Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last week, I’m sure you’ve seen this recent Time magazine cover asking if you’re Mom Enough.

I’ll admit, when I first laid eyes on it, I was pissed. I posted it to my Facebook page with a snide comment.  I made assumptions about that ridiculously hot mom and wondered how the hell her boobs looked that great after breastfeeding for five thousand years. And I wasn’t alone-a social networking and media firestorm over the “right” way to parent raged on the internet. Angry status wars on Facebook.  Twitter debates heard around the world.

But, then I realized something. The executives at Time magazine who orchestrated this whole thing were most likely laughing their asses off and high-fiving each other for inciting another mommy riot-selling a shitload of magazines in the process. And why not?  We make it so easy for them!

You see, the reason this cover pisses us off is not because there’s a three-year-old nibbling on his mom’s boob, but the way that picture and headline below it make us feel.  If you don’t wear your baby in a sling-you suck.  If your boobs aren’t providing milk until your kid hits kindergarten, you’ve failed as a mother.  Only evil mothers let their babies cry it out. And we buy into it, getting defensive and attacking attachment parenting until we’re blue in the face. When, in reality, there’s nothing wrong with attachment parenting-it just may not be right for you.

And it seems we’ve forgotten one really important thing: There’s more than one way to be a great parent.

The media loves to kick up a good shitstorm between women.  Perfect example?  The classic stay-at-home mom vs working mom debate.  Our instinct is to put one another down in order to feel better about our own choices-that insecurity we all harbor deep down inside that we may not be supermom rearing it’s ugly head anytime someone suggests one lifestyle is better than the other.

Personally, I’m tired of seeing mothers fight over what the “right” choices are.  Dr. Phil can solve paternity issues, find long-lost siblings and fix bad marriages in one hour flat, but when he had SAHMs and working moms on his show, the debate was so heated that they had to extend into two hours.  The venom that was spewed and the judgement that was handed down on both sides was disturbing and hard to watch.

Here’s a thought: What if we took that energy and supported each other instead?  Or better yet, work on getting right within ourselves so we don’t attack each other? And when did the F did mothering turn into a competitive sport?

I choose to work because I enjoy it-and I’m not ashamed to be a working mother.  And I’ve always felt that if moms make choices that make them happy(as long as it doesn’t include cocaine and a bottle of tequila!) that their family will probably be happy too. It was the right decision for me-but that doesn’t mean it’s the right choice for others. I have great love and respect for the stay-at-home Moms out there and have good friends on both sides of this coin.  And if there’s snarky comments or judgment directed my way from others because of how I live my life, I’ve finally figured out that it has more to do with them than me.

I’m not a perfect mom by any means(and probably the worst girl scout leader EVEH, but that’s a whole other blog!), and I know I’ve made more than my share of mistakes.  I’m just like y’all-I worry that the choices I make today will effect my kids later on. But I hope that I’m teaching them that no one moment, good or bad, defines them as long as they live in the present. And that whether I breastfed until they graduated college or not at all, I love them more than anything in this world. And it’s that love for our children that makes us ALL Mom enough.

Enter to win these TEN books!

I want to know what YOU think!  I’ve got a GREAT prize package for someone! A BUNDLE O’ BOOKS! Leave a comment and I’ll choose the winner on Monday May 21st after 6pm PST.

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Hi, my name is Liz and I’m a shopping addict.

Well, more like a recovering shopping addict.  At least I was in recovery until an ill-fated trip to Loehmann’s last week.

But let me back up a little.  For those of you that are regulars around here, you heard me bragging about my Cash & Carry financial plan a few months ago.  And it wasn’t bullsh*t-I had broken up with my Amex gold card last year and hadn’t looked back since. Lately, I’m the one who has the cash when it’s time to split the bill.  And I no longer feel like puking when I log into American Express’s website to check out my balance.  However, I may have failed to mention the secret to my success. Something that I feared would be hard to keep up long term.  A theory that I decided to test last week.

Long story short, I failed miserably.

It all started when those pesky little children of mine began to grow out of their clothes.  I tried to ignore my daughter’s tummy hanging out of her now too-short shirts and my son’s flood pants.  Because I knew that stepping one foot into that overpriced, pushy salesperson jungle of a store called Justice would undo all my hard work these past months.  My dirty little secret? The only way I had been able to stop spending was to not step foot ANYWHERE that I love to shop for the past six months.

