Detergent, defeat ... and redemption.

I have the cleanest spare tire in all the land!

That is the only silver lining I could find, and I'm going to stick with it.

I bought a bottle of laundry detergent at Target. And then, like a fool, I put it in the trunk of my car. When I went to unload my bounty of cleaning supplies, paper towels, and trail mix, I found that the detergent and fallen on its side ... and the cap hadn't been secure. The trunk of my car was soggy with Seventh Generation Free & Clear.

Now, I got a new car a few months ago. I traded in my grey '03 Honda Accord for ... a grey '17 Honda Accord. I keep my stuff nice, so that '03 was in great shape. But finally having a new car has put me on high alert. No, I will not be parking by that hoopty that screams, "Free door dings." And I won't be hauling mulch in this car anytime soon.

But failed to see the danger of detergent. Oh, the detergent.

It got on everything. I will spare you the details, but here are the low points:

• The detergent soaked the carpet in the trunk and dripped down into the compartment with the spare.
• Liquid detergent is sticky and hard to clean. If you Google it, the results are basically, "Dude, you are fucked."
• I ended up with my ice scraper, all my reusable shopping bags, and my ancient-yet-beloved suede messenger bag drying in my bathtub. It took forever to rinse them off.
• I sopped the detergent out of the carpet using two rolls of paper towels. It was not the most ecologically friendly option, but I was desperate and mired in defeat.

All told, that's three hours of my life I'll never get back. At the end of it, I found myself, wine in totally dry and chapped hand, watching "RuPaul's Drag Race."

My Guy suggested we go out to eat. He is smart like that and also probably feared my wrath.

At the Mexican restaurant, I decided to continue my run of imbibing moderately priced white wine. Yes, I know Mexican restaurants aren't known for their stellar wine selections. I didn't care. I ordered a class of pinot grigio. The waitress clearly was not prepared for such a non-tequila-based request, but she scribbled something on her notepad. Then, she asked to see ID.

It was my turn to be totally unprepared. I dug my wallet out of the very bottom of my purse, figuring she'd been instructed to card all the people all the time. She apologized as I handed her my ID. And then she started laughing.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" she said. "I don't believe it! You're older than my mom!"

Whut?

"Your skin - how do you get it to look like that?"

And then? Then I rose above my station in life. No longer was I the shrew who'd been hunched over the trunk of her car for hours, bemoaning the roving packs of young ruffians who were obviously loosening the lids on bottles of detergent merely for sport. No. I morphed into a gracious, gorgeous woman, ready to lead youth onto the righteous path of proper skincare.

My Guy jumped in first. "She moisturizes like 17 times a day."

I eyed him, them turned to the waitress. "You are so kind. All it is is sunscreen. Use sunscreen every day."

She looked at My Guy. "And moisturize? I should get some moisturizer?"

She was all of 20 years old, if that. "A moisturizer that has a sunscreen in it will treat you right," I said in my effervescent, naturally gorgeous way. I did not mention my recent realization that my skin looks good because I have a fat face.

The waitress put her hand to the soft spot between her chin and her check. "I'm already noticing changes and I don't like any of it!"

Now, here, admittedly, I got a little "Oh, honey, get used to it." But she thanked me for the advice and went off to get our drinks. I tried to convince My Guy that we should adopt her.

Later, she approached the table apologetically, with urging from another waiter. "Umm, I'm sorry, but we don't have pinot grigio. But we do have chardonnay ... or merlot." She pronounced the latter as it really should be pronounced: mer-LOT.

I smiled and said the chardonnay would be fine.

After she left, My Guy and I smiled at each other. "I love her," I said.

He shook his head. "We can't take her home. But we're going to have to tip her sooooooo much."

Eat the damned pancakes.

Food is what makes America great. I'm talking potato salad, your auntie's secret marinara sauce, ham balls, spring rolls, fajitas, that Korean dish you can't pronounce, and all the rest. And don't even get me started on desserts. In the United States, we know how to eat.

Merica.

And yet sometimes, we don't.

This holiday, as we celebrate the Declaration of Independence and all that makes our nation a patchwork of awesomeness, I ask - nay, beg - that we all use a little common sense. Lady at IHOP, I'm looking at you.

My Guy and I recently reveled in the magic of Breakfast as Dinner at an International House of Pancakes. While other restaurants use parsley or perhaps a small orange slice as garnish, at IHOP, all the meals are accompanied by a plate of pancakes. It's what makes this country so amazing.

But what doesn't make this country so amazing is ordering the wrong thing. So, lady at IHOP? You were at a restaurant called International House of Pancakes. And you were in Missouri. And you ordered THE TILAPIA PLATTER. And then you sent it back to the kitchen three times.

Now, I'm guessing it wasn't the best tilapia. And you are well within your rights to send back your meal if it wasn't to your liking. But please, let's take some personal responsibility here.

You ordered tilapia. At an IHOP. In a land-locked state. And then you were shocked and angry when it wasn't awesome tilapia.

How about next time, you order pancakes? Because at an International House of Pancakes, they make pretty good pancakes. Note that the restaurant isn't called International House of Fish. Because they aren't known for their fish. They are known for their pancakes.

In America, we have room for - and need! - all variety of people and businesses. And no one should be all things to all people. You don't buy groceries at a Jiffy Lube.

Let's try to embrace folks for the special gifts they bring to the table. Because sometimes, what they bring to the table are light and fluffy pancakes that will fill your belly with joy.

And IHOP? Take the tilapia off the menu. Stick to your strengths. Because that fish smelled rank.

