were trick or treating with the sleeping 6 month old…

There has been something weighing heavily on my mind.  I have remained silent on an issue in the interest of self preservation, trusting my silence would lead people to believe what they will.  Recently, though, I stumbled across a few blogs that led me to believe that I am not alone, and that some people actual revel in their wantonness. So I’m going to lay it all out on the table.  I don’t think Pottery Barn is all that bad.

Sinner.

I read the design blogs.  No self respecting design fan likes “Poverty Barn.”  It’s not really a beef with the store, I suppose, as it is with the overall aesthetic.  It’s homogenized.  It’s suburban.  It’s uninspired, impersonal, and pedestrian.  I get it, design people, I do.  But here is the thing–I kind of don’t really give a flying fig because I wouldn’t douse my living room in kerosene and strike a match if it looked like this:

Okay, maybe I would torch the lamps and that ridiculous trough o’ candles.  And the tables are kind of meh.  But other than that, it would be an uphill battle to convince me this look is so wretched as to inspire the diatribes I read online.

The same thing goes for this dining room.  I would gladly eat my Kashi Go Lean and fruit here after I took down that Count Dracula chandelier.

Really, it’s just not that awful.

Another sinful admission: my taste leans toward the traditional.  I think most modern furniture and decor is beautiful, but my tushy needs cushy.  I use tablecloths and cloth napkins.  I don’t like paper plates or plastic cups.  I have a 1960s grandma curio cabinet that I love because every single piece inside reminds me of a person or period in my life.

I’ve also been known to wear capris and drive an Expedition.  The horror!  The horror!

But, like I said earlier, I realized I am not alone–at least not on the internet.  At home it’s a different story because The Mister is a mid-century fan and would love to live in a spread out of Atomic Ranch.  In fact, it was after his seizure following my suggestion that we buy a sectional with rolled arms that I found my sisterhood.

First I found Melaine and her blog, My Sweet Savannah, by googling the ektorp sectional by IKEA.  Melaine bought the exact model I want (I am a sucker for ANYTHING linen) for her living room makeover.  Sadly, I can tell you she has about 25 pillows too many for The Mister on that sofa, but I still say her living room makeover on a reasonable budget looks lovely.

Speaking of reasonable budgets, I made sure to keep from The Mister the $10 kitchen remodel A. Ann from Resolved 2 Worship managed to pull out of left field.  It’s best that he doesn’t know things like this are possible because, truly, they aren’t.  Sure, I could do a room for $10, but only after I spent $57,000 on a creative personality transplant.

Layla from The Lettered Cottage seems like a very sincere, sweet girl, so when I saw her home was featured on Apartment Therapy my stomach dropped just a bit.  There is no harsher group of readers than that cantankerous bunch.  Many people had nice things to say, but there were a few of these:

I find the use of black and the ubiquitous baskets deeply repellent.

posted by monarda on September 12th 2009 at 8:04am
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That’s funny, monarda, because the use of ten dollar words like “ubiquitous” when referring to common baskets is also deeply repellent.

And there were also a few of these:

I had the same reaction as Alexis and Torgny — catalog-y and cliche. The lack of color is oppressive. The exception is the gorgeous wabi-sabi blue dresser in the guest room.

posted by mirandabee on September 12th 2009 at 6:50am
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The way my egg cracked for today’s breakfast was strangely appropriate.  I held the egg as I normally do, an egg similar in shape and size to the ones I normally use, and tapped it against the chopping block with the same force as always.  Still, the egg in my hand formed an odd vertical crack until the two halves lay in my right hand like an open silly putty container.  I blinked in surprise and, as the egg slid broken into the bowl, stared at the shell trying to figure out what went wrong.

That’s how I feel about my diet lately so, yes, it was strangely appropriate that my egg cracked as if it had a mind of its own.

My diet.  My stupid, confusing, mind-screwing diet.  I continue to eat correctly.  I don’t cheat.  I follow the rules and do everything else as usual and, yet, I am wallowing under a blanket of malcontent.  My grains are low glycemic, but I have yet to recapture the verve and vigor I had the first month.  I just don’t have energy.  I frequently feel cloudy and unmotivated.  I procrastinate more than usual and am loathe to get up from my desk chair and make myself lunch.  And, of course, I haven’t lost weight.

Diane warned me that the addition of grains would cause a water shift of about three pounds.  Three pounds that I would lose within a week or so.  It took me nearly three, and that’s only because I cut out two of the daily grain servings.  I have an appointment with her soon, so I added back the missing two grains in guilt.  Along with the grains, I regained the three pounds in water weight overnight.  This means I have not lost any weight this month.

Diane has a very normal, centered approach to food, so she is quick to remind me that a platueu is normal and healthy.  I am neither normal or centered when it comes to food, so a still scale is all but killing me.  I remind myself that my clothes seem a bit looser.  But then I consider that I wear the same jeans almost everyday because they are the only clothes that fit me.  For all I know, they are loose because I am wearing them threadbare.

