Like Kim K. But with less butt.

I've become 1 of those women. Evidently, I now have a stylist.

My Guy and I attended a gala benefiting the local children's hospital. It was a party! For the children! In a moment of generosity, I bid on 2 hours with a personal stylist. You know, to get the bidding started.

You know that chardonnay they serve at banquets? The free wine that after the first sip you think, "Oh, that's not good?" But after the third glass, you think, "Damn, that's a mighty fine wine?" Well, that same beverage helped me keep bidding on the services of the stylist even as the bids went up. After all, it was for the children!

So, I ended up winning 2 hours with a personal stylist. She can help me go through my closet or take me shopping.

"OMG. Your hangers don't even match?"

Except now I'm somewhat paralyzed. What do I say to a stylist? Here are some options:

• "I would describe my personal style as 'OK?'"
• "I work from home and don't want to look like a frazzled mom because I don't even have kids and actually have time to spend on my appearance even though I obviously don't?"
• "I wear jeans and t-shirts and Banana Republic stopped making my go-to t-shirt so can you please just recommend a new t-shirt brand? Thanks."
• "I used to be skinny and somewhat fashionable but now I'm 40 and I don't care. Well, I care, but I don't care? I just don't want to look Amish? Does my hair make me look Amish?"
• "I look dorky but I'm actually really cool. Like, mega-cool. Just take my word for it. Please?"
• "I recently hurt my foot so all I can currently wear are sneakers, but that doesn't mean I'm Generation: Easy Spirit. See also: I'm mega-cool. Just take my word for it?"
• "Please don't make me shop at Forever 21."

I'm torn between 2 options. The first is that the stylist and I will become fast friends, and she'll introduce me to all her stylish friends as "My FAB friend Becky - you know, the one with all the great accessories who's always so pulled together and such an inspiration to me both creatively and as a human being?" The second option is that the stylist will berate me for being so completely unfashionable and will then describe me to all her stylist friends as "That HORRIBLE woman with the jeans that were hand-me-downs in 2004 and who must appear homeless 97 percent of the time and who basically looks Amish except less stylish?"

These seem like the only 2 options.

The truth of it is that we all want to look our best. And we all need a fresh set of eyes every once in a while. But also ... I feel like I'm dressing for a part that I haven't yet defined.

I'm not a mom. I'm not a corporate denizen. I'm a writer, but not a sweaty, hardboiled journalist or a flowery romance novelist. I'm 40. I'm 40 and I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

There. I said it.

Yes, I am a big spender.

I have discovered the witching hour for grocery shopping. Obviously, the best time to shop is at 2 a.m. because the store is deserted with the exception of some drunks. They are provided for our entertainment.

But for those of us who prefer to shop during the day? And away from people? Because people generally don't understand basic cart etiquette? Turns out that 2:30 on a Wednesday afternoon is a pretty chill time.

It was just me and 1 other lady in the whole of the produce section. No randos abandoning their carts on a diagonal so as to block all the apples and all the root veggies. No soccer moms on their phones, leaving their $500 purses open and unattended in their carts while they grab organic arugula. I'm no thief, but even I want to grab a purse every once in a while just to say, "See? Do you see how easy it is? Do you see how stupid you're being?"

I'm great fun at parties.

The thing about the produce section is that it makes me feel slightly crazed. Not because of my purse-snatching proclivities. No, I feel loopy because it's the location of my greatest splurge.

When I was but a wee lass o' 30, living in a not-great apartment and trying to get my freelance business up and running, money was tight. Real tight. Trying-to-only-spend-$20-a-week-on-groceries tight.

During those days, I was crazy skinny. It was great. But I was skinny because I was unhappy, and I was skinny because I did crazy things like limit my yogurt intake to 2 cartons a week. I wasn't trying to cut back on dairy. No, those 89-cent cartons of Yoplait were a splurge.

I knew I had made it when I started buying yogurt with abandon. Some folks know they're successful when they buy a car or nice clothes. For me? It was eating yogurt every day. Like a boss. Whenever I bought 7 cartons of yogurt, I felt secure.

Now? Now, dairy is not my friend. We broke up. And I don't feel the need to limit my grocery spending, although I am constantly amazed that my husband expects to eat every day. But I still try to be smart about our grocery dollar.