I am old and I know things and let me tell you all the things. Also? Please think I'm cool.

It's graduation time and that means a lot of stuff.

Well-intentioned but obviously clueless relatives like me write things in graduation cards like, "It's been fun watching your track and cross country exploits from afar. We're so proud of you." When really, what I want to write is, "I know you hardly know who I am and that's OK. I'm your dad's cousin and you peed on me once when you were a baby. I think you're great. Here, have $50. Also? I get it. All graduation cards are lame. But I'm sooo cooooool, I swear!"

Well-intentioned but obviously old and creepy former babysitters like me do a little stalking. I found out that the two darling little girls that I took care of for years and whom I loved very much are both ... doctors. Like, in white coats and starting their residencies and able to deal with bodily functions. I reached out via Facebook in, again, a hopefully not lame-o manner. I got friendly responses, but also, they totally didn't remember me. Doctors are smart. Maybe they are just instinctively distancing themselves from someone who is clearly way old and out of touch. See also: I write lame graduation cards.

Well-intentioned but obviously Not Cool friends of your mom like me try to help new college grads get jobs and write overbearing emails with gems like, "Here, let me tell you everything about my city and you can live here, too! And there's an IKEA, so it will be easy to set up a new apartment and here, you can just have our dining room chairs and your mom is so great and I think this would be a great job for you and I totally get it because I'm young and hip like you."

Except I'm not.

I'm old.

Twenty years ago, I graduated from the University of Missouri. On Friday, I turned 22. On Saturday, I graduated. On Sunday, I drove to Indiana. On Monday, I interviewed at Notre Dame for a graduate assistantship in marketing for the athletic department.

I met with at least five different people, including a lovely woman who only wanted to talk about my upcoming trip to the UK. Then I visited with a funny and frank man who wanted to make sure I'd be OK with being asked to do stuff like attend mass in a hotel room because a priest traveled with the teams all the time.

My main contact was a guy who was a little frazzled, which was accentuated by the fact that his linen pants were torn and held together at the hip with a safety pin (Really? Your football program brings in how much money? Even newly 22-year-old me was slightly offended.). He promised to be in touch within a week. The entire interview went well. I felt really positive about it, even though a security guard wouldn't let me drive through campus because I didn't have the right sticker. Whatever. It was cool.

Friends, I am still up for that job. Despite numerous follow-ups on my part (via phone, because not everyone had e-mail and so I had to call and leave actual voice messages and risk talking to a real human), I never heard from any of those people ever again. I can only assume that the job is still open and I'm still a viable candidate. I could be called upon to move to South Bend at any moment! They might ask me to get a tattoo of Touchdown Jesus to show my dedication to the job and the school - who knows?

Maybe I'm living a fantasy. Or maybe people should just send the damned "Thanks but no thanks" letter so some of us don't put our lives on hold for 20 years.

Here's the thing. You write the note - be it for graduation or to say thanks or to offer a helping hand - for one reason and one reason alone. You might be thinking, "Of course! Do unto others!" And that sounds nice and probably should be the right answer, but no. No, the correct answer is that you write the note so that you can keep buying pretty stationery. Also, so you can feel morally superior. But mostly so you can buy more stationery.

Sometimes blessings hurt.

Walter the Wonderdoodle is pure joy - jumping and exploring and drinking it all in.

However.

He's jumping on people and brand-new kitchen cabinets. Exploring means that he's unearthed a bunny nest, has discovered the magic of digging, and loves to rip up hostas. And drinking it all in means that one big gulp of water equals not one but five gigantic pees - most likely in the house - within anywhere between five and 20 minutes.

Also? He loves to eat paper towels, so you best be quick when cleaning up those puddles.

I am new-puppy tired. It's the kind of tired that feels like a dirty secret, like something that shouldn't be admitted. He's so adorable! He's such a blessing! He bit my face two days ago and I still look like I've been in a fight!

One of my neighbors stopped me in the street. Not to comment on my mauled visage, but on the puppy. She asked, "How are you? Are you sleeping?"

She is the mother of four kids under the age of 4. She asked me this while she had a newborn strapped to her chest.

It was so kind of her to ask, and I felt seen. But I immediately felt guilty and said, "I am not going to complain about sleep to the mom of a newborn!" Like I was all tightly wound Joan Crawford and obsessed with etiquette, lest people find out that I'm a schlep after all.

I could fall asleep on the floor right now.

Like this guy, in a rare moment of repose.

It's a weird muscle memory. I was up so much with sweet geriatric Big Doodle in his final months, and falling back to sleep wasn't always my strong suit. And with Wonderdoodle? Well, it's like my body said, "Oh, we're doing this again? Bad decision, but OK." And I'm up looking at Facebook at 4 a.m. because the puppy needed to potty at 3.

It was a privilege to care for Big Doodle. It is a huge blessing to welcome Walter into our home and help him grow. But it hurts.

And my mom friends look at each other knowingly - or at least I imagine they do - like, "She doesn't know true sleep deprivation because she's never had a baby." And like talking to my sweet neighbor, I guess I think they are right, like I have no right to complain.

But right now? Right now, spending 23 hours a day with a puppy that is either passed out or insane and a crotchety dachshund who is just pissed off about the entire situation and bit me this morning because he mistook my finger for the rawhide I was attempting to pry out of the Wonderdoodle's maw?

Well, at least newborns don't have razor-sharp teeth.

Making peace with my emotional maturity. Also? Why doesn't someone ask me to prom?