I’m not obtuse enough to miss that my dissatisfaction with my diet coincides neatly with my plateau.  In fact, I am painfully aware of the coincidence and want to gnash my teeth in response to being so obsessed with the numbers on the scale.

When?  When will I have a normal response to food?  When will I pick up a simple banana and not recite in my head the calorie count and major vitamins and minerals?  When will I objectively watch my weight creep up three pounds and acknowledge it healthy and temporary?

When pigs fly, I suppose.

I have a short list. People who irritate me immediately simply by their appearance, mannerisms, or beliefs. Not exactly a charitable quality in me, but no one is perfect. Especially not the people on my short list.

My short list is, by definition, not terribly long and varies from year to year. People who once bothered me I find agreeable, fences mend, and I grow up. There is one type of person that seems to forever sit on my list. One person that, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t understand, tolerate, or pretend to like. I am talking about the label loving rock-star mom.

You know her. She’s in her early 40s and she has chunky highlights, either in blonde or something ridiculous, like purple. You know, because she’s young and hip and cool. She wears every label she owns all at once and drives a Hummer. To the mall. On her fingertips sit 3-inch long acrylic rectangles she occasionally uses to scratch a boob fill tight with 300 cc of saline. Her gum snaps, her lips flap, and she thinks she is incredibly hot. She is not.

I arrived at Weight Watchers several minutes early last Friday because the last few times the line moved slower than I do on a walk. By the time I cattle hearded my way through the line with the equally obese, the meeting was over. Normally this would not be a big deal, but I was due for a couple of goal related awards and, dammit, I wanted that sticker in my book.

This time the line was short, and before me flitted the leader of the short list. Some blonde thing in skin-tight stretch capris who, I figured, was here for her monthly maintenance weigh in before going off to exercise for three hours. She was actually a repeat offender–someone who started the program last year and was now back to lose the 3 extra ounces weighing her down. During her extended leave, she forgot all the Weight Watchers protocol, including where to pick up her book and where to stand while other people weighed in.

I was nice and friendly, even when she asked (loudly–they’re always loud) if she should be standing where I was, a 3×5 mat with the words PLEASE STAND HERE WHILE OTHERS ARE WEIGHING IN stamped boldly along its entire length.

I said, “Yes,” {moron}

Two stations opened up and we both walked up to get weighed. She went on and on about how she was back because she gained 15 pounds and even though her new husband said he would still love her no matter how fat she was, she couldn’t stand it.

I estimate she weighed about 138 pounds. A real lard ass, if you ask me.

She was there with her friend who has been doing the plan for two weeks. Her friend appeared to be a rotund 150 pounds. The two of them together are practically my goal weight.

As usual, I sat front row, left seat. They sat second row, diagonal to me. The talked to each other the entire meeting. Mainly it was blondie espousing all her diet tips. Her friend announced to the meeting that blondie was very smart and the master of diets and carbs. She was, like, practically a nutritional-ist.

But not so smart that she could avoid gaining 15 pounds in 9 months, right? I was good. I kept my mouth shut.

Until.

Until it was my turn to get an award and Donna, the meeting leader, asked me what was the hardest part of the plan. I spoke honestly, and said the hardest part is admitting what you can and can not do. I gave my popcorn example, and how I would pick at dinner so I could eat 7 points worth of popcorn.

Well, the entire room gasped. Which I found funny, because I doubt any of the people in the room grew their dimpled butts eating carrots. I ignored them. But I couldn’t ignore blondie. I noticed Donna looking behind me, and when I turned around I saw blondie looking at me with a mixture of disgust and revulsion. Like I was some creature that had just crawled from under a rock. The look on her face hurt me. A lot.

So, I pulled out a can of whup ass.

“You shouldn’t look so shocked and disgusted,” I said calmly. (Sort of. I could feel my blood begin to boil.) “A teaspoon of oil has 1 point. I use three tablespoons of oil (9 points) for 6 tablespoons of popcorn kernels that my husband and I share. It adds up.”

Donna chirped like a nervous bird, “That’s right! It adds up!” {ohcrap. ohcrap. ohcrap. pleasedon’tfight. pleasedon’tfight}

Blondie looked at me, still disgusted, and said, “I can’t staaaaaand oil.”

I looked at her, imagined her typical diet (a six pack of Michelob Ultra and an Atkins Bar) and responded, “I guess that’s what makes you better than me.”

And in that regard, maybe she is. Maybe she does have a better grip on snacking than I do. After all, she has 15 pounds to lose. I’ve already lost 16 pounds, and I can barely tell the difference. I can only assume I’m losing fat around my liver, because everything else looks the same.

But she’s still on my damn short list.

On Thursday, April 16, 2009, I stopped snacking and eating sugar.  Well, sort of.  I eat a fruit every morning.  And if I am really craving a sweet treat late at night, I drink a glass of Crystal Light.

I drink a glass of Crystal Light.  Hi, my name is Pathetic and I will be dining alone.  Table for one, please.