My big splurge? Cilantro.

Hey there, cilantro. Say 'hi' to your mother for me.

I know. I know! It costs anywhere from 50 cents to a dollar. And I buy a bunch each week. Because it makes me feel fancy.

It used to be that whenever I made a recipe that called for fresh cilantro, I'd just throw in some dried cilantro and muddle through. It was fine.

But then? Then, I realized how amazing real cilantro is, since I'm not of the sad group that thinks it tastes like soap. And even though most recipes are fine without it, I buy it and I use it. I even use it when it's just called for as a garnish. Because I'm worth it! And it makes me feel like an adult and a good cook and possibly also a princess. Because nobody scrimps when it comes to garnishing for royalty.

My cilantro habit probably costs me about $30 a year. Decadent? Obviously. But it's worth every penny.

What's your big splurge?

Labradoodles are horrible at keeping secrets.

So, it seems that the number one way to deal with a stress fracture is to pout. I've been doing a lot of pouting, and a lot of couch-sitting. And a lot of being super-mature, obviously.

A few days ago, I had just had it. I'd run errands and been to the grocery store, and I was beyond wiped out. Everything is hard when you can't walk normally. Woe, woe to me!

So, I retreated to bed and Netflix. And it was cold. And my husband was out of town. And so I threw a sheet over the bed and hoisted my 80-pound labradoodle up on the bed so that the entire pack could watch Netflix and chill.

Big Doodle loved it. Looooooved it. He stretched out and sighed repeatedly, signalling that he was finally - finally! - up where he belonged. Cue the song from "An Officer and a Gentleman."

But the thing about Netflix and chill is that it can't last forever. Especially when your husband is on his way home from the airport, exhausted, and hoping to collapse into bed. So, after several hours on the bed, I attempted to convince Big Doodle that it was time to get on his own bed. Off my bed.

This did not go well.

Big Doodle stood up on the bed, circled his wagons, and then flung himself across the bed. If you doubt that a dog can take up an entire queen-sized bed, you are mistaken. Now, not only would My Guy not be able to use the bed, but I wouldn't either. There was only space for Mr. Stretchy, Big Doodle.

I got him up again. He sighed, acted like he was going to get off the bed, and then collapsed with his head on my pillow. He then proceeded to look as pathetic and adorable as possible.

Of course I took a picture.

Finally, I scooted his booty to the edge of the bed, and little by little slid him off the edge. He let out a noise that can best be described as "pissed-off yowling."

I stripped the extra sheet and all its dog hair off the bed and felt pretty pleased with myself. I'd gotten rid of the evidence before My Guy came home! The Doodle-on-Bed would be our little secret.

Except Big Doodle didn't get the memo. For the rest of the night - nay, for the following 3 nights - he worked his way around the bed, resting his chin on the mattress and sighing heavily. Sometimes the sighs were accompanied by a pissed-off sneeze. Other times, a forlorn "Hern" sound. But it was always pathetic.

It took about 3 minutes for My Guy to get fed up with the drama dog and ask, "Why is he doing that? Did you let him on the bed?"

Meeee? Nooooo!

In which I consider eating glass. As you do.

So, about a hot minute after I was all, "I have a stress fracture and haven't gone to the grocery and now we're going to starve and die unless I go to the grocery and use the motorized cart to give oblivious and rude shoppers tickets?" Yeah. Well, I determined that I had just enough stuff in the house to cook up some tortilla soup.

I was totally Becky Home-Ec-y. I was stretching my grocery dollar. I was being creative with my ingredients on-hand. Sure, the recipe called for an onion that I didn't have. No problem! I'd use a pepper and throw in a little garlic. It would be a taste sensation. I was the best wife on the planet, and a culinary visionary.

While the peppers were simmering on the stove, a stack of cookbooks on top of my fridge collapsed. This sent a very cool antique jar careening across my tiny kitchen.

Miracle of miracles, the jar didn't shatter. Yahoo! Sure, I'd just learned that I had a broken bone in my foot. But that was evidently the extent of my crap quota. I put the jar back on top of the fridge and straightened the books.

You know where this is going.

The books collapsed again. Either I have a poltergeist or I live in an old house where nothing is square. Either way, the books collapsed and the jar flew off the top of the fridge. Again.

