We're in the Money.

It was only August of last year when I bought my first law books. I spent hours tracking down new editions, the right supplements, and even planned my school supplies down to the perfect highlighter. None of those pre-marked, dog-eared, used textbooks would suit my shelf (no sir), and I delighted in each and every one of those books that arrived via the UPS man (after recovering from my momentary shock at the price of these prized, new specimens). I had visions of my future study lined with legal volumes on every subject, and I swore that I’d never part with any one of my dearly gained case books.

And then my first year of law school happened. As I walked out of those hallowed halls of learning in May (ok, I ran), I was left with the distinct feeling that I had received a long and thorough spanking. Any sentiment that I once held for my case books, well, evaporated, and I was beyond thrilled to hawk them on the book market for what I consider to be a very tidy sum.

And even better, in a move that I considered no less than completely chivalrous, CB also offered to give me his old law school text books to sell. That tidy sum was rapidly becoming a tidy chunk.

So now there’s all this money, just burning holes in my pocket.

What I find deeply interesting, is that CB, who spends many hours on my couch, has suddenly decided that I cannot possibly spend another moment without a new, Samsung LCD (or whatever) TV. For some reason, he has a problem with my 2002 model RCA, that features malfunctioning sound and weighs in at a mere 324 lbs. (and would be deemed by even the humblest of social circles to be a "hoopdie").

However, I have always considered book money to be the seeds, and I daresay very funding, of any good slush fund, and I was not about to be prevailed upon to purchase anything remotely practical (and seriously, a TV is not half as much fun as a fabulous new purse).

In the interest of both efficiency and good decision making, I have developed a list of possible items that I adore and may also be purchased with my book money credit. The list includes items such as Kate Spade purses, Citizens of Humanity Jeans (yep, I still love them), and Lilly Pulitzer tunics. However, topping the list is the kitchen tool of all kitchen tools: an item that I have long loved and seriously coveted (even my college roommate owned one, and on multiple occasions, I considered making away with it in the night).

A beautiful, pink Kitchenaid Mixer. Proceeds of each purchase even support the Susan Komen Foundation.

Seriously, need I say more?

(Apparently).

In an effort to sway my interest back to the unnecessary television (ps: I hate technology), CB began to test my resolve.

“So, I mean, you don’t bake, right? What in the world would you use it for? Seems a little impractical, don’t you think?”

Hmmm. He had me there. I adore cooking, but baking is not my specialty. I realized long ago that I had particular shortcomings in this area when the smell of brownies baking left me nauseated. This trait has followed me into adulthood, so my kitchen is noticeably free of cupcakes, cookies and brownie-like confections.

“Hmmm. Well, if practicality is a concern, why are we replacing the TV that works? And honestly, I’m sure I could mix something in my mixer.” (Just brainstorming here, but: punch, salad, laundry… I’m a smart girl, I can come up with something, right?)

Until we can decide, the credit will sit idly by, just waiting to be spent on something fabulous and wonderful (or until one of us wins this battle of the sexes). What would you spend it on?

xoxo

Skipper

Sunday Morning Prayer.

I have a problem.

I find weekly church visits inordinately entertaining.

However, my source of amusement is most likely not what you’re assuming. For instance, my grandparent’s church is the proud home of what I consider to be the worst church-choir in the entirety of the South. Now, I’m aware that we’re all called to lift a joyful noise unto the lord, but there are more than a few members of that choir that seem hell-bent and determined to catapult that "noise", and however one wants to describe it, you can’t in all honesty call it joyful. On the holidays, they really pull out all the stops, and prepare extra long ballads that are, no doubt, carefully planned to tickle our musical fancies and leave us with a general sense of delight and inspiration. After these unfortunate experiences every Christmas and Easter, I find myself in a losing battle to stave off giggles and left with sore ribs from the jabbing elbows of my mother.

(I’m still hopeful that I’ll one day develop the adult capability of controlling inappropriate laughter).

However, sometime around December, the mother of all distractions bombards my honest attempts at focused prayer. In an effort to protect themselves from the harsh Southern winter temperatures, the little old ladies break out the vintage furs from the backs of their closets and appropriately don them for Sunday morning worship.

I’m sorry, what did you say?

My pulse quickens, my eyes dart from one to next, and I have the compulsive urge to either sit next to one, pet each of them, or rip one off some poor, unsuspecting woman and subsequently prance up and down the aisle in the middle of church. My mother is totally hip to my distraction, and generally makes a point to ask me about the finer points of the sermon as we’re leaving. Of course, I have no idea, but I can tell her all about each and every one of the beautiful specimens that claimed my attention for the previous hour.