Target? It pained me, but I sent the hubs to stroll those glorious aisles.

Gap? Supervised online shopping only.

Loehmann’s? I told myself those communal dressing rooms were terrible for my self-esteem.

And my strategy had been working damn well.  But now a growth spurt threatened to ruin it all.  Damn you children’s multi-vitamins!

But being the Type-A beyotch I am, I was determined to come up with a solution.  And 100,000 American Express points later, I had one. (One perk to my addiction:membership rewards!)

So armed with gift cards from every store the kids like, I was able to purchase clothes that fit without going over my husband-allotted cash allowance.  But even being in the store was intoxicating.  I started to remember what a high shopping always gave me.  That feeling that my daughter just HAD to have those scratch and sniff jammies(WTF with those anyway?).  I tried to ignore my shopping buzz and just get what they needed. But there was no mistake-the shopping beast had been awakened in me once more.

Fast forward to the next week that included my two BFs bdays as well as an hour to kill within spitting distance of the Beverly Hills Loehmanns. I told myself that I was only going in there for them.  That they loved Loehmann’s and I’d be a horrible friend if I didn’t buy them something from there.  But from the moment that I walked in, I was drunk with happiness at their selection of Calvin Klein dresses.  High with the anticipation of wearing that straw fedora at the pool FOUR months from now when we went on vacay.  Cracked out at the thought of shaking my ass in that Michael Kors skirt.  And even though it made me feel slightly ill, I pulled out that gorgeous gold card and slapped it down for the cashier like the last six months had never happened.

I had officially fallen off the wagon.

Oh, but on a positive note, I did find Lisa something really cute for her bday!

That night, as I unsuccessfully tried to hide the bag from the hubs behind my ass (I haven’t worked out much lately, thought it might work?!), I felt even worse.  Sick with guilt and regretting my actions, wanting to eat carbs and greasy food-it was clear that I had the shopping hangover from hell.

So guess what?  I’m taking all that sh*t back this week.  And just like any addict, I’ll start over again from day one. And even though I know it’s the right thing to do, I still think I would’ve ROCKED that straw fedora by the pool. *sigh*

What are your addictions?  Leave a comment and let me know!  Or just make me feel better about mine.

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Today’s the day!  I’m jetting off to Chitown to meet Lisa’s new bundle of joy.  It’s been three long weeks since she arrived and I can’t wait to see them both!  Lisa’s excited for my arrival, but mostly because I promised to be her bitch for the next four days.

Cooking?  I’m her Top Chef! Cleaning? I can do things with a mop you’ve never seen before! Poopy Diapers?  I handle that shit like no other!

But I have a small confession to make.

I’m not a baby person.

Before you get all Judgey Mcjudgerson on me, it’s not that I don’t like babies.  I just don’t LOVE them the way many of my girlfriends do.  While y’all sit there goo-goo and ga-gaing over the blobs babies, I’m admiring them from a few feet away.  And while you might beg to babysit that screaming gurgling love bug, I’ll be the one to help mom escape to have her first glass of wine in ten months. So you see, I’m not a baby hater, more like a baby liker.  That’s okay, right?

And the funniest part?  Babies LOVE me.  It’s like that whole wanting what you can’t have thing starts at a very young age because I’ve got MAJUH game with the under one set.  They reach for me, fall asleep on me, and are generally really f*cking happy when I’m holding them.

I haven’t broke the news to Lisa yet that I’m not going to goo-goo and ga-ga when I get there.  But I would think after 22 years of friendship that she knows I’m going to do my best Auntie work after age 2.  After all, she watched me muddle through the baby stages of both of my children-how can she NOT know?

But in honor of my visit, I thought I might try to become more baby-friendly.  So I’ve come up with a list of all the reasons why babies are the best.  *speaks into megaphone* Say it with me: BABIES ARE THE BEST! (Did that sound convincing?!!??)

WHY BABIES ARE THE BEST

1. A baby won’t tell me my new haircut makes me look like Dora the Explorer.  Or yell at me when I’m a few minutes late picking them up.

2. Babies still get excited by and appreciate my boobs.  Even if they just view them as a food source.  Whatevs.  I’ll take it.