I went from eating fistfuls of popcorn and the occasional Reeses Peanut Butter Cup (Thanks, Easter!) to absolutely nothing.  Consequently, I’ve been a raging lunatic most of the week.  But, I’m complicated.  It’s not just white hot rage that has me crashing the hopes young children just because it’s fun to watch them cry. No, Mikey, YOU CAN’T have that chocolate bunny for breakfast!  HAHAHAHAHA!

No, my rage is a product of two things: withdrawals and intolerance for days on end pain.

Today is the first day I haven’t woken up with a headache since Thursday.  I’ve read sugar withdrawals (headaches, depression, anger, etc.) can last up to seven days, sometimes more, so I consider myself lucky.  I expect the sudden urge to kick a kitten only sporadically from here on out.  I credit the garage sale we had on Saturday for my speedy trip through detox.  So may losers, so little time.  I sized up each person that walked up our cracked driveway with the razor-like precision of a person without faults.  For one day only, I was perfect.  And ruthless.

Bonus points to the cocky Guatemalan guy who let me work out my childhood issues.  Dude, you thought you were bargaining for a set of four prints from Target, but IT WAS SO MUCH MORE.

That brings us to the present.  A beautiful day in southern California, and I’m eating strawberries and plain yogurt.  Happily.  I’m going to try my hand at some home improvement projects, do some writing, and enjoy my children more than I have the last few days.  Today is going to be a great day.

Yesterday I received an email from friend from law school.  She has two kids the same age Mikey and Nico.  I thought she was going to cancel our lunch date for the 3rd of April (turns out she needed to reschedule) but she also told me the firm she works at has a position open and she wants me to apply.  It’s a workman’s comp defense firm (one of the largest in California) and it’s 2.6 miles from my house.  The salary is very, very low, but they pay for my car, insurance, 401k, and all sorts of tempting perks.  All day I was excited, thinking my problems were solved until it hit me that in order for me to do this Nico and Mikey will be in daycare fulltime, most likely 12+ hours a day.

And then the nausea set in.

Then I crunched the numbers, and figured out daycare would take more than 50% of my salary.

Then I thought to ask her what her billable hours requirement* was, and she told me 300 per month.  I did the numbers quickly, and it looks like I would have to work (roughly) 14 billable hours per day in order to meet my 300 hour monthly minimum.  I sent her another email about this, and she confirmed my calculations, saying she bills 10 to 16 hours everyday, but that it is very manageable.

How is a 10 to 16 hour day manageable with two small children?  My friend supports her family, by the way.  Her husband recently started a business that, so far, has not been able to contribute to the family’s income.  She goes to work early, works all day, picks up the kids from daycare, makes the two hours before they go to bed all about them, and then works from her laptop until it’s time to go to bed.

Again, HOW IS THIS MANAGEABLE?  How do those of you who juggle work and family do it?  How do you afford daycare?  How do you do this 5+ days every week and not want to pull your hair out and gouge out your eyes with a mechanical pencil?  This scenario is a very real possibility for me if the Mister does not find a job that paid as well as his previous one.  The thought of subjugating 10-16 hours my life everyday for a firm…for a job…makes me feel claustrophobic and out of control.

And then I feel despondent when I think of the Mister and thousands upon thousands of dads who do this all the time because it’s expected of them.

The only way you should work 10-16 hours a day is if you are doing something you love.  Something you feel passionate about.  Then all those hours would go by like minutes, and you would come home feeling alive, if not fresh and invigorated.  But this isn’t always possible today.  Instead, we get stuck in jobs and career paths that feed our needs but not our souls.  This saddens me.

But what saddens me most of all is, after all this, a part of me is wondering if I should apply for that job.

[*in order to remain employed, attorneys working in firms have billable hours requirements.  This is the number of hours they need to bill within a certain time period.  Not every hour you work can be billed to a client, however, so working 8 hours in one day doesn't mean you have accrued 8 billable hours.]

[Original portions of this post have been edited  to protect the privacy of others.]

I am back from a meeting in which I discussed with several females attorneys a plan to get me licensed and active within the community. I’ve been nervous about this meeting since the day I scheduled it; the day the Mister was laid off. I’ve been out of the loop for years. I have few contacts, and limited practical knowledge. For nights on end I have worried if I could do it–if I could start a law practice on my own and not worry constantly about looking stupid, inexperienced.

I am afraid my need to be perfect will stop me from trying. It wouldn’t be the first time the voice in my head said I can’t do this.

But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, we discussed at length the money it would take, the areas of practice I should consider, and the most effective ways to gain business in a down economy.

We also discussed how someone’s kids are in trouble and how someone else is getting a divorce and how someone else spends too much money while someone else is very cheap and, oh, someone else doesn’t seem very motivated, does she?

Then we moved back to me, and they told me I was bright, and easy to get along with, and someone they could count on to do a great job. After listening to them pull me up and pat my back and sing my praises I started to believe them, and as I walked to the car with one of the women I thought to myself I can do this, I know I can

When I got in my car I caught sight of a picture of Mikey and Nico as I was buckling my seat belt. I looked up and watched the other woman pull out of the parking and head off to to deal with something a mother shouldn’t have to deal with. I can do this, I thought. But can I do it all?