Crowded House

A girl has a right to change her mind. Especially in matters of the heart...and the home.

At least that's what I'm telling myself this morning as I face the scene in my living and dining rooms. Which, at the moment, contain no less than FOUR couches, TWO dining tables, ONE overstuffed chair and a partridge in a pear tree.

Come see for yourself.

Exhibit A:

The week-old cocoa Crate and Barrel "Petrie" sofa, which--as it turns out--looks purple in direct sunlight. I know this because my mom walked in and went, "You got a purple couch???" IT GOES.

The just-acquired khaki Room and Board "Jasper." It STAYS, though I am awaiting a package of fabric swatches to change its color via slipcover magic. My dog and my son will defile that off-white surface in SECONDS.

The brick red Room and Board "Grace" chair, which was purchased three houses ago. Its future is uncertain at the moment. The design is cool but frankly, I'm sick of that red.

The zebra rug that GOES because 1) Ben finds it emasculating, and 2) it sheds like a wildebeest and has given the vacuum emphysema.

Exhibit B:

Up against the walls you will find both pieces of the 10-foot Room and Board "Chelsea" sectional. This couch is fabulously comfy and was perfect in our last house, but the scale is wrong for our current home. Plus this bitch broke my toe. It GOES.

Also featured is our recent Craig's List coup, a mid-Century Danish modern dining set, complete with a matching hutch and (obscured by couch) credenza. It STAYS, but the chair seats will be reupholstered. When I settle on a color scheme. Which may be never.

Exhibit C:

The Room & Board "Parsons" table and one of eight corresponding "Radius" Chairs. These babies won't fit in my basement, which means it GOES. This set is now available on Craig's List for a mere FRACTION of the original purchase price. Interested?

Also seen here is the mid-century Danish modern coffee table I recently picked up at an antique store. It's a nice piece, though in retrospect we may need on that is more rectangular. It has been granted temporarily asylum until I make up my mind about it.

I'll tell you what. This home decorating business is exhausting! I need a nap just thinking about it! And I'd take one. Really, I would.

It's just that I can't decide which couch to lie down on.

Cautionary Tale

I'm a nice person. Really, I am.

But in certain circles, I'm also known as someone not to be crossed.

Perhaps it's because I hail from a long line of lawyers and criminals, but I've always upheld a certain unspoken code I like to call "one-up retribution." Here's how it works: You mess with me? I mess with you back...only WORSE.

Like when I was a kid, if my mom sent me to my room for some minor infraction, I'd retaliate by hiding her contacts and car keys for three days. Or in college, if my roommate snapped at me for neglecting to clean the bathroom, I'd respond by scrubbing the toilet to a high shine with her facial loofah.

And if my beloved metal-legged couch BROKE MY TOE? Well, I'd just have to put it on Craig's List. Immediately.

And so allow me to introduce the newest addition to my living room...the Crate and Barrel Petrie sofa. Clean lines, snappy mid-century styling and nary a metal leg in sight.

And as for the rest of you home furnishings? Let this be a WARNING to you. Don't mess with me.

Or next time? The rug GETS it.

Big Love

When I was a kid, one of my biggest thrills was to accompany my mother on her weekly trip to the grocery store.

I had an ulterior motive.

To gently coerce us into reasonably good behavior, my mother would allow my brother and I to each pick one treat from the bakery case. The idea, I presume, being that if our mouths were full, we couldn't make too much noise.

The case was lined with all the usually suspects...sprinkle-coated sugar cookies, creme-filled pastries, fudge-frosted brownies and the like. My brother, who admittedly never had much of sweet tooth, would always make a moderate choice. Something along the lines of a basic, palm-sized sugar cookie (to this day, dude still orders vanilla ice cream, every time).

Never one to be outdone, I always chose something on a slightly grander scale. Behold...the TEXAS DONUT!

Now, I don't particularly like donuts. Especially glazed donuts (I mean, if it's not chocolate, why bother?)

But frankly? SIZE MATTERS. I was, from the start, a shrewd little businesswoman. Upon encountering that glorious display case, my eight-year old brain did some lightening-quick ROI calculations and determined that bigger was absolutely better. Maybe it wasn't chocolate. Maybe it didn't even taste that good. But it was THE SIZE OF MY HEAD!

Besides, I relished the opportunity to outsmart my mother by exploiting the obvious loophole in her plan with what I imagined to be a clever little coup d'etat. After all, she said I could pick one thing, but foolishly failed to specify any size or price limitations. BIG MISTAKE.

Flash forward about 25 years to last night. I'd run out of ground espresso, and knowing that things were going to get ugly if I didn't aquire some by morning, I bribed Jack into making a quick store run with me by promising him a treat from the bakery case.