3. Babies give me an excuse to nap during the day. (But do I still get to do that if it’s not my baby?)

4. They can be a conversation starter at Starbucks. Because nothing says talk to me like a baby in a bugaboo.

5. They give me an excuse to carry an extra ten pounds and scare my pregnant friends with delivery room horror stories.  Ripped vaginas! Bad C-sections!  And my personal favorite?  Pooping on the delivery table!

See?  Babies are the BEST!!!

What do you think?  Leave a comment and you’ll be entered to win one of TWO copies of The Inadequate Conception: From Barry White to Blastocytes: What your mom didn’t tell you about getting pregnant by Lori Green.  You can also check out her blog here.  I’ll choose a winner on Sunday night after 6pm PST.

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

So I think I’ve mentioned or maybe you’ve just noticed that I can be a bit of a control freak sometimes. But there’s always been one aspect of my life that I’ve had no control of…

My spending habits.

Yes, I can calculate the calories in those chips and guacamole in an instant but am unable to balance my checkbook properly.  I have the willpower to completely cut out food groups(cheese? Who needs it?) but cannot resist the Nordstrom half-yearly sale.  Or that adorable Calvin Klein dress.  Or ANYTHING at The Container Store. (Damn that place! Who really needs a onion saver??!!!?)

And I don’t need to pay a therapist $300/hour to tell me that I buy things to make myself feel better.  Having a bad week? Shaking my ass in that new little black dress will make the world feel right again. Feeling fat? Buying all those pink acrylic glasses at Target made me feel light and dainty. Bored? Nothing like online shopping to fill the hours.  For me, there was no better high than a shopping one.

Until that damn American Express bill showed up.  Was I actually supposed to pay that freakin’ thing off each month?  Oops.

But that ginormous monthly statement never seemed to stop my love affair with my gold card.  No matter how much we made, we would somehow manage to outspend it by ALOT.  And all along I told myself that it would be IMPOSSIBLE to cut one thing out of our budget. That there’s no way I could live without sushi, Starbucks or a Brazillian Blowout.

I was wrong.

I don’t remember exactly when it hit me.  Maybe it was what seemed the millionth time the hubs and I were having the same conversation about money.  We always look and each other and stupidly ask Where does it all go? without ever having the balls to actually look and SEE WHERE THE MONEY ACTUALLY GOES. Because it’s much easier just to buy what you want and pretend that living within your means is just impossible than to try to cut back.  And we had so many things to blame!

The cost of living is so high in Southern California!

I could buy a BMW for what we pay for daycare each year!

I have to get my hair done every month-I’m going gray! (Sad to say this one actually very true…)

But most of it was bullshit.  Yes, it is ridiculously expensive to live here and I dream for the day we don’t have to pay for daycare anymore.  But the real problem was not with those things.  It was with us.

My issue was living like I was a millionaire.  And my hubs?  His problem was saying NO to my spending.  He had been my YES man for a long time.  And as much as I loved him for always telling me I deserved that new pair of shoes, I finally had to admit that he was just enabling a terrible habit. But was was the solution?

Cash  & Carry, yo.

I had always been a cashless wonder.  I was the girl who always took your cash for the meal and paid with my credit card.  Parked in a parking structure?  I’m the one begging for five bucks so I can get out.  And I’d always have to avoid eye contact with the homeless people holding signs by the freeway.

Now I would be given a cash allotment each week.  And and I had to learn to *gasp* THINK about what I was spending.  Groceries, Starbucks, happy hour.  It all had to come out of my piggy bank.  But if I was able to hold my shit together and not overspend, we would only spend what we made. (Novel concept, right?)  And then, if we could do that for awhile, then we could do this other thing we never do.  Save money.

It was tough at first.  My Starbucks baristas just couldn’t get over the fact that I was paying them in cash and I had to save for three weeks before I could get a mani-pedi.(And forget about any extra massage!)  But as sad as I was not to buy that adorable dress at Loehmann’s, the feeling of gaining control over my finances was exhilarating.  Spending was one area of my life that always felt out-of-control-like a addiction I couldn’t shake.  And each week that I was able to stay in my new budget felt like a small victory.  I finally came to realize that the world was not going to END if I didn’t buy Hanky Pankys in every color.  (Although having them in every color would be really awesome.)

And even though we got a bit off track with the holidays(The Coach boots were on sale, I SWEAR!), I’m actually looking forward to getting back to our cash & carry routine.  Because when you don’t buy every damn thing that you want, it makes the things you do buy seem that much sweeter.

