On Monday night, a friend called me to tell me she was having an awful day. She asked if I wanted to go to dinner, and sighed when I said I couldn’t because I had pork chops defrosting. I promptly told her she was welcome to one, but that I wasn’t sure what accompaniments I would have. Being the intuitive and smart gal she is, she knew what I meant by that: I’m pretty low on veggies, and I’m a meat girl, so you might be in trouble.

Fifteen minutes later, she showed up and proceeded to take over my kitchen. Roasted asparagus, baked spaghetti squash, stir-fried cabbage and pork chops were prepped and prepared in no time. Just as we were about to sit down to eat, I realized and said out loud, “Wow. I’ve done nothing. All I did was open the wine.”

Poor thing. She had a bad day and then had to cook me dinner. I’d be willing to bet she’ll call another friend next time.

You may recall that last April, I bought an old house. You may also recall that my dad thought I was crazy for wanting said old house, and should instead purchase something newly constructed. I promptly ignored him, and have been living blissfully in my charming old home.

Feelings of blissfulness…they rarely last.

Don’t get me wrong, I still adore my home. It’s just that, well, lately I’ve realized that the honeymoon is over, so to speak. At first, I could see nothing wrong with my “new” house. Everything was perfect, even if it wasn’t. I could see no flaws in my 1921 craftsman. But then, little by little, I began noticing things.

The first time I noticed a “flaw” was while taking a bath in one of my clawfoot tubs on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I looked up, and saw missing paint near my ceiling. Then, after putting away Christmas decorations, I saw a crack in the plaster on the staircase. Both times I thought to myself, “When did that happen? Surely it wasn’t like that when I moved in.” And, just last week, I noticed that some wood on my front porch is warped. (After which I began running around like a crazy person after the rain to dry the porch off with towels.)

It became clear to me, though, that the honeymoon was indeed over when I turned on the sink in the downstairs bathroom and water ran onto the floor. And clearer still when Ben shut the door to the linen closet and had to get out the tools to get the door back open.

I was seriously starting to lose my patience with her quirkiness when I remembered how I felt when I first saw her. Even at first glance, I knew I was home. So, I’ve decided to cut her a little slack. After all, homes – just like relationships – have to be maintained so that we stay happy in them. There is always room for improvement.

Do you remember back in early 1990-something when Glamour Shots were all the rage? I do, and I’m still quite bitter about my mom not taking me to the Augusta Mall for my chance at big hair and thick makeup. Even now, when we all make fun of Glamour Shots, I secretly wish that I had one to look back on (a la my dear friend Carey Anne, whose hair was so big it barely fit in the photo).

When people at school passed out their wallet sized photos, I really just wanted to rip them up in front of their faces. I know that sounds harsh, but I desperately wanted to hand out my own head cocked, hands on a popped collar, with a sailor cap and a big smile on photo. I felt like my mom just didn’t get it. Did she have something against 11 year olds looking 45? Was she too good for sequins and blurry photos? I guess so.

A co-worker told me that Glamour Shots was still in business, so I went to their website. Gone are the cowboy hats and gloves – much to my chagrin. They are having a model search, though. Perhaps my friend Carey Anne can enter and win “most improved” Glamour Shot. (They don’t offer that, but they should.)

A super cute (and short!) essay from Skirt!:

“I never took our dog for the cheating kind. After all, he’s a Labrador retriever—the model of canine loyalty. And if I do say so, he’s a mighty fine example of the breed. He comes when called, sits on command and fetches anything you could ask for, including the morning paper and cans of dog food. With a broad blocky head, he looks like we ordered him straight out an L.L. Bean catalogue. In reality it was the newspaper. We brought our handsome ball of fur home during our first year of marriage and he quickly became our “child.” But three years later, when we moved to a sleepy mountain town—where the streets are like sidewalks and the dogs roam free—our dog began leading a double life.”

Continue reading here. You’ll feel all warm and fuzzy after.

The offender: Lady Gaga

The item(s) in question: Everything she’s ever worn, AND this number from the 2010 Grammy Awards.

My thoughts: That Lady Gaga is one hot mess, isn’t she? Perhaps I lack the intellectual ability to understand her “artistic expressions” in fashion, but to me, she always looks like she either, a) just stepped out of a horror film, or b) just stepped out of a deranged episode of The Jetsons.

