Is it weird that I’m sort of into the Real Housewives of Dallas?
I say sort of because I want to leave myself a little wiggle room in case my dad or Billy Graham reads my blog posts. They might think I’ve lost it altogether.
Although to be fair, a couple of my Dallas Housewife friends mentioned in the pilot episode that they were raised in church, and continue to love their Jesus Juice a.k.a wine. From their perspective, happy hour is sort of like celebrating communion.
And frankly, that rationale is annoying to me, so then why don’t I just change the channel for crying out loud?
I think it’s because for the serious life of me, I cannot fathom why the creators of this show refer to the cast as real housewives.
That’s not a snarky dig at the women themselves (I mean, they technically are housewives). (And I’m sure we could be friends.) It’s just that the housewives I know have messy morning hair when they pour cheerios for their kids. And the housewives I know show up for coffee in the yoga pants they bought from Academy instead of “doing brunch” in a floral McQueen cap sleeve dress.
Also, my own Real Housewife situation looks a lot like stacks of laundry and more grocery shopping than I ever dreamed possible.
(Maybe I’m just out of the loop.) (Or I’m too small town suburbia.)
Whatever the case may be, I’m certain these “Real Housewives” would refer to my current wardrobe as a crisis situation.
Because I recently decided to get rid of everything I hadn’t worn in the last 12-18 months. Which means that all I have left now is raglan tees, polo shirts, and 3 sundresses.
Those cute cardigans and pencil skirts that I used to wear to work have contributed nothing to my life for nearly 2 years. Neither has the shirt I bought that one time that I really loved at first sight but not enough to ever wear. (I know: pathetic.)
Part of me wanted to give the fancy work clothes an excuse to stay, because it can’t be logical to toss things you might need one day. But then I realized I’m probably not going to show up for Thursday lunch at my friend Mindy’s wearing Tory Burch chinos. (Or for mimosas with #RHOD for that matter.) So there’s that.
According to Luke, I’ve got bigger problems than a closet of unworn clothes. Following a quick grocery run last week, we had this conversation as we sat in rush hour traffic:
Me: Oh my word, I’m SO glad I don’t drive home in this anymore.
Luke: Well, that also means you don’t have a job. And you don’t make money.
I wish he didn’t struggle so much to verbalize his thoughts.
What he lacks in positivity, the child makes up for in determination. Those things aren’t comparable, but whatever. I just needed a good segue to tell you about our Rubik’s cube issues.
So yes, let’s talk about the Rubik’s cube.
First of all, I had one of those ridiculous things for about 10 minutes in 1988. Which is exactly how long it took me to realize it was harder than it looked.
Luke bought one a few weeks ago, and he spent the next several days on an unswerving pursuit to solve it. Sadly, I offered zero value to the situation. But neither did Larry, which was fantastic when you consider I got to put that on the list of things he doesn’t know.
Luke did figure it out FINALLY and THANK YOU JESUS. But not until we’d already been through the wringer of emotion that tends to frustrate an obsessive personality. (Maybe one day Luke will record a video tutorial to save future generations from Rubik’s cube agony.)
(It’s worth noting one good thing about Rubik’s cube: it makes no sound. After that recorder phase, I learned to screen these purchases.)
And now I have to cut this post short because a) I am out things to say, and b) it’s Friday night, and I can’t miss Jimmy Fallon’s Thank You notes. (Please don’t be fooled by my fancy life.)
(Also, don’t mention it to my #RHOD friends, who spend their Friday nights communing at fancy charity events.) (I’ll take The Tonight Show any day, because I’m lame and I like it that way.)
Talk to you soon…
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