Which leads me to my highly exciting announcement.

This weekend, while enjoying our annual “Girl’s Weekend” with a few of my best college friends, the topic of formal weddings somehow brought us to the subject of furs. After expressing my long-term love affair with fur stoles and general woe over not actually owning one myself, my dear (and currently most favorite) friend, BLC, of The Company She Keeps, informed me that she knew of a pretty one on www.Etsy.com for a ridiculously reasonable price.

Did I mention that she’s my favorite friend?

So today, I crossed the invisible threshold, and joined the ranks of the silent sorority of old, fur-clad women (and I couldn't be more tickled).

Pictured above is the new love of my life (don’t tell CB). I have big plans to have it re-lined with pale pink satin and monogrammed with my initials. After much discussion, my girlfriends and I determined that the purchase could certainly be made guilt-free since the coat's been around for years, and my actions can most definitely be considered "recycling" (I had no idea that I was so green).

And don’t worry, I’m not waiting for the chill of December. As soon as the temperature drops below it’s current average of 115 (ok, slight exaggeration), I’ll be wearing it with a tiara and pearls for regular happy hour chats with girlfriends.

(And you only think I’m kidding).

Xoxo

Skipper

A Visit From the Tooth Fairy.

After a few weeks of fabulous dates with Mr. CB (see previous blog), things were sailing along remarkably. But I’ll confess, after each amazing dinner or movie date, I couldn’t help but find myself expecting the other shoe to drop. No, I wouldn’t call myself a pessimist, but I’m realistic about the weirdos that are out there in the dating pool (and am genuinely concerned that natural selection is no longer at work). This is always the point in a new relationship when those skeletons start creeping out the closet. Ladies you know the drill… you start to notice that he talks to Mommy a little too much, he mentions a mystery kid in casual conversation, he’s proud to display his ability to belch the alphabet, or, even worse, his romantic moves are terrible.

(True Story: I once went on a date with a man that made out with my shoulder in public: a move that I can only assume he considered as an obvious (and highly surprising) first step before an actual kiss…)

But I digress.

Mr. CB had stayed over a few times, and then it happened.

Unbeknownst to me, he had decided that the most efficient way to prevent unseemly morning-breath encounters, was to leave his toothbrush in my drawer. Moreover, he hadn’t mentioned this little addition to me, and I was shocked to open my drawer one night and find a new, red toothbrush staring back at me.

Now before you pass judgment, let me defend myself by saying that we had never had “the talk” and while the sleepovers were becoming more frequent, they were still impromptu. We were having fun for sure, but I couldn’t be sure how to feel about this action. Mr. CB certainly didn’t strike me as the clingy type, and I was perplexed. Every time I brushed my teeth, I’d open the drawer, stare at that new Colgate and wonder what to do. And I’m only slightly ashamed to admit that, on more than one occasion, I fantasized about brushing my golden retriever’s teeth with it, or scrubbing the toilet bowl and then returning it to its original position.

But I was crazy about CB. I can’t explain it, but it was me against the toothbrush. A battle of wills, a test of strength, a match of wit. I wouldn’t be reigned in by a toothbrush, by golly, and I resolved that I would not be defeated.

A few days after he left the toothbrush, we were having dinner. Again, he was deep in conversation, discussing something serious, and I suddenly blurted out, “Would you do something if I asked you?”

He looked at me softly and said, “Of course, anything.” (Swoon)

“You’ve got to get rid of that damn toothbrush.”

As soon as the words fell out, I was relieved, but instant dread washed over me. What if I had hurt his feelings? What if I he had interpreted this as my end to our little romance?

He never missed a beat. He cocked his eyebrow, smiled a crooked grin, and said, “Too soon, right?” Somehow he understood me, and he hadn’t been defensive.

A few days later, I realized why I was so disturbed by the surprise in my drawer. That toothbrush was more than just a toothbrush to me. Before CB, I had been single for a long time; and the only toothbrush in my drawer was mine. That red Colgate meant I had to let another person into my life, and to learn to trust. I had to allow myself to be in a relationship again, and before that toothbrush showed up in my drawer, I never saw it coming.

Two weeks later, I slipped my own toothbrush in his drawer, and the red Colgate reappeared in mine. This time I was happy to see it.

xoxo

Skipper

Let's Do it For Our Country...

For those who follow my blog entries and delight in my dysfunctional romantic tales, please forgive my absence. When I began this blog, I had much to say about losers, creeps and freaks, and felt it my mission to warn, educate and protect the single women of this world by sharing my experiences and arming them with the same sympathetic distain you might hold for strange, dirty dogs (well really, they can be kind of cute, but let’s get serious, you’re not planning to take them home, put a tag on their neck and invite them into bed each night).