How about you?  How do you save money?

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my birthday.  Love the anticipation, hate the possible letdown.  And even though I’m not one of those people that needs a huge celebration each year,  I still always dread the inevitable birthday discombobulation.

From the L&L  dictionary:

Birthday Discombobulation(birth-day dis-come-bob-you-lay-shun) The heightened sensitivity that one’s birthday won’t be the best day of the year.  Usually associated with erratic behavior, tears and possible temper tantrums.  Can be intensified by “milestone” birthdays.

C’mon, admit it-you’ve all had this at least a few times. Especially as more birthday candles keep mysteriously appearing on your cake each year. (How am I thirty-seven already? And when did all these damn wrinkles show up?)  For me, Birthday Discombobulation (or BD as I like to call it), usually starts a few weeks before the big day.  And it’s often triggered because the Type A’er in me really, really wants to be in control  what we do that night.  Which should work out fine, right?

Well it would, except for the fact that there’s a super secret sensitive beyotch lurking inside me that wants my husband to:

A) Read my mind about what I’d like to do.

B) Then plan it exactly the way I would.

And most importantly:

C) Buy me a gift that I didn’t ask for but have always secretly wanted (mind reading also comes in handy here…).

Should be a piece of cake, right?  Um, no.  Not really.  The reality is that many of us make it impossible for our significant others to succeed in pleasing us on our birthdays.  In fact, last year, I had a MAJUH BD meltdown over a necklace (long story!  But you can read about it here).

And the lesson learned from that fiasco?  If you want to have a fabulous birthday, you need to cut the people around you a bit of slack. Well, okay, maybe that’s what I should have learned. Because, here we are, less than one week from my bday, and I can feel the BD trying to take hold of me again. And I.  Must. Fight. It. Off.

They say self-awareness is the first step.  And now that I know this sh*t is about to take over my birthday again, I’ve developed a four-step BD avoidance plan.

Step One: Tell the hubs where I want to go to dinner that night. You know, somewhere fun, but not too loud, but not too quiet, that is really chic, but also not too expensive.  Somewhere with enough beautiful people to make me feel cool about being there, but not  so hawt that I feel fat and old. Oh, and no, I don’t have anywhere specific in mind. See? I made it easy.

Step Two: Upgrade from birthday happy hour with the girls to full night GNO.  Well, okay, maybe my super fabulous friends put this into effect.  But either way, birthday GNO is the BEST! Say it with me: G-N-O, G-N-O!

Step Three: Fly your best friend in. Well, okay, maybe Lisa is already flying in that day for something else. But I’m going to pretend it’s just for me.

Step Four: Realizing what a complete ass I sound like when whining about BD. And the fact that my husband practically needs a Xanax prescription each September to get through this time?  Not cool.  (In my defense, I do RAD stuff for his birthday every year!  So at least I’m not a BD hypocrite.)

Now I’m clearly ready for birthday success, right?  The first hurdle?  This coming weekend with the hubs. And I can just feel that THIS will be the year that I conquer BD.  And if for some reason I don’t, well, I’ll drown it in Grey Goose.

And since it’s almost my birthday, I feel like giving something away.  How about two signed copies of our debut, I’ll Have Who She’s Having? It just won best debut novel over at Chick Lit Plus! Leave a comment here to enter and I’ll choose a name on Friday night.

And to all my fellow Libra’s, here’s to BD-free birthdays!

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Throughout the years, Liz and I have had our share of crises.

First there was our identity crisis.  (Ask Liz about her meltdown in college when everyone called BOTH OF US Lisa.)

Then there was our quarterlife crisis. (Don’t EVUH buy one of those close-up lighted vanity mirrors after age 35. Trust me on this one ladies.)

And now, I’m in the middle of  a geography crisis. A major one.

I can’t decide where I live. Chicago, IL or Long Beach, CA?

Seems like a no-brainer, right? Well….

As many of you know, about six months ago I “shmoved” to Chicago be with my soon-to-be fiance.  I chose to use the word “shmove” over “move” because it was, well, less “I no longer live in California” sounding. After all, I still had a car and my furnished condo in Long Beach , my driver’s license still said Cali and, c’mon, could I ever really be a Midwestern girl?