Then? Then, the jar didn't shatter. It ... self-obliterated?

The metal lid was left. But there were no large pieces of the jar left. The glass had hit the edge of the stove and exploded into millions of teeny, tiny shards. My kitchen didn't look like a glass had broken. Instead, it looked like I'd dropped a box of glitter.

I wasn't doing the best job of keeping it together anyway, and I have to admit: this broke me.

When My Guy got home about 20 minutes later, he found me vacuuming the kitchen counters and drinking right out of the wine bottle. As you do. Because there was no other way to pick up the glass, and I needed some liquid assistance.

He asked what I was doing. And I may have cried a tiny bit when I explained that it had NOT BEEN A GOOD DAY.

Then, we both stood over the pot of half-started soup. I rested my head against my husband's chest, and we silently stared into the abyss, trying to decide if the soup-to-be was filled with glass shards.

Finally, My Guy said, "That's totally going to kill us. We should order Chinese."

This is adulthood.

And yes, for those keeping track? This wasn't the first time I considered whether or not food filled with shattered glass was edible.

I've taken empathy too far.

The good news? Big Doodle is doing well. He's limping, but it's our new normal, and he's getting around like a boss. Thank you for all of your kind words and support. They have done wonders.

The bad news? I am also limping. Because I have a stress fracture.

What the what?

Yes. Like athletes do. Except I'm not an athlete. I just walk a lot. Except now I'm walking in The Shoe of Awesomeness. You know, just in case someone might have thought for a split second that I was cool.

The podiatrist was really nice and got me in basically the second I called. While I waited in the exam room, I gazed upon a chart of all the bones and tendons and such of the foot, and I realized that I know nothing about feet, despite the fact that I have 2 of them. I was going to have to tell the doctor about my pain via grunts and pointing.

But I guess podiatrists are genies. They're like veterinarians in that they're accustomed to sussing out a problem with minimal input from the patient. I guess when I barked and started panting hard during the exam, he knew that I had a stress fracture above my third toe.

I got to choose between a big ol' boot (DAS BOOT!) and a sleeker shoe. Believe it or not, this is the lesser of 2 evils.

Women be buyin' shoes!

Yes, you'll be seeing this on all the runways during Fashion Week.

I texted My Guy a pic of The Shoe of Awesomeness and an explanation. His response? "You'll just have to sit and look cute for 2 weeks!"

That was pretty adorable. But the joke's on him when he figures out I didn't go to the grocery store. I'm going to sit and be cute and we're both going to starve and die. Or I could just go to the grocery since I am allowed to walk a little - but where's the fun in that? Or maybe I could go to the grocery and drive around in one of the motorized go-karts! And I could put a flashing light on the go-kart and write tickets to people who have zero grocery etiquette and leave their carts in the middle of the aisle and act like they've never been to a store before, ever!

So many possibilities. This Shoe of Awesomeness might really be awesome after all. I'll keep you posted.  

In the meantime, if you need me? I'll be wrapped in an ace bandage, sporting The Shoe of Awesomeness, and rolling my eyes. Oh, and bringing sexy back. Obviously.

Grace.

I'm trying to have it. Grace, I mean. I'm trying to appreciate the every day joys and not worry about the couldas or shouldas.

So it is loving an old dog.

He's had bladder cancer since at least last summer. I've been driving him 40 minutes each way to the holistic vet, sometimes once a week, sometimes every 2 weeks. They all love him, and he gets very excited when he figures out where we're going. He lets them pump him full of all kinds of things, and he is never upset or afraid. He is just his loving, happy self.

"Thank you for choosing to adorn me with a Christmas bow and not a disco elf costume like that of my smaller canine brethren."

But I've been upset and afraid. I'm doing that for both of us, although he'd never ask me to carry that mantle.

At Christmas, I got a call from our beloved dog sitter. Big Doodle was limping. Like, really, really limping. She offered to take him to the emergency vet. "Oh, we'll see how he's doing when we get home tomorrow, don't worry about it," I said.

She wasn't kidding. Our boy wasn't using his back leg at all. Seemed to have no concept that he even had a back leg. Drug it around like it was an almost-forgotten security blanket.