The solution: Therapy. It’s pretty apparent she hates her parents. That said, keep on making those catchy little tunes, Ms. Gaga. I like the music, I just loathe the “Look at me, I’m so different and unique!” clothing choices.

I’ve given you my thoughts on going to the grocery store. I’d like to add another reason I despise going: Because no matter what I look like – even if I have on sweatpants from 1999, am not wearing a stitch of makeup and have dirty hair – someone will try to “holla” at me. And, it’s not just me (I’m not all that, by any means). I’ve discussed this with several girlfriends who have the same problem. No matter what you look like, there’s always a creeper in the grocery store who will think you’re cute. Sometimes it’s a self-esteem booster, but mostly it is just annoying.

Seriously people, up your standards.

Yesterday on Today, I saw Gayle Haggard promoting her book, “Why I Stayed: The Choices I Made In My Darkest Hour.” So, why did she stay? According to Mrs. Haggard, her husband is now cured of his “gay urges” thanks to intensive therapy.

I don’t know how to tell her this, but if her husband was having sexual relations with another man, it was more than a homosexual “urge.”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved books. My brother is the same way. We get it honest, from my mom’s mom, who was always reading something. I never saw her not have a book with her, and sometimes she’d have two. She read all types of books, but she loved a romance novel (which, honestly, freaks me out to think about now), and I always liked it when she’d let me pull out her book to see what the man and woman on the front cover looked like.

Over the past year, however, the time that I’ve allowed for reading has dwindled. I think it’s that darn reality television obsession of mine, but things are about to change. Last week, I was invited to join a book club, and I’m really psyched about it. This will definitely help me keep one of my resolutions (now, if only someone would pay for me to have a personal trainer…), and it will add another item to my social calendar. A win-win, if you will.

Monday night, I ventured to Barnes & Noble to get the first book on our list, and it reminded me how much I miss reading. I remember living in Charleston and going to B&N for hours to select my next read, or to flip through travel guides to plan my trip to Italy (which I still haven’t taken, but I know exactly what I want to see when I do, thankyouverymuch). And, when I lived in Columbia, I walked to the public library from my apartment and checked out book after book, even learning how to put a “hold” on the next book I wanted (via their website) so that it would be ready for me when I arrived.

Sitting in the bookstore the other night left me wondering what has happened to my love of the written word? Why have I strayed? Is my life busier now, or am I just lazy? I think it could be a little of both.

This weekend, a friend of mine told me she had cut out some of her television time to make more time for reading. So, friends, I believe it’s time I follow her lead and say goodbye to some of my tv obsessions (um, not The Rachel Zoe Project, don’t get all crazy on me now) and say hello to new authors.

If there’s a book I must read, comment it, or email me: thetightropeblog@gmail.com.
Hate mail accepted, but not appreciated.

Text message from a friend, regarding an anonymous comment on this blog:
May I say…Anon#1 is a total doctor of douche. What a fool. Love you girl. I bet that person totally thinks real life is like a stupid romantic comedy. Um, reality called…this is not Sleepless in Seattle. Step away from your ball-less anonymous status and show your face. Who do you think you are, the f-ing Wizard of Oz? Grow a set and say what you need to say face-to-face, b*tch. And, p.s. – I bet you take your fashion advice from Tyra Banks.

Text message to Cecilia on 1/18 at 6:24pm:
[Explicative]. My ex is going to the same wedding I am this weekend, with a girl who looks like a model. I need a shot. I’m in the tanning bed right now.

Text message to Cecilia on 1/24 at 12:25pm:
I survived the wedding, and I looked h-o-t. Think I broke my tail snap.

Blackberry messaging with Ben, regarding photos that were tagged of us on Facebook:
Ben: We look terrible in those photos. A couple of the ones of you are good. Mine are all bad.
Me: I mean, if I were you I would de-tag. I say that with love.

Email from Anna Beth, in response to me asking her what she would like for breakfast while staying the weekend with me:
I require coffee…that’s about it. I typically use Splenda and skim milk but I can be flexible on those two things as long as there’s coffee. For breakfast, I usually eat an egg, a piece of wheat toast and an apple but I can be flexible with that too…as long as there’s coffee. Don’t buy anything special for me to eat…I can eat anything, really…as long as there’s coffee. I am so excited!
(Do you think the girl needs her coffee, or is it optional?)