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Midwestern people. In fact, they’re nicer than most. But, when you technically have two residences, you can pick and choose where you want to live based on who’s asking.  And most of the time, you’re going to say California mostly in order to avoid the weird, squinty look people give you when they try to process why on God’s green Earth you’d ever choose to go from the West to the Midwest. So, I’m not really lying when I say Long Beach… even though all my Hanky Pankys are in Illinois and my Long Beach condo has now been rented.

Right?

But since it’s a New Year and I’m about to marry the man I’ve been shmiving with for the past six months, it’s probably time to make a few confessions:

1. I confess: I’m still using a California driver’s license. Okay, so here’s the deal. I went into the DMV and I was ready to bite the bullet, I swear. Well, that is until I started sweating through my “I love California” t-shirt. As I looked around at the long line of wool coat and scarf wearing people, I knew that if I went through with my application for a driver’s license that I’d officially be an Illinois resident. Which meant…

I could no longer hand my California ID to the lady at Target and have her “ooh and ahh” over the great, warm life I must have back there.

I could no longer get comments from the cute boys behind the counter at Cubs games when they saw my ID. I’d officially be a Midwesterner.

So, I turned on my North Face snow boot heel and walked out of there faster than you could say Go Cubs!

2.  I confess: I still watch TV on West Coast time! I still watch the Bachelor at the time my West Coast friends do. Half the fun of watching shows like these is the sideline banter I have with Liz during the show.  And now, even though I have to wait TWO FULL HOURS  so we can write on each other’s walls about the 24 year old with fake ta-tas who’s only known Jake for 11 seconds but is ready to marry him and have his babies, it’s worth it.

3. I confess: I’m f***ing freezing my ever-expanding ass off! In order to keep my Midwestern cred with my new Midwestern friends, I LIE about how the cold is affecting me. I tell them that this Cali girl is A-okay and that the cold isn’t anything a North Face coat and a good pair of gloves can’t handle! But the truth is, I’m freezing my ass off! It’s not like I haven’t been around cold before…I love to ski and snowboard. But…this is ridiculous.  It was NINE degrees here on Sunday. And when I checked the weather in Long Beach on my Iphone (something I do at least once a day I guess to torture myself) it was SEVENTY TWO!  So, to warm myself up, I’ve turned the thermostat up to 75 and gone through an entire forest of firewood trying to turn “brutal cold” nights into “warm hearth” evenings.  But I’m still cold…And the only thing I’ve actually succeeded in is making my fiance’s head spin off each time the heating bill arrives in the mail.

4.  I confess: When I fly back to Cali, I  tell the person in the seat next to me that I’m “on my way home.” The minute I buckle myself into my seat and head to Cali, I’m often asked “do you live in California?” And I usually say, “Why, yes I do!” Then the person will say “what part?” and I’ll happily respond “Long Beach” and they’ll nod with approval. What can I say? I get homesick for the sun as soon as I make sure my Louis is stowed away properly and my tray table is in its upright position. I know that when I land I’m going to remember what I’ve been missing. How glorious it will be when I’ll be able to walk outside to the taxi line WITHOUT needing thermal underwear and a face mask.  How people will be wearing flip flops in the seventy five degree January weather.

Don’t believe me?  Want to see my ID?!

xoxo, Lisa

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Lisa's FAT PANTS (not actual size)

This past Turkey Day, I forgot all the rules.  I snacked with reckless abandon. And I did it all. day. long. I ate nacho flavored Dorito’s, cashews, deviled eggs and even that damn caramel corn from Chicago that I bought for my family in an effort to be cute.

I ate it all.

So when the turkey was wheeled out and all the sides were set up (we do it buffet style, of course!) I was faced with the harsh realization that I was already full. But did that stop me?  Hell to the no!  I ate again with reckless abandon. I inhaled the turkey and gravy, the sweet potato souffle, the stuffing, the delicious casserole “surprise” that I couldn’t identify but thought was delicious anyway. I ate all of it.

But even as my belly began to spill over the waist band of my jeans, I knew it was all going to be okay. Even though my eyes were glazed over. Even though drool trickled out of the side of my mouth.  Even though I was quite confident I’d gained at least 5 pounds that day.

It was all going to work out because…

I’d traveled with my FAT PANTS.

My olive green, Juicy Couture, velour, with a very forgiving waist band, FAT PANTS.