More vet visits and 10 days of the entire family avoiding all stairs in solidarity, he has some use of his leg. Maybe this is the best it will get. Maybe it will get better. It probably won't get worse. But we're starting to really look at his quality of life. We have this privilege and burden.

For his part, Big Doodle is happy, if perhaps a bit bored. He's not in pain. He's not sure why we're not going for walks - I guess he doesn't see the correlation between "I can't walk" and "Why aren't we walking?"

He's sleeping a lot. Like old dogs do. And he is old, even if he never got the memo. He's 11 years young, and still as sweet and spazzy as when I met him almost 7 years ago. His dad and I had a blind date, and agreed to walk dogs to get to know each other. Big Doodle was my charge, and it was instant love. The joke is that I married My Guy because I fell in love with his dog. Like most jokes, it's funny because there's a kernel of truth to it.

"I've always had a way with the ladies."

I know we have done and continue to do everything we can for this sweet dog. But I'm having trouble letting go of the idea of fixing it. After a certain point, there's nothing to fix. It just is. And we've had wonderful bonus time with this fine, fine boy.

But it's hard.

It's hard, and I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. My legs work just fine, yet it's the guy who's down a paw who has to convince me to get moving.

I'm trying to embrace the grace, to enjoy these days for what they are. To let go of expectations or desires and to be present. To savor what's here.

What's here is a lot of dog pee. And I'm trying to laugh about that. Because maybe I could get a giant squeegee like they use on astroturf. And that would be kind of cool.

But what else is here is a big ol' dog who is happy to be here, who feels just fine and is glad to see us. There are no greater riches.

2015: A Retrospective

It's that magical time of year when I binge on "Best Books of the Year" lists and "Hey, Remember These Folks Who Died" retrospectives. There's just nothing like the week between Christmas and New Year's for media that was lovingly created months ago for this, The Week of No Working.

In that spirit, I should have written this post eons ago, or at least kept notes throughout the year. But no. No, I'm going with the events that are still memorable at the end of the year / beginning of the new year since I couldn't even get this posted remotely on time. Here are the highlights of my 2015:

Greatest adventure: I could say going to the UK or doing a "I'm 40!" fake triathlon. But really, those experiences and those of their ilk have one constant: My Guy. Not to be all sap-o-rama, but marriage is a great adventure. Everything is more fun with him. I try to remember this when I'm trying to figure out where I could hide his body.

Best medical revelation: When I did my annual health assessment for insurance, I learned that I'm on the verge of being a junky. Evidently, all sleep aids automatically put you in the "elevated risk" category for substance abuse. Oh, OK. Today, I use melatonin. Tomorrow? Heroin. Of course.

Most poignant reminder of our frailty and the precariousness of our every day: Oh, my sweet, sweet Big Doodle. We've had our ups and downs this year, and every day I'm thankful for your kind eyes and loving disposition.

"I have cancer? Is that like a rawhide?"

My husband's favorite discovery: Chopping spinach before putting it in a salad. It's easier to eat than those awkward, unwieldy leaves. Direct quote that I am not making up: "Chopped spinach is the greatest development of Q4." Yes, he speaks Corporate.

Best gift idea ever: For my birthday, my family filled a container with little slips of paper, each stating something that one of them loves about me. I ugly cried while reading the slips. It was so humbling. If you need a gift for someone you love, do this. If you need a gift for someone you don't love, don't do this, because it would just be an empty container. Just regift them an empty container and don't mention that it should have love notes in it but you don't love them. You know.

Most joyful movie-going experience: Star Wars. Duh. I felt a thrill at the opening credits and was delighted throughout. It was like being a kid again, but with beer. Because they sell that at theatres now.

Most life-affirming gathering: All of my cousins, aunts and uncles, and various and sundry kid-type people gathered for a family reunion. There were 34 of us, so it was a gigantic undertaking. Huge kudos to my brother who coordinated the event and organized things like photo slide shows, Q&A sessions, and surveys. When my grandma was in her 80s and not in the greatest health, she attended a family reunion and reported, "It was better than any medicine." Now I get it.

Funny, these highlights tend to focus on the people in my world. That's hard for this little introvert to accept, but whatever. As long as we can be together and not, like, actively interact, that's cool.

What were the high points of your 2015?