And then I drank the kool-aid… (well technically, it was wine, but trust me, equally dangerous).

A mutual friend introduced me to him at a bar, and our first meeting seemed innocuous enough: introductions, pleasantries, and general chit-chat. I have no shame in admitting that it took me exactly three seconds to notice that he was well dressed, polite, had all his teeth (yes, I live in the South), and had a seriously cute bottom. We didn’t exchange numbers, but I knew we’d see each other around the law school, and let’s face it, if I acted on every cute bottom I saw, my love life would be in shambles.

The next week, I found myself at a law school party. Before law school, I envisioned “law school parties” to include cigars, sports jackets, jazzy music and top shelf alcohol. I am pleased to tell you that, instead, they’re keggers complete with college-esque themes, jello shots, inordinately loud music, and the poor decisions that inevitably ensue after the co-mingling of these elements.

I was making the rounds, and chatting with some girl friends, when Mr. Cute-Bottom showed up again. After a few minutes, the others drifted off, and we found ourselves in conversation again. He was in the midst of some statement that was, no-doubt, serious and involved, when I looked down to find a Keystone Light in my hand. Lest you believe I’m a snob, I will emphatically hold that I do drink cheap libations on occasion, but Keystone Light is NOT one of them. I expressed my general shock, horror and dismay at finding this item in my hand (I must have grabbed it thinking it was something else), and my new friend was completely willing to remedy the situation with his good beer, and told me to just follow him.

I felt myself reach out and take his hand as we wound our way through the crowded party. I considered him my hero and my savior (and I must admit, following behind him afforded a nice view).

We grabbed a couple cold ones, and found a quiet place on the wrap-around porch to finish our conversation. The crisp January air was refreshing to my cheap beer buzz, and I was emboldened to thank my new-found friend, hero, and art-piece…but how?

As we talked, he began to tell me about his future career. He had been accepted to join the Army Jag Corps, and would begin his military career after graduation from law school (well that explains the hero part). During his fourth sentence about his career plans, I found myself looking deep into his eyes, putting my hand on his shoulder, and romantically saying, “Thank you for your service to our country,” before moving in for a long kiss.

(No comment).

Not only had he not yet begun his service to our country, but this shameful pick-up line would put any old-man bar-creeper to shame.

The following Monday, as I made my way into the main area of the law school building, a few of my friends (whom, I might add, had been similarly engaged at the party), saluted me, giggled, and asked me how I was supporting our troops.

And yet somehow, it became love.

Skipper

The Wedding Guest.

As a wedding guest, you have two responsibilities: to bring a great gift and make the reception fun (unless of course you find yourself at a dry reception, in which case your responsibility shifts to having the obligatory glass of sweet tea and to making a quick exit). While engaging in the general merriment of my dear friends’ nuptial soiree, I developed a slight case of vino glasses (that’s the classier version of beer goggles, but beware as they’re just as likely to skew otherwise perfect vision and seem to cast everyone in a far rosier hue). I found a perfectly nice seeming young man who ensured that my wine glass was never empty and who was an awfully good kisser, I daresay.

Over the course of the evening, a wine-induced and highly-spastic conversation ensued in which I informed my new friend that I was driving to a nearby city to visit old friends the following morning. My new friend stated that he had caught a ride to the wedding, and, conveniently, that his home was in a city which was a mere detour from the interstate highway. He asked if I would mind giving him a ride in the morning, and at that particular moment, I was happy to oblige (the bad decisions begin here).

The following morning, I woke to a pounding headache and serious hangover. As I packed the contents of my suitcase and fought off the nausea, I remembered my promise from the previous night with serious dismay (as the drive to his home town takes approximately two hours). I briefly considered making a quick exit, however my guilty conscience wouldn’t allow it, and I sent the obligatory text.

“Hey, leaving in 15 minutes. Still need a ride?”

I was convinced that the odds were surely with me and that he was definitely far more hung over than I was. I’m not a gambler, but I was ready to bet that he would want to take it easy and just ride home with the guys. Clearly, I underestimated this little eager beaver. There he was: packed, dressed and ready to go. At that moment, a few things occurred to me.

First, and most importantly, NEVER trust your ability to assess a man’s appearance while seriously intoxicated. Now I make it a rule not to discriminate against red heads (or “gingers”, because I dearly love some gingers), however, in the light of day it was apparent that what I had taken for “strawberry blonde” the night before, was in fact a color that would put Ronald McDonald to shame. Not that I hold anything against redheads, but this RED required the use of very dark sunglasses and keeping two extremely blurry eyes on the road.