When I stopped by to see Liz after my feast, her skinny jean wearing twenty-somethings relatives could not comprehend what FAT PANTS were, let alone understand why someone would wear them. They stared at me blankly, clearly not grasping the concept of food having such an immediate impact on ones physical body. I knew that one day, when their metabolism was more like a tortoise than a hare, they’d understand…or at the very least, have a friend who did.

And over the years, my FAT PANTS haven’t just been there for me.   They’ve also hidden my cheese-induced bloat, clad the pants-less and comforted my friends in times of need.

FAT PANTS to The Rescue! When Liz’s brother, Brian, was in a terrible car accident earlier this year, my FAT PANTS stepped right in. Our other BFF, La Sundra had left straight from work to be at the hospital in her suit and pumps (yes, pumps) and didn’t have any other clothes with her. And as we sat across from each other in the waiting room, I could tell she was uncomfortable. And I knew just what to do! I reached in my bag and retrieved the juicy pants. She simply nodded and went in the bathroom to change.  And when I got cold and put on the matching jacket, we also were able to provide vast amounts of comedy relief as we sat side-by-side.  Hey, I was just happy I could help.

Who needs maternity pants? When Liz was pregnant with her second child, she became enraged at the concept of maternity jeans. (Something about ill fitting waist bands and fake denim made her want to puke up her prenatals.)  I quickly arrived on the scene with the answer: The juicy pants!  (In this case, I’m sure you can appreciate why I did NOT refer to them as Fat Pants…) They even made an appearance at the hospital the day Liz’s son was born.  In fact, she told me she had been wearing them for five days straight because they were the only pants that still fit.  I felt honored that my FAT PANTS were the last pants standing.

So, I’d like to give a shout out to my FAT PANTS (that I’m wearing now for inspiration and also because I couldn’t resist the second croissant at my hotel’s complimentary buffet) and say THANK YOU for protecting and serving my friends and me for so many years. I look forward to many, many more to come!

xoxo, Lisa

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Sunday night, Liz texted Lisa the same message she’s sent her every Sunday for the past three years.

Dude, we should try out for the Amazing Race! It would be soooo fun!

And Lisa’s thumbs couldn’t type fast enough as she responded the same way she has every Sunday for the past three years.

F**kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk Nooooooooooooooo!!!

But …thank you for giving me an idea for a blog post!

I'm sorry to tell you, Liz & Lisa, that you are the last team to arrive~Phil Keoghan

Liz says:  Come on, Let’s race!

Oh, Amazing Race, How I love thee! And even though my current idea of adventure is staying at a three-star hotel, I think I would love schlepping around the world with nothing but a passport and the three nasty outfits that I shoved into my backpack.  I mean, what better way to lose weight than to run through the streets of Dubai in 130 degree heat?  Nevermind the fact that I usually start sweating the second the barometer breaks 85 and that I consider a trip to the Bahamas an international vacation.

And even though Lisa and I sometimes spend thirty minutes arguing over sentence structure, I’m sure we’ll get along famously!  If we survived the bad fashion of the 80′s and 90′s together, we can surely herd some Japanese tourists and ducks like nobody’s business or eat a wasabi bomb in thirty seconds!

While I’m sure Lisa will make a strong case against our Amazing Race union, I’m here to plead my case for an appearance next season.

1. We get to hang out with Phil, who is smokin’ hot AND has an accent! I’m sure that we’ll look awesome after jogging through the streets of China in our underwear or taking a dip in the crisp, clean waters of Vietnam.  And although I can’t leave the house without burning my hair into submission for thirty minutes with a flat iron, I think our new au natural look will be a big hit! Isn’t it time for frizzy hair and thick eyebrows to make their well-deserved comeback?

2. Free Publicity for Chick Lit is not Dead Admit it, we could really use the exposure. No publicity is bad publicity, right?  Plus, it’s either this or tying a chair to some mylar balloons and sending my five-year up for a ride. And this way I don’t have to break any laws or be ridiculed on CNN. Because, admit it, we all know I’ll be edited as “the nice one”! Sorry, Lisa.