It never occurred to me that there were things I couldn't do. Sure, there were things I didn't want to do, like run or physically exert myself in any way. But as far as things I was capable of doing? Well, the sky was the limit.

Keeping that sense of possibility has sometimes been a challenge. At 41, I am still coming to terms with the fact that I will most likely never be an astronaut or Miss America. But I still have lots of other options.

Except.

I realized today that yet another door has closed and my world is getting smaller.

I am never going to prom again.

I know. I know! It's hard for me to accept, too. But I am on year 24 of not being asked to the prom. I had a pretty good run of being asked to the prom two years in a row (not counting the time I asked a guy to prom through the drive-thru at Wendy's). But since those two years of promtasticness? It's been a long and lonely slog.

I try to keep up with prom fashions. And my mom and I faithfully watch the local high school's promenade on public access cable every year. The kids are no longer the younger siblings of my younger brother's classmates. Now, they are the kids of my classmates. Or - gasp - the kids of kids I babysat.

My name is Becky. I'm 41. And it would be mega creepy if I attended prom.

I loved prom because I liked to dress up. And picking out a dress was soooooo fun. My mom and I had a ball. Now? Now, I have a wedding to attend on Saturday, and instead of being excited about dressing up, I am wondering if I really have to shave my legs. After all, no one looks at you if you're not the bride.

But prom? Prom was dressing up with your friends and delighting in how adult it all seemed. Which is funny, because prom is pretty much the least adult event ever. Nowhere in adulthood are there streamers and themes like "Enchantment Under the Sea." When you walk into the bank or the hardware store, no one is wearing corsages. They don't even have balloons or punch.

Maybe it's for the best. Prom is honestly a lot of hype for a just pretty OK event. Don't get me wrong, I loved it. But in the grand scheme of things? I've had more fun at a football game.

The one part of prom I refuse to give up? The fashion. I love the dresses and the sparkle of high school kids who feel fancy.

But you know I also have a bone to pick with some of the dresses. And here's where I torture you as I am being tortured. Once I saw this, I realized I couldn't unsee it. Now, you are in the same boat.

These dresses by Sherri Hill are youthful and cute.

But there's something weird about the models.

They all look ... uncomfortable.

This girl is trying to make the best of it, but she can't help but wince with pain.

All these models look like ...

... they have raging yeast infections.

It's not just me, right? This looks horrible.

If going to prom means getting a yeast infection, I'm totally cool with staying home. This girl looks miserable.

This is not the first time I've thought this. I guess the brand is going for a youthful vibe and a certain year-over-year consistency in their modeling poses. But having some sort of crotch-based hand or leg-crossing in every shot does not say "fun and flirty" to me. It says, "I need some yogurt, stat."

So, maybe it's OK that I've officially aged out of prom. My properly balanced hoo-ha is just fine at home in yoga pants. Thanks.

Infertility silver lining.

About two weeks ago, I drug my sorry self to the dermatologist to get carved up. I hadn't been for a while, and I was pretty sure he would want to slice a couple of things off my very pale skin.

I was nervous because SCALPEL. I felt nauseated when I walked into the waiting room. But as I made my way to the desk, I realized that the music playing was Neil Diamond's "Love on the Rocks." And because I'm actually 87 years old, I quickly identified the recording as an alternate version, not the single.

Neil comforted me.

I was the only person in the waiting room who wasn't a teenager with acne or an old farmer who never wore sunscreen a day in his life. I was just so-white-I-glow-in-the-dark little me, making my offering of flesh to the gods of dermatology, even though I wear sunscreen every damned day.

I love the guy I see. And the good news is that the stuff I was sure would make him recoil ... didn't. The bad news is that the weird bumps along my jaw that I've lived with for about four years? Totally alarming.

I guess the other bad news was that it was mega cold that day and I was layered up in Uggs and fleece pants and like 17 sweaters. And while taking the biopsy from my jawline was painless and took about 7 seconds, the stitches took forever and made me woozy.

Suddenly it was all, "Bend your knees! Talk to us!"

It was fine. Well, fine except for the fact that I ended up drenched in sweat. I got to experience a sweaty underwire in the deepest depths of winter. Thanks, derm!

So, I was OK, and I left. But I ended up sitting in the lobby of the medical building for about 20 minutes, trying to stop feeling so insane. So, I did what any woman in my position would do: I checked my email, saw that Nordstrom was having a flash sale on my favorite bras, and then bought three bras at a deep discount ... all while rocking a sweaty January bra and trying to avoid eye contact with the mean old lady who was complaining at the top of her lungs about the granddaughter who had just dropped her off and was going to park the car.

Good bras make a real difference.

Then, I drove to the QT and bought a ginger ale and a York peppermint patty. And I declared triumph over evil, over nausea, over weird skin stuff.

Because Joe Biden is always appropriate.

Turns out I have some rare, weird - yet totally benign - skin thing that is not unlike having uterine fibroids. I'm not making this up - they can be related. Because of course they are.

No word yet on treatment, but we're calling it Ute Face. It seems fitting, since this business popped up when I was trying to no avail to get knocked up. I didn't get a baby, but I got uterine fibroids on my face. It's practically the same thing, right?

How YOU doin'?

My Guy and I have noticed an alarming trend as of late. And that trend is the dearth of people who genuinely inquire about our wellbeing.

It sounds pretty "Woe is me!" But hear me out.

It turns out I married an introvert-who-pretends-to-be an-extrovert. Like me. And upon comparing notes, we've both admitted similar experiences. In gatherings and conversations with friends and family, we both ask questions. We listen actively. We work to make the other person feel important and loved.

