Mr. Right Now

Okay, so I took the plunge. My beautiful new bench is serving as the family room coffee table. He is stunning. I know it might be weird that I’m calling the bench a “he,” especially since it has a little retro-glam thing going on, but I definitely see it as a “he,” albeit quite the pretty boy.

You know the type, loads of looks, but not much substance. The whole bench weighed less that 15 lbs and I could easily carry him in by myself. Does that seem worthy a $500 investment, even if I did use a gift card?

Do you know his type?

He’s high maintenance.

Easily injured.

A bit dangerous (have you ever read the warning label on ScotchGard-- "May affect the central nervous system causing dizziness, headache or nausea...may be harmful or fatal? ")

And the table he’s replacing? Sturdy, solid, dependable, if a bit boring. It took both Tim and me to carry him out of the room and banish him to basement storage. My Old Love was handy—with two drawers for remotes, puzzles and other junk.

He fit our lifestyle, providing a large surface for laundry folding, board games and impromptu performances by the kids. He didn’t show sweat rings from glasses and bottles. He brought us together, as the four of us snuggled on the couch, dirty feet propped up on his back. He fit in with the other practical but not lovely leather furniture. I knew what to expect from him.

I can’t decide what to do with My Old Love. Should I cut him loose so someone else can benefit from his steadfast nature? Someone else would see him as #1, not as a safety date.

I know letting him move on is the right thing to do, and my yard sale is only a week away, but I’d really rather hang onto him for that day when Mr. Pretty Boy fails me, and I need someone I can count on. But is that fair, leaving him waiting in the wings until I tire of the stress and drama of my new Boy Toy?

Because right now, whenever I pass my new bench my heart quickens, oh yes it does. I like the element of sexy sophistication he brings to our house. Beer and nachos? I think not. Cocktails and crudite? Perhaps.

But I know this is not going to end well. That little voice inside me says to dump the $500 Lothario who is only going to cause me anguish and pain. It tells me if it takes this much work to make a relationship work-- the ScotchGard, the “only clear liquids rule,” the popcorn ban-- perhaps it’s not a good fit.

How long will it be before he alienates me from family and friends? Will it become Anna and The Bench against the world? Will I cease to be the fun-loving hostess of the past and instead choose evenings alone with him, intent on keeping our love, or his upholstery, pure?

Please no lectures. I realize this is just a fling. I’ve heard it all before: don’t date someone prettier than you are, stick with what you can count on, substance over style, "does he bring out the best in you?" and so on. Even the cleaning lady has weighed in, unasked, “No good. Too delicate, too beautiful, Miss Anna.” I know what I SHOULD do, what I MUST do, but what I’m choosing not to.

Please do not judge.

Girl’s turning 40 and is looking for a little furniture adventure. I just hope I don’t regret it in the morning.

Fabulous or Freakish?

I have a problem. I want a scooter.

Not this kind of scooter:

This kind.




Yep. On my way to work today I was behind a woman tooling into town on her Vespa. No biker chick was she. No tattoos (from what I could see) or leather chaps. She was wearing ballet flats. And within seconds my 1999 minivan seemed a little bit…frumpy. Thoughts went through my mind. Could I pull off riding a Vespa? Is it good for the environment? Does it come in light aqua?

I toyed with the idea of a Vespa last year when gas prices were so high. It just seemed so sensible, so chic, so fun, but the problems with my scooter fantasy were numerous:

You cannot pick up children on a scooter.

Scooters severely limit curb-side shopping aka dumpster diving.

I travel with a bunch of crap at all times: stuff to return, coupons to ignore, a dog.

I buy in bulk.

I don’t like the ________ (Insert heat, sun, cold, rain, wind…)

I live in one of the most traffic-gnarled areas in the country, and I don’t mean “gnarly” in a mid-80’s good way.

Motorcycles scare me. Is this like a motorcycle?

A Vespa costs between $3,500-5,000.


Here’s a cheaper version, but it may be a bit like one of the kiddie ones I saw at ToysRUs.

On the plus side:

I work 1.5 miles from home and can get to work on neighborhood streets (before you tell me to walk or bike to work, I’d like to ask you to please focus! Let’s stay on topic here)

How cute is it?

Did I mention I’m turning 40 momentarily?


So, I’d love for you to weigh in. Should I pursue the Vespa or just leave it a dream? Could you see me lugging a gallon of milk and a bunch of Yoplait in my backpack on a Vespa, or does that make the cuteness quotient go WAY DOWN?

Truthfully, should I just hold out until I need one of these?

I Smell a Mouse

Some things I can’t stand:

Being Sweaty
Waiting in Line (If I don’t have something to read)
Paying Full Price
Being “Marketed” to

These reasons are probably why Tom has stopped inviting me to professional baseball games.

Why am I telling you this? Because I am going to Disney World. In June.

You may be thinking what a great mom I am to forgo my personal pleasure for my children, but I’m not going with:

No, Molly and Jake have yet to go to Disney.

I’m going with:

My dear college friends. Sorry to leave you out of the pic, H, but I didn’t have a current one of all of us, and I’ve gained 7 lbs since this one was taken, so I’m feeling a wee bit nostalgic for last fall. Blogger’s rights.

Anyway, we are all either on the verge of turning 40 or have recently done so, so we’re taking a trip to celebrate! One friend’s parents have offered us their condo in Florida, so we are flying south! The Disney thing is a fun day trip, I think.

Now before you think I’m a hater and all, let me say that I have attended “Disney Princesses on Ice” and “Disney Gymnastic Superstars” But both were inside, in the winter, and I did have a child with me, my own.

When my dear friends asked where I wanted to go on our big trip I do remember waxing on with great hyperbole…. “I don’t care! The inside of a Don’s John is fine with me as long as we’re together!” But Disney? Never crossed my mind.

Am I worried about my friends reading this and thinking I’m a party pooper? Heck no. We’ve known each other since 1987 and my party pooper-ness has been long established.

We’ll be reminiscing about college. “Remember when we **** all night at the ***** with ***** and *****? That was hilarious! Oh yeah, you weren’t there, Anna.”

Some college activities freaked me out a bit, because I am a worrier, so I was not privy to them. Usually, my friends didn’t even tell me about them, either so I wouldn’t feel left out, so I wouldn't be a wet blanket, or so my head wouldn’t explode.

I’m not saying I didn’t go to parties each Thursday-Saturday night, but during the more colorful activities, or games of "I Never," I was likely to be in my fuchsia sweat suit emblazoned with the words “Tab’s Got Sass!” on the front, hair in a scrunchie, pounding Little Debbie Snack cakes while watching tv on my one channel in my apartment.

If Al Gore had perfected the Internet by then, I might have been blogging. But PLEASE don’t confuse me with those nerds who hung out in the computer labs next to the huge mainframes, staring at black and orange screens, "chatting" with people from all over the country whom they didn’t know, when they could have been having face to face encounters with real human beings. I knew that would NEVER catch on.

So, it is true—I hate being sweaty. I hate lines. I hate being marketed to and paying full price. And oh yeah, other people’s kids bug me… a lot. Yet I am going to Disney World.

If my college friends are reading this, I hope they don’t disinvite me. It really is all about the company, and I’m beyond psyched about catching up with them. I'm actually counting the days.

As long as I have enough caffeine, food, sunscreen, and possibly alcohol, I should be fine. One question: Is it okay to bring a book to Disney?