3. Endless Blog fodder and Facebook status updates My only concern is that many of Lisa’s updates would start with Lisa is ready to kill Liz because…

4. What a great workout! There’s nothing like springing through foreign countries in extreme weather conditions to get your ass in shape!  Nevermind the fact that we both will become crazy beyotches if we skip lunch or don’t drink water every five minutes.  I’m sure it will all work out fine! (And make for great TV if it doesn’t…)

Lisa says:  Are you F’ing kidding me?

For the record, I’d like to state that I’m in love with The Amazing Race. One of my favorite pastimes is sitting back and WATCHING the teams of two nearly kill each other as they try to find a one inch snowman in a twenty five foot pile of snow. From the Newly Datings (oh the poor, innocent things) to the We’ve been engaged for nine years but aren’t sure if we should get marrieds (what an iron clad way to strengthen your relationship!) to the requisite We’re freakishly hot and SWEAR we don’t have sex couples. (Well, if you weren’t having it before, running through the streets of New Dehli aint gonna help the mojo!) I love them all! (The angry/violent hearing impaired guy and his freakishly strong mom were my favorite!)

And even though I also heart Liz and think she’s incredibly talented and creative, trying out for The Amazing Race is, hands down, one of the worst ideas she’s ever had! (Well, if you don’t count her recent decision to mix Tequila and Smirnoff this past weekend.) So, here’s my case for why our only “Amazing Race” should be meeting our December book deadline.

1. Um, Phil, is it against the rules for me to strap a GPS to my camel? My idea of following a map is inputting an address into my car’s navigational system.  I’m quite confident I would have an easier time finding a Starbucks in Bakersfield than I would trying to track the lady in the purple scarf in a busy square in Bangkok. I still have to confirm directions to O’Hare and Liz expects me to try to find a yodeler at the base of the Swiss Alps? WTF?!

2. There’s no bottled water in Zimbabwe? Considering my constant dehydration even if the best conditions, I could easily be the first AMAZING RACE contestant to murder her teammate over lack of H2O. So if Liz wants to live to see her 37th birthday, she should probably just continue to lust after her boy Phil from afar.  Maybe stalking him off-season would be easier?

3. Do you think I can pop my enzymes before I eat a cricket in Cairo? Um, Liz knows I can barely consume a perfectly made American hamburger without digestive aids. So the fact that she wants me to consider downing a wasabi bomb with a side of scorpion tail is more than upsetting. Constipation +bloating = distended belly, bad TV and, did I mention bad TV?

4. I don’t do alliances! I know my people-pleasing friend, Liz will want to team up with the cute guys or help the requisite hillbillies that can barely read the signs in English. (Let alone Japanese!) And all I can say is Hells to the No’s. I’m not sharing my ladle, my internet cafe location or my Gas-X with anyone!

xoxo, Liz & Lisa

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

It was painting time.

What do you get when you combine 3 gallons of paint, six walls and two Type-A fiances?

A near disaster.

In the Stannenfeldt household anyway.

It all started when Matt innocently asked if I wanted to join him on a trip to the man’s Tarjay (Lowes). Since I pride myself on my woMANly ways, I happily obliged.  And I’m not sure how it happened exactly (my cart had a mind of its own!) but on the way to the faucets, we somehow found ourselves in the paint aisle, comparing swatches and finishes (satin or eggshell?) and discussing painting our living room and dining room. (Because for those of the Type-A persuasion, one room just wasn’t enough.)

And the next thing I knew, our cart was piled high with rollers, brushes, tray liners and drop cloths.

And as we paid for the supplies and paint–one gallon of Dusted Bronze and two gallons of Bees Wax– I wondered, were we really going to do this?

Weren’t we breaking one of the cardinal couple rules?

Never move something together!

Never assemble something together!

And never, under any circumstances, paint together!

As we prepped the rooms, I thought to myself, we can do this. And as I taped the crown molding and looked over at Matt as he covered the furniture, I repeated the same mantra in my head.

I won’t be Bossy Betty.

I won’t be Bossy Betty.

I won’t be Bossy Betty.

Well, let’s just say that sometimes, even though you can repeat something over and over in your head, it doesn’t always come true.

The good news is, the rooms look amazing—warm and inviting.

But in hindsight, there are a few things I’d do a wee bit differently should there ever be a next time. (You never know, Hell could freeze over!)

1.  Not agree to accompany the hubs to be to Lowes. (Especially with an ulterior motive in mind!)

2.  I’d let someone else use a roller brush–like maybe the 6’2″ painter by my side. (Even if I didn’t exactly approve of his brush stroke!)