And ... we don't get a whole lot of that back.

I thought it was just me. But My Guy admitted it happens to him all the time, too. So, I've been paying closer attention.

In a recent three-hour convo, we were asked about our dogs. And our house. And that's it. This, from close relatives.

It's kind of a bummer. But it's become a self-fulfilling prophecy of keeping shit close to the vest, because now when people to ask how we are? We are so shocked by the inquiry and, dare I say, leery of the intent, that we respond with a nicety instead of a more in-depth, accurate response.

I guess if you talk about yourself for two hours and then ask in passing how I'm doing, I don't feel compelled to bare my soul to you.

Is this the introvert's lot in life? Are my husband and I just horrible people? Or is it now such a luxury to be listened to that it makes people high and incapable of functioning? And by "functioning," I mean "holding up their side of a two-sided conversation?"

Part of it might be that our peer group is knee-deep in KIDS! and so talks about KIDS! quite a bit. Obviously, we don't have a horse in that race, so there's no "And how are your young'uns?" in response to our query. But by the same token, I'm super glad your kid is taking swimming lessons and therefore won't drown. However, I didn't actually want to talk about it for 20 minutes. When I was practicing active listening and nodded my approval at learning how not to die around large bodies of water? I was just being nice. I wasn't asking for more detail. I already know how to swim.

But I've seen it with other groups, too. With people who are supposed to love us who actually just ... want stuff? They want time. They want attention. And these are people we love, and we're happy to oblige ... to a point. But after hours of talking about you, well, aren't you tired? Because we are. And we love you. But even we are sick of talking about you.

I'm not saying we're saints of conversation, or even terribly nice people. I'm saying that upon discussing this recently, I asked My Guy, "How did we get here?" And he responded with, "Well, it certainly wasn't by having people genuinely ask how we're doing."

And then I laughed and laughed. Because at least we're in this terribly lonely place together. But seriously. What happened to basic human interaction?

And yes, if you were to ask? I'm OK but I've been sad for a few weeks. And now My Guy has given me a horrible cold and I want to be gracious about it because it wasn't on purpose but I also want to kick him in the skull. Thanks for asking.

Zombie-ing for beginners.

It's been a summer of varmints and bugs and gross stuff. First, the ever-popular mice. Then, I got stung by a wasp. And there was some eye rabies in there, too. Good thing I've already locked in My Guy because if it weren't for that whole legally binding marriage thing? He would be outta here.

I figured The Rule of Three applied, so I was done. Mice, eye rabies, wasp. I was free! Except I was mistaken.

The wasp sting didn't heal. And then I got what are called "satellites" - basically, a rash away from the original sting. Grooooooss. And one of the satellites was huuuuuuuge. I broke down and went to the allergist.

Now, the allergist was all prepared to do venom testing and find out if I'm cray-cray allergic to wasps and need to walk around with a $750 epi-pen hanging around my neck at all times. Except she took one look at my giant satellite and was visibly disappointed.

"Oh, that's not a satellite. That's a spider bite."

She deflated just a touch. I recoiled. A WHAT?

So, basically, I got bit by a spider in the middle of the night. And now the bite is all inflamed and angry and itchy and gross looking and clearly no one has ever suffered as I am currently suffering. But instead of providing me with a careful treatment plan, the allergist told me two things.

Take some Zyrtec. And watch for necrotizing tissue.

You know. Tissue with necrosis. Tissue that is dying and rotting on my person.

Ewwwwwwwwwww.

So, My Guy and I have become mildly obsessed with the spider bite. I was all pouty and sad, so we went out for tacos last night. We had to wait 20 minutes for a server, and my sweet husband chalked it up to no one wanting to be around my possibly rotting shoulder. Later, as I responded to a work email, he kept helpfully suggesting, "Don't mention the shoulder! Avoid all shoulder talk! You can't let them know!"

At least now I have an easy way to taunt him. "Don't make me rub my shoulder on you."

It's all fun and games until someone's body starts to rot. Is this what it's like being a zombie? You get bit by a zombie and you feel a little weird, but you aren't sure if you really got bit, so you just watch to see if your body starts rotting? Do potential zombies meditate and use essential oils in hopes of staving off the zombieness? Would an ice pack on the zombie bite help?

I'm not sure how any of this is supposed to work. So, I'm taking Zyrtec and icing my shoulder and watching for giant chunks of my body to fall off. Oh, also? I'm burning down my house because SPIDERS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Artist's depiction of this blog after my entire body rots and falls off in chunks, which my dogs will obviously try to eat because everything in my house is gross. See also: spiders.

Watching movies like an adult.

I was in junior high when "Dirty Dancing" was big. And lemme tell ya, that movie was a revelation.

BFF and I loved that some of the oldies our parents listened to - and by extension, we listened to - were suddenly cool. And another close friend had a pirated VHS copy of the movie and watched it every single day after school.

Personally, I spent my afterschool times listening to the radio, waiting for "She's Like the Wind" to come on. Then, I would put down my homework and stare off into the distance. Sure, I was an awkward tween with glasses and braces and a perm. But somewhere out there was a Patrick Swayze lookalike who compared me to wind.

Wind, which is the flow of gases. Somebody thought I was mega-gaseous and mega-amazing.