My second startling realization was that God does, indeed, have a sense of humor. The conversation went from bad to worse as we stumbled through awkward pleasantries (oh yes, we even talked about the weather), while both pretending that we had not had too much to drink the night before and forgotten 95% of every subject previously covered (a result of the alcohol amnesia effect, mind you).

The very best part of this never-ending, seventy-five hour drive was the tour of his neighborhood as we pulled into town. As we drove past ivy-covered houses complete with picket fences and golden retrievers, I mentally began to reassess the boy before me (who suddenly seemed very man-ish). Wow, any person who could own a house like this at twenty-five must be doing something right. I was so impressed by his accomplishments and the stylishness of his neighborhood that I couldn’t help but tell him.

”You know, your neighborhood is really beautiful. I love it.”

To which he replied, “Yes, my parents do really well. I live in the basement now, but we’re about to move and I’ll be taking the pool house.”

Do I even need to say it?

This was only made better when he tried to recreate the previous night’s romantic kissing scene after we pulled into the driveway and he waved at his mother.

Gotta love those family moments. Xoxoxo

Skipper

Anatomy Lesson.

I recently attended a bachelorette party for a dear friend and made the long drive with my old college roommates. While motoring along the highway, we passed a gynecologist’s office and the conversation naturally digressed to embarrassing gynecologist stories. At one point, some reference was made to the vulva. My dear friend (who is married, no less) emphatically stated that, clearly, the vulva is located in your throat.

(Ladies, I encourage you to refrain from telling your family practitioner that you’ve had a scratchy vulva and, consequently, require some cough syrup…)

My other roommate followed this tragic statement by commenting that she’d never HEARD of the word, but thought it sounded “throatish”.

My response?

After my initial shock that my dear friends were perfectly willing to embarrass both themselves and their family practitioners, was to encourage them to whip out their I-phones (ok technology is ok in certain situations) and do an immediate Google search of the word. After one emphatic refusal from roommate number two, my married roommate finally relented while stating that it was my fault if she ended up with weird pop ups on her Internet and email (although I guarantee you that her husband would not have minded, ha!). A quick search revealed that I was, of course, right.

Later, we learned that the uvula (my married roommate had confused the word) is located in the throat (not your vulva). Life lessons…live and learn.

Here’s to good times and funny conversations. xoxoxo

Skipper

The Art of Vacation.

Being in law school after a few short years out of college has had some serious perks. First, I’d like to say that the wardrobe is a serious improvement. I can think of few instances in an average girl’s adult life when it is acceptable, and I dare say appropriate, to appear in public in t-shirts and baseball caps on a regular basis. Of course there is still “that guy” who insists on wearing a blazer to class every day, but I’d wager that is the grown-up equivalent of wearing a reindeer sweater to school in the sixth grade: social suicide (and seriously buddy, just quit trying because you’re never going to be cool and everyone knows you’re the dreaded “gunner” anyway).

A second delightful single-girl bonus has been the discovery that being a cougar (ok, some ladies prefer the term jaguar…) is much easier than expected. It’s remarkable to once again exist in a college town where high heels and a wink afford you all the free drinks or food you can consume (likely because somebody’s fifty-five year old daddy is still footing the bill, but hey, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth). While I’m not one for commitment, I can’t help but appreciate (and sort of pity) these little puppies that fall at your feet and profess undying love (plus, you never know when you may need some man skills or use of a pick-up truck, and having such friends is awfully handy).

But the best perk of them all has been 3.5 weeks of absolute and utter laziness (Christmas vacation is a beautiful thing…). I had long since forgotten what it felt like to sleep in until 10:30 a.m. for nine consecutive days in a row. I must say that I’m looking my best, and beginning to consider an early retirement program that allows me book a small condo in a swanky retirement village in West Palm Beach exactly one month after law school graduation (hello, have you seen these places lately??). I’m pretty good at bingo and feel confident that I could be adept at bunko and morning water aerobics in a shockingly short amount of time. Plus, I have no problem admitting that both Buicks and Lincolns yield a remarkably comfortable ride for their passengers and I am looking forward to my first purchase of either of said vehicles.

My newfound free time has left me with the opportunity to reflect, center and get a jump start on next semester. Instead, I have chosen to reconnect with old college and post-college friends. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m pleasantly surprised to find that maturity is as slow a process amongst my friends as it is me, and the good times certainly continue. Stay tuned. xoxoxo

Skipper