Recovering From the Weekend

016It doesn’t seem long ago that recovering from the weekend meant drinking lots of orange juice and vowing never to drink again or at least not until the next weekend.

These days, although the weekends are never as fun as they used to be, it takes considerably longer to recover from an especially challenging one.

On Friday after work when all I wanted was a glass of wine and a half hour to myself, I discovered (shudder) a flea on Penny’s tummy.

On Friday evening I gave the poor dog a toxic flea bath, hoping only the fleas would succumb to the poison and the dog would emerge unharmed by this traumatic experience. Not one dead flea dropped off her when I rinsed her and neither my boy nor I have been bitten, so hopefully it was just a lone vermin and not a full-blown infestation. Just in case, I stripped the beds and washed all the bed clothes in hot water. Then I vacuumed the entire house, including everything upholstered to catch any malingering fleas hoping for a free meal from the delicious mammals in our home.

Then I had to scrub the tub because we humans probably shouldn’t bathe in flea shampoo residue.

On Saturday morning when all I wanted was to bring a mug of coffee back to bed so I could lounge and read for a while, my boy woke up extra early with a stuffy nose, a sore throat and a nagging head ache. (Oh the joys of back to school and exposure to the cocktail of germs and viruses to which our children are exposed!) At least the house was clean, so after grocery shopping and an assortment of other really fun errands, I could devote myself to waiting on him hand and foot while worrying that I’m going to get whatever he has.

Since I need some joy in my miserable life, on Sunday I accessed some much-needed mall therapy. Yes, I know I’ve vowed to limit shopping, but I exercised admirable restraint given current challenging conditions: a couple of books, a scented candle, lip gloss (for medicinal purposes) and a pretty robin’s egg blue notebook.

What I saw, loved and didn’t buy even though it called my name: a supple leather Kate Spade handbag at Winners.

Even my sailor was impressed when I told him.

His reply to the news: I can’t believe you left without the Kate Spade bag!

How many sailors understand the allure of a Kate Spade purse? Clearly we were meant for each other.

Girl Most Likely to Marry a Sailor

015008022006With a high school reunion next month, it’s not too early to begin preparing. I’ve made a pre-reunion salon appointment to have my hair flat ironed so it’s smooth and silky for the big event. I’ve also booked a pre-pre-reunion session to get a few highlights so it looks like I’ve been lounging on the beach all summer instead of driving my boy to his various summer activities.

I’m wearing a Ralph Lauren wrap dress. I love this style so much that I’ve collected a few different colours. It’s flattering, machine washable (yes, really!) and (best of all) never needs to be ironed. Oh, and it’s so comfortable, it’s like wearing a nightgown. Clothing doesn’t get any better than this.

I recommend dresses to everyone who doesn’t wear a uniform to work and shares my inability to co-ordinate. Nothing is less demanding than throwing on a single garment and being ready to go. Until I’m nominated for What Not to Wear, I’ll be dress obsessed.

I’m carrying a faux ostrich-skin Kate Spade purse. (At least I hope it’s faux ostrich. Ostriches and emus are such remarkable birds. They look like they belong in a science fiction movie. I don’t like to think one made the ultimate sacrifice to become my handbag.)

I haven’t decided on shoes. I might wear red, pointy toe pumps. They’ll add a punch of colour to the outfit and channel my inner Joan Holloway.

Or I might wear black wedge sandals. They’re so comfy, I can stand in them all night if I have to.

The only thing missing will be my favourite accessory–my sailor. Although we didn’t graduate together, his reunion is planned for the same weekend at a different venue. It’s also (wait for it!) Blackberry Festival–the biggest weekend of the year back home. If that isn’t proof we’re from a small town, I don’t know what is.

Maybe it’s just as well he’s in Afghanistan. We’d have to arm wrestle to decide whose reunion to attend.