All of this is lost on my sweet husband, my boy-man of a life partner who is five years my junior. We have a movie deficit for the years 1986 through 1999. While I was devouring "Dirty Dancing," he was into all the Ernest movies. While he was watching "Jurassic Park" with his junior high classmates, I was seeing no movies because I didn't have a car and there wasn't a theatre within walking distance of campus. Also, I was broke. And too busy drinking beer.

When I went away to college, my husband was in junior high. JUNIOR HIGH.

So, I guess this is being a cougar. We make fun of each other's lack of movie viewing. And we occasionally force each other to view movies of the "Ohmigod I can't believe you haven't seen this" ilk. This means that I recently saw "Varsity Blues" for the first time.

My Guy was really enthusiastic about this movie. "I can't believe you've never seen it! You love football! You will love this movie!"

And I did. I enjoyed it like you enjoy store-bought desserts. Tasty, but probably not worth the calories and not the best ever. But fine.

However, "Varsity Blues" did leave some unanswered questions.

I would like to know what high school football program would allow a student to take over head coaching duties mid-game and then would allow another student to have bottles of beer on the field after a big win. What town is this? What is happening here? And isn't glass dangerous? Wouldn't it at least be cans? Where did the beer come from? Was it in the trainers' ice chest? Does that mean there wasn't enough water? Were the players dehydrated? Is that safe? Why was James Vanderbeek's girlfriend so grouchy and anti-football all the time when she came from a football family? What high school boy would turn down a girl in a whipped-cream bikini? And, the biggest question of all: What high school actually has a teacher that moonlights as a stripper in the same town?

I guess these queries don't occur to 19-year-olds viewing the movie because My Guy was completely taken aback. Watching the film as an adult was a totally different experience.

"Uh, these are all good questions, but ... they won the game! Didn't you see, they won the game?" he asked.

Clearly, he was working hard to hold on to the "This movie is AWESOME" experience of his youth. He had no desire to look at "Varsity Blues" with the cold eyes of an adult.

I let it go. I didn't want to ruin it for him. And besides, this is probably why I haven't watched "Dirty Dancing" lately. Why was it OK that all these people were infantilizing this teenager by calling her "Baby?" Didn't her parents notice she was gone all the time with those ruffian dance kids? What in the world is Johnny going to do in the winter when he's run out of dance money and eating ketchup sandwiches? Or will it not matter because he'll be in prison for statutory rape? Because you can't tell me that Jerry Orbach is just going to let Patrick Swayze get away with this, no matter how well Baby executes The Lift.

Ahem.

I'm great fun at parties.     

What movie of your youth has lost some of its sheen in the cold light of adulthood?

In which I attempt to donate some shoes.

If you're like me, every once in a while, your closet needs a little kick in the booty. And by "kick in the booty," I mean "exhaustive cleaning because you never get rid of anything and probably don't need that sweater you bought secondhand in 1991."

I recently cleaned out my shoes. Now, keep in mind that I have worn the same size shoe since fifth grade. And, my mom and I wear the same size. And I figure everything comes back, right?

However, even I couldn't deny the need to share the love. And by "love," I mean "size 6.5 shoes that I probably bought at DSW because they were on clearance and loved briefly but haven't worn in the four years I've worked from home."

I had the best of intentions. I really did.

But I caught myself having these internal dialogues. Words and phrases that would sound ludicrous if spoken aloud, but that made perfect sense rolling around in my brain.

I should also mention that I did said shoe purge while wildly hormonal. I do not recommend this.

Here's a sample of my thought process:

• I know the heels of these shoes have literally disintegrated into dust, but I was wearing them when I walked home from a fraternity party during a thundersnow that dumped 19 inches of snow on campus overnight in January 1995. My friend Soup and I stopped to eat snow in the Lambda Chi parking lot. I couldn't possibly get rid of these shoes.
• Should I really get rid of the shoes I wore to the closing of my first house? Probably not.
• I wore those cork wedges on a date with Mr. I Want You To Want Me and I stepped on his foot. All things considered, I probably should have stomped on his foot. How could I get rid of such serviceable shoes?
• I wore those shoes with my first - and, to date, only - real, grown-up suit. Sure, I bought them in 1999 and the suit has long gone on to the women's clothing version of a nice farm with plenty of room to run. But these shoes were so cool and everything comes back, even a square toed, high-heeled mary jane, right?

For what it's worth, I kept the suede pumps my mom bought in 1990 because they are on the verge of being of a "yeah, that retro style is in, but I have the real deal" ilk. And, of course, there are the stalwarts that will never be purged - my penny loafers, the shoes my grandma wore to my parents wedding (what? they fit me, and I have her dress, too), and the several many black pumps because, well, black pumps never go out of style. Even though I never wear heels anymore. Because I have kind of given up on being fancy. And my feet hurt.

Maybe cleaning out my shoes while mega hormonal wasn't the best choice. However, I was able to gift several pairs of shoes to a friend who literally squealed with delight. And I made more room in my closet for the comfort footwear that now seems to be my jam.

It all feels very, "To everything, there is a season." Which makes me miss my leopard-print Danskos. Autumn? I eagerly await you!

Addendum to my tale of eye rabies: Advice for CVS and Walgreens.

Hi. I like your stores because if I ever need Funyuns, mascara, ringworm treatment, and first-class people watching, you provide one-stop shopping. Thanks for that.

I recently received a prescription for drops to treat my ongoing eye rabies. My doctor didn't call the prescription in to my regular pharmacy. Instead, he called it in to the local Walgreens, as a manufacturer's rebate was available only at the Walgreens.