3.  I’d get down off the step ladder long enough to fill my own paint tray. (Even though asking him to do it every time was so much easier!)

4.  I’d remember to get my painter “partner” a cold beverage, like, um, 7 hours sooner!

5.  I wouldn’t ask or expect my fiancee to shop for pillows or rugs after 5 hours of painting! (Even though the couches and floors were begging to look as good as the walls!)

6.  I’d learn to love white walls!

xoxo, Lisa (A.K.A. “Bossy Betty”)

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Although many may disagree, I’ve  kind of always thought of myself as a low-maintenance kind of gal.  Well…except for that whole “have to be punctual or I’ll kill you” thing.  Or the fact that if I don’t eat every three hours I may rip off your arm and beat you over the head with it.  Oh, and did I mention that I also tend to be a bit High Maintenance on my birthday too?

I’ll be the first to admit that it’s virtually impossible for the Hubs to find the perfect gift.  And the fact that he has limited shopping skills isn’t helping his case at all. (I’ve always felt that I shop enough for both of us!) But the biggest problem is that if I  want something, well, I usually just go buy it! (Did I mention I have impulse-control issues?)

So after many years of awkward gift opening, I have asked the Hubs, no make that begged him, to STOP buying me gifts.  I mean, how many times can you fake enthusiam for household appliances?

This year, I thought we had the system down.  He buys me nothing, I buy myself something fabulous, we go to dinner without the kids, I get buzzed, eat some free Lava Pie and and we all go home happy.  Right?

Wrong!

Instead, I came home on my birthday to find a red velvet box on the counter with a card.  And I knew from past experience that this could mean only one thing.  He had snuck over to see Kim Po.  Kim Po was our jeweler, and the hubs always went to him in a time of need.  Kim Po could always be counted on for beautiful jewelry and astrological readings.  A great combination!  Where else could you get your diamond ring fixed while finding out if this is the year of the Ox? (Btw, it isn’t.)

I went over and grabbed the box off the counter and slowly opened it to reveal a beautiful sapphire pendant and chain. Wow, I thought, how beautiful! I’m sure that most women who weren’t SEVERLY ALLERGIC TO METAL would really enjoy wearing this.  I’m sure it would look lovely on my neck for that one hour before I developed a NASTY WELT  where the chain touched my skin.  And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind when we went to dinner that night that I was blinded by my SWOLLEN EYES.

*Big sigh*

Oh, Hubs.  I know he meant well. I guess the fact that I haven’t worn so much as a watch in the past year has escaped his memory. Or that the entire year before when I went to five doctors trying to figure out why I had crackwhore eyes for three days every time I wore my sassy sparkly MAC eyeshadow. I could just imagine him, panicking a few days before my birthday and running to Kim Po’s, his gift-giving safe place.  So yes, part of me understood. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t pissed!

And maybe, just maybe, I acted a little bratty about it. (Don’t judge!  I already told you I was HM about this shit!) But let’s just say I found a way to forgive him when he surprised me with a waterfront suite later that night.  And after a few drinks at dinner, we made a pact that he will nevuh, evuh, buy me anything ever again.  And he also agreed to let me share with you his top three birthday blunders…

1. A LANDLINE

It was a phone that plugged into the wall. For our bedroom.   For our first Christmas together after we got married. Need I say more? I made note to never again complain about any household appliance within two months of my birthday or Christmas.

2. A THREE HOUR TOUR

Welcome to your wonderful getaway to…CATALINA!  Now for those of you unfamiliar with this tiny island off the California coast, let me just tell you that it could quite possibly be the most boring place on earth. None of the “motels”(yep, MOTELS!) even have pools. Or spas. Or room service. Has this man not been paying attention for the past ten years?  I am the. Biggest. Travel. Snob. EVUH!

3. GIFT CARDS

Public service announcement: Dudes, Don’t ever get your wife gift cards.  Just don’t.  And if you do, don’t buy the same one for every birthday and Christmas gift for three years.   Your wife may begin to think you lack imagination…

After reading that, it’s probably clear why my poor Hubs threw in the towel on a high maintenance birthday beyotch like myself.  And that’s okay.  Because he gives me the best gift every single day that doesn’t cost a thing…his love, support and respect!  Love you Hubs! xoxo

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.