Okay, so they didn't have Texas donuts, but wouldn't you know that the kid still managed to pick the one item in the case that was THE SIZE OF HIS HEAD?

I wish I had a picture of him with that enormous, Texas-sized cinnamon sugar pretzel.

Because really? I could not be prouder.

House of Pain

It's been a helluva few weeks in the House of Strong Rhetoric. Or, as we are now calling it, the House of Pain.

I think it started with the raw sewage that we discovered (once we determined that smell WASN'T coming from the dog) springing forth from a backed-up drain in our basement laundry room, which required an emergency weekend visit from the roto man to fix. And then a SECOND emergency trip, when it happened AGAIN.

Then, of course, there was the "tickle monster incident," which lead to my broken toe and subsequent four hours in the inner city's finest urgent care. After two weeks of dragging myself one-legged through airports, client presentations, speaking engagements and children's museums, I am STILL unable to put on a shoe without screaming. Much less wear any reasonably flattering pants.

The day after that was the freak collision that pitted my car against the crumbling asphalt of Highway 40 during rush hour. THAT parlayed into a helpless call to roadside assistance, TWO flat tires, a couple bent wheel bases, a week in the shop and a pending claim against the Missouri Department of Transportation (at least it will be, once I finish the arduous paperwork).

And then, of course, we had Ben's surgery. That went down Monday, and seven days later he is finally off his back and on his feet. And this is a good thing, because it must have been a mighty pitiful sight for the neighbors to see him limping along, leaning on me as I hobbled along in my ortho boot, awkwardly trying to support him.

Right about that time, Jack and I had the opportunity to enjoy the stomach flu. This vomitous tour de force began in his bedroom, continued all over my bed, and then ended in the bathroom, hitting lots of hallway in between. Suffice it to say that I had to wash the sheets THREE TIMES in a 48-hour time frame. With a fever. On one foot. In a sewage-sprayed laundry room.

Add in a few other obstacles, like THE MOST CHALLENGING WORK MONTH EVER and THE WORST POSSIBLE ECONOMY (the words "salary freeze" being uttered in more than one quarter), and what possible conclusion can you make?

I think Ben summed it up best when he turned to me the other and said, quite matter-o-factly: "2009? So far it pretty much SUCKS."

But don't you worry about us. The upside of living in the House of Pain?

PLENTY of prescription painkillers.

The Future Is Here

It's Me Or The Dog

Have you ever caught that show on Animal Planet, It's Me or the Dog?

Picture Super Nanny, but replace the naughty kids with wild pooches, the kitschy black cab with a racy Jaguar convertible, the momsy purple suits with black leather, and the severe updo with a...severe updo. What do you have? A commercial success! And a vaguely riveting TV show with one very desirable side effect:

You get to feel superior to all the other dog parents, I mean owners, out there with their bad, bad choices.

Since we got our dog Frankie last summer, I've taken to watching this show on a pretty regular basis. And recently I've begun to wonder if maybe we shouldn't apply to be on the show. Not because Frankie has any behavioral problems. She's a pretty perfect pup, and OBVIOUSLY I'm a pretty perfect dog owner. No, our issue lies with where Frankie...lies. Specifically, the fact that she likes to lie in our bed. And I like her to lie in our bed. And Ben does NOT like her to lie in our bed.

I've watched enough episodes of this show to know where its resident dominatrix, Victoria Stilwell, stands on this issue. She would boot Frankie from the bed directly (that's how British people like to talk) and would absolutely insist that she sleep in her own bed on the floor somewhere nearby. And then I would have to explain that she obviously has never experienced the pleasure of spooning with a warm eight-pound wiener, because if she HAD, she would overlook it just this once and suggest that perhaps Ben would be more comfortable sleeping on the floor, where he wouldn't have to be jolted awake at regular intervals by a certain cold nose applied to the small of his back.

That's about the moment in the thought process when I realize that we will NEVER get to be on the show.

But you know who WILL? My friends! Like, TOMORROW NIGHT. Set your DVRs for 9 p.m. Saturday, when the It's Me or the Dog "Making Room for Baby" episode premieres. This episode will feature my GORGEOUS and now extremely pregnant friend Melissa, her GORGEOUS and nice-as-can-be husband Scott, and their GORGEOUS and, apparently, AGGRESSIVE weimaraner being sternly corrected, perhaps lightly spanked, and ultimately tamed by Victoria Stilwell herself!

I don't know about you, but after years of suffering an inferiority complex after being forced to go out on New Year's Eve with a GORGEOUS, bustier-clad Melissa while in my frumpy, tunic-swathed pregnant state, I am personally going to relish this opportunity to feel a little superior.

Those two may get to live in L.A. and drive a Range Rover and be all (did I mention?) totally GORGEOUS, but know what? My dog kicks their dog's ass.

And TOTALLY wouldn't bite the baby.