No problem at all. I drove to the Walgreens. I went inside and stood in line at the pharmacy. And then ... I thought it was funny that a Walgreens would have signs for CVS.

Sonofa.

I had gone to CVS. Because Walgreens and CVS always build their stores across the street from each other. And both have red signs and similar branding.

Dammit, CVSalgreens, I can't tell you apart. And it has nothing to do with the eye rabies. To me, you are one entity.

I nonchalantly left the CVS, hoping no one was watching as I got in my car and drove across the street to the Walgreens. I got my eye drops. My eyes were on the road to recovery. But my ego was bruised.

I am an adult woman. I can read. I function in society. And yet I can't tell a CVS from a Walgreens.

Dear people of CVSalgreens, for the love of all that is holy, somebody change your branding. Please, please, somebody use a color that's not red for their sign lettering. Somebody choose a secondary color that isn't blue or grey. Please, in the name of Oprah, baby pandas, and all good, pure things, differentiate your stores so that I don't need a big ol' vat of store-brand migraine medicine.

Unless that's your objective.

Oh.

Well played, CVSalgreens. Well played.

Further proof I'm turning into my mother.

It's the season of Mother's Day, so you know what I'm going to talk about: liquor.

My home state of Iowa only had state-owned liquor stores until 1987. They all had blue signs with white reflective lettering, like road signs. No fancy fonts or extra letters, just the business at hand: LIQUOR STORE.

I liked the LIQUOR STORE in my hometown because it had those magic doormats that make the door swing open when you step down. Is there anything more magical? No, no there is not. And yes, yes this means that my mom took me to the LIQUOR STORE as a kid. Because drinking wasn't a big deal, and so she raised kids that didn't run off and get drunkety drunk drunk at the first opportunity and drive off a bridge. Because we are chill.

Anyway, all the booze purchased at the state-owned LIQUOR STORE had special state stickers on it. Thus, liquor appropriated from the state was marked. And, in a way, dated.

Because now, my brother and I chide our parents for still having liquor in their home that has those state stickers on it. Meaning, it was purchased in or before 1987. Because Mom doesn't drink enough.

A perusal through Mom's liquor cabinet means moving some jigsaw puzzles out of the way to access the back of a basement cabinet. There, you'll find creme de menthe, peach schnapps, Southern Comfort, and a 4-pack of Bartles & Jaymes. The creme de menthe is for brownies. The peach schnapps and Southern Comfort are for the punch I accidentally got drunk on in 8th grade. And the Bartles & Jaymes is for when Mommy has HAD IT.

All of these items have the Iowa state LIQUOR STORE sticker on them. Meaning they are at least 29 years old.

This has been a source of good-natured ribbing. We'd poke fun at the alcoholic antiquities and Mom would just shrug her shoulders. "What if I need it?"

It was all fun and games until last weekend. My Guy and I were tasked with providing drinks for a Mexican dinner with friends. We settled on La Paloma, which promised to be a refreshing drink with a bit of a kick. Basically, lime, tequila, and Fresca. And who doesn't love Fresca?

As My Guy was getting ready to go on a Fresca run, I pulled the tequila out of our liquor cabinet. Because I keep house much like my mother, our liquor cabinet is the top shelf of our coat closet. Who needs hats and gloves when you have a good Scotch?

So, I grabbed the bottle of Jose Cuervo. It was about 2/3 full. And it had a sticker on it. A sticker from ... the state of Texas. I'd bought the tequila duty-free in Mexico and carried it back across the border, like a good bargain shopper. Which is all well and good except that I haven't been to Mexico since 2003.

Oh.

This could be bad.

I did a little research. Tequila doesn't really go bad, but it can get funky and less potent. I opened the bottle and took a research swig.

Ick.

Describing the tequila as "chunky" would not be inaccurate. It burned, but not as much as the realization that I am, in fact, becoming my mother. Dancing in inappropriate places? Check. Deciding you don't give a shit? Check. Storing liquor until it's practically a solid "just in case?" Checkety check check.

My Guy staged an intervention and poured the offending tequila down the drain. I had to look away.

I guess, like my mama, I don't drink enough. Perhaps this is something the 2 of us can work on together. Just not with La Paloma. My Guy liked it but I felt like it was going to put hair on my chest, which isn't a look I'm going for. Because I'm a lady of grace and dignity, dammit. Just like my mom.

In which I flip the double bird during a business meeting.

A few weeks ago, I was catching up with one of my dearest friends from college. She's a TV producer, and talked about how the business has changed in the 20 years since we've been out of school.

"It's all young go-getters and they're out for blood," she said. "I used to be driven, but now? Well, now, I don't care. I just don't care. I want to do my job. I'm not out to set the world on fire or impress my boss. I just don't care."

She looked at me sheepishly and then was somewhat surprised when I slapped my hands on the table and yelled, "Me, neither!" in the middle of a packed restaurant.

I care, but I don't care. I don't care about impressing people or being the first or best or whateverest. I want to do good work. But it doesn't have that very personal, very life-or-death feel that it used to. It just ... doesn't matter.

I believe this is the mythical "everything changes once you're 40" mellowness that people whisper about. It's like the next step beyond when I realized in my 20s that nobody cares what my hair looks like, even though 13-year-old me refused to go buy mulch with my mom until after I washed and dried my perm.

Mulch.

This 40-year-old freedom doesn't have a name, but I have given it a symbol. And that symbol isn't iconic music, or dance, or poetry. It's the double bird, because that pretty much embodies how I feel about most things. Also, it still feels like a minor act of rebellion. Flipping somebody off? Kind of amateur. But flipping somebody off with both hands? You really don't care. And folks best mind your awesomeness.

And so I was meeting a new woman in a business setting. And we got to talking, and she mentioned that she was turning 40 soon.

"Oh, you're gonna love it," I said. "I turned 40 not that long ago."

"It already feels different," she said. "More relaxed."

I nodded. "Yeah, now I pretty much just feel like this all the time."

And instead of being horrified or plastering a fake, get-this-weirdo-out-of-here smile on her face, my new friend relaxed just a tiny bit and exclaimed, "YES! That's it exactly!"

I don't know why turning 40 is supposed to be a bummer. I feel richer and fuller than ever. And classier. Obviously.

My ugly charm bracelet and the lovely novel, The Charm Bracelet.

I have a problem picking up random (read: ugly) jewelry. I'm not talking about a "you'll regret that later" necklace at Target. I'm talking about "I can't believe Grandma ever wore that and I can't believe someone bought it at our garage sale because I figured we'd just throw it out" pieces.

Hi. I'm cool.

Anyway, I have this charm bracelet that is either amazing or completely terrifying. I think it's from the 50s or 60s, and it has uniform charms with "Here, let me strip all the fun out of your teenage years" sayings engraved on them.

Some gems:

• Stop and think before you drink -- then don't. (OK, I get this one.)
• Don't let your parents down. They brought you up. (Geez oh Pete. Like kids aren't under enough pressure already.)
• Choose a date who would make a good mate. (I appreciate the rhyming, but do I have to be thinking about marriage at the junior prom?)
• At the first moment turn away from unclean thinking -- at the first moment. (I find this one hysterical. AT THE FIRST MOMENT! AT THE FIRST MOMENT!)
• Don't show off driving. If you want to race go to Indianapolis. (Was drag racing really a big issue with the teen girls who were wearing CHARM BRACELETS?)

So, my charm bracelet is a bit of a downer. And I'm a crotchety old biddy for being mildly annoyed by the lack of commas. Or I'm a hipster and wearing it ironically. Whatever.

But if you want a charm bracelet that's awesome ... I have a book for you. (See what I did there?)

I was very fortunate to get an advanced copy of this beauty. The Charm Bracelet by Viola Shipman is a lovely novel about mothers and daughters and secrets and small towns and pulling apart and coming together. I loved it.

Lolly is starting to forget things. When there's a little accident and her daughter Arden is called back to the small town she left behind long ago ... well, there are stories to be told and family issues to be straightened out. And when Arden's daughter figures out that she has a grandmother she didn't know about? Well, it's on.

The author has an ear for dialogue and a wicked sense of humor. This is a heartwarming story about the sometimes perilous terrain of family relationships, and about bonds that last through it all. I might be making this sound a bit treacly, but it isn't at all. It's just a great story about family. And it's funny. And it would make a great gift for Mothers Day. Just sayin'.

On a scale of 1 to 5, I give The Charm Bracelet 5 dog families that are working together.

 What have you been reading lately?

Yoga pants are the new housecoats.

An older lady who lives down the street appears to have a uniform. Every time I see her, she's sporting some sort of housecoat/smock and a men's t-shirt. Her legs are always bare, even in the bitterest cold, and this worries me. But she smiles from behind her huge red glasses and calls me "Hon."

At first glance, it's easy to look at Neighbor Lady's ensemble and think, "Oh, brother." Let us be honest: the men's t-shirts are neither flattering nor coordinated with the housecoat/smocks. And sometimes there's both a housecoat and a smock, and the patterns don't go together. Comfort seems to be the focus here, not high fashion. Nor low fashion. Ahem.

But judge not lest ye be judged! Because today, I was feeling an ugly little bit judgey ... while walking my dog in yoga pants, a green fleece with a broken zipper, and a t-shirt that was of another, totally not complementary green. I was Clashy McClasherson. I was just walking around the block and picking up poop, so who cares?

Let us celebrate our freedom from fashion!

Neighbor Lady was just picking up sticks in her yard. Who dresses up for that?

And then it hit me. My grandma had an assortment of housecoats. They were comfortable and to be worn around the house only. Neighbor Lady is just stretching that window of appropriate venues a bit.

And I have an assortment of yoga pants. They're comfortable and to be worn in yoga class only. But, since most of us don't go to yoga class, they're to be worn at home only. But like most of my peers, I'm stretching that window of appropriate venues a bit.

Yoga pants are the new housecoats. Which is all hilarious and fine until we fast forward about 40 years. The lady people will be wearing whatever the third generation of housecoats will be. And they'll look upon us yoga pants-clad octogenarians with a mix of disdain and pity. Just how I'm looking upon my housecoat-clad neighbor.

But really? Neighbor Lady has one up on the women of my generation. Housecoats can hide a multitude of sins. And, they have pockets.

Pockets!

But yoga pants? Ain't no secrets nor storage when yoga pants are around. Yoga pants show the world your business whether you're 40 and in pretty good shape or you're 80 and have parts hanging everywhere.

The housecoats have the upper hand here, obviously. Gen X women, we have made a tactical error.

In which I vomit like a lady.

Now that I'm 40, I don't party like I used to. Which I guess is a good thing, lest I be the creepy 40-year-old at the frat party.

But the good news is that I can now hold my liquor, unlike my younger, frat-party-attending self. Now, I am a woman. Whiskey? Yes, please. Neat.

I recently had a fun girls' weekend in New Orleans. We didn't hit Bourbon Street or dance on any tables. No. Instead, we did a walking tour of the French Quarter called Drink and Learn. At 2 p.m.

You guys. This tour was beyond excellent. It was really fun. Each of us got a little cross-body bag with four sealed cups, some straws and napkins, and a recipe card. We'd walk to a spot in the French Quarter, and then our hostess would tell us to open up the cup with the pink sticker, and then we'd drink while she told us about the history of that particular beverage and New Orleans as a whole.

Super fun. Super interesting. Except it was super hot that day. So, there was some a-drinkin' going on when there should have only been a-sippin'.

The tour was 2 hours. At the end of those 2 hours, we were ... happy.

There was a guy on our tour by himself. We adopted him. All 5 of us then hit another bar, wherein we drank grasshoppers and pink Cadillacs. Then, we hightailed it to a bar with ... karaoke.

On the way, BFF was feeling the NOLA vibe. "I could really go for a cigarette," she said.

She is a nonsmoker. She bought some cigarettes. I am also a nonsmoker. I smoked a cigarette and felt ALIVE! I felt like I was in college and invincible! I figured I should probably buy some overalls and get my hair cut into The Rachel because it was the late 90s all over again and I was soooo cooooool.

Well, I was cool when I wasn't focusing intently on the lit end of the cigarette because I vaguely remembered that of the 10 cigarettes I smoked in college, I used roughly 8 to accidentally set things on fire. I wasn't meant to be a real smoker. I didn't have that coordination.

So, we smoked our cigarettes and then? Well, after an afternoon of drinking, we did what any normal women would do. We sang karaoke. And at 5:30 on a Saturday, the karaoke queue was wide open, so our little group did some serious damage.

And yes, BFF and I did sing "Islands in the Stream." And I was Gladys Knight to my sweet friends' Pips for "Midnight Train to Georgia." But, perhaps most importantly ... I belted "Delta Dawn," in honor of my dad.

Yes, I'm under a disco ball, wearing a giant scarf. It seemed like a good idea.

For some reason, this song is just kind of Our Song. I felt kind of guilty singing it without him, but BFF contended that I did him proud.

At some point in the evening, we ate. And then we went back to the karaoke bar and I sang "Be My Baby" by The Ronettes. Yeah, Phil Spector is crazypants, but he produces a heck of a karaoke song.

It was good, good times. Until it wasn't.

It was in the back of the Uber that I started feeling a little green. This was around 11 p.m. And by the time we were back in our condo - because ladies of a certain age need nice accommodations - I was feeling more green. Yellowish green. Ugly green.

I hadn't puked from over-imbibing since the night I got drunk off cheap vodka after dropping my brother at the airport so he could move to Europe. The day before that, our mom had had major surgery.

That was 12 years ago. I'd slept on the floor of the bathroom and prayed, promising God that I would never, ever, ever drink again if He'd just let me live. Or, if He wanted to kill me, would He mind doing it right quick-like so that I could stop praying for death?

But that was then. As a 40-year-old, I decided that I would probably feel better if I threw up. I was rational as hell. I went to the bathroom, shut the door, and took out my contacts. Then, I pulled my hair back, because women are always prepared. I puked in the toilet, flushed, washed my hands and mouth, and then brushed my teeth. Like a fucking lady.

I didn't sleep on the bathroom floor, convinced that tile was the greatest invention in all the universe. I just went to bed with a bottle of water. And although I felt crummy in the morning, I wasn't desperate for McDonald's french fries.

No, I just felt dumb. Dumb, but human. Really dumb once I realized that yeah, it wasn't the liquor. It was the cigarette and being too buzzed to realize that I was drinking beverages with cream in them. Because that's a good idea when dairy isn't your friend.

I guess you're never too old for bad decisions.

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?

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?

A minor treatise on women who lost their personalities in a parking lot somewhere, possibly outside Pottery Barn Kids.

There's a scourge invading our homeland. No, I'm not talking about Kardashians. It's worse.

I'm talking about the once-normal women who have morphed into 1-dimensional, perfect little fembots. I call them The Talbots.

These women are well-dressed in completely unobjectional attire. Their highlights are always within the bounds of good taste. Their husbands are well-employed and their children look like something out of a Tommy Hilfiger catalog. The homes? Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware, but of course.

So, that part is annoying. And boring. But the real issue I have with The Talbots? They talk. All the time. About nothing at all.

Small talk is the game and your neighborhood Talbot is the grand champion. She will talk your ear off about what kid is going to what school and did you hear about her friends that you don't know, well they sold their house, and isn't it just great? It's all just great.

Here's the thing: there are some people who are just superficial, or dead inside, or whatever. And that's their thing, and it's cool - although I've never met anyone who said, "I'm dead inside and it's cool."

No, the rub is that the Talbots I know weren't always like this. They used to be interesting, engaged, educated women. Now?

Now, I want to stab myself in the eardrum when I see them coming.

Tell me what you're reading. Tell me a dirty joke. Tell me how the dog had diarrhea and half the family walked through it. Tell me anything that's real and authentic. But don't tell me everything is great and perfect and wonderful and also great. I don't believe you. In fact, I feel sorry for you.

I know it's easy for women to get lost in the roles of mother and wife. But it seems like some of my peers haven't so much gotten lost as turned into Stepford succubi completely devoid of personality.

I recognize that we are constantly reinventing ourselves, even when we have no idea what comes next.

But I also know that I miss some women who are here physically but mentally have left the building.

Be ugly. Just be real. And don't be a Talbot. The world needs you - the real you.