Sunday Breakfast

The E-Man has many excellent qualities, but high on the list of things I love is his ability to make kick-ass eggs. His scrambled eggs are fluffy and not dry. His omelets are lightly browned and oozing cheddar cheese, his fried eggs have viscous yolks and tender whites. If he could make biscuits too, I’d be pointing my feet and curling my toes like Meg Ryan in the diner scene of “When Harry Met Sally.”

But then again, if he could make golden brown biscuits with a slightly salty buttery crust and soft but not doughy middle, he’d probably be Martha Stewart’s Boy-Toy instead of my Main Squeeze. Then I’d be left alone with a cold bowl of cereal while he lived a tidy and tasteful existence somewhere in Connecticut or New York , tending tulips, pruning hedges, mowing grass, feeding apples to the horses, sleeping on clean, pressed sheets.

Women like me (the Oscars of the world) fear the Marthas of the world—that devastating combination of brains, looks, and domestic prowess. Lock her up and she only gets stronger. Like a Superhero in a comic book, Martha is larger than life. If she absconded with my husband, I guess I could accept it as long as he sent generous checks drawn from Martha’s account and cooked the kids and I breakfast on weekends.

Martha may be a billionaire tycoon, but I can negotiate a fair deal. In Grrrrl World, Sunday breakfast trumps all, and surely Martha would see a 6-1 split on the E-Man working in her favor. I’m a (mostly) good Grrrl and generous as well. As long as I get my eggs, I’ll let HER iron his shirts and sheets and sprinkle them with lavender water. She couldn’t resist an offer like that. I know what makes a Martha point her toes and say “Ah!”

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 11, 2005

A Grrrl's Best Friend

When we moved to Belgium , we placed our silky terrier, Duncan , in a new home. He weighed only 10 pounds but carried an enormous amount of energy and spunk in his tiny frame. Duncan looked like a teddy bear but acted like a grizzly—he was fiercely protective of home and hearth and thoroughly devoted to me.

Duncan would bark at anything that moved on the street outside the house. He spent a lot of his time on patrol, with his two front legs propped up on the fence or the window as he scanned the environment for threats. His short tail would be straight up like an antenna, his back arched a bit, and his rear legs propelling him straight up and down as he barked at all his suburban enemies: moms pushing strollers, kids walking to the bus stop, families bicycling to the pool, utility workers searching for an underground line, or his most reviled opponents—other dogs!

Duncan had attitude and confidence completely out of sync with his diminutive proportions. If a Rottweiler wandered into his turf, Duncan would charge with teeth bared. He clearly thought the best defense was a good offense. He never backed down and he never let sleeping dogs lie—unless he was the sleeping dog, If he finagled his way onto a bed upstairs, he’d put up a fight if I tried to remove him. The barking and drama, his willingness to use those tiny little teeth to make a point—it made me crazy! And so while a part of me enjoys living in a house where the doorbell can ring and not cause pandemonium, I miss Duncan .

Every morning when I go walking, I encounter a steady stream of people walking their dogs and I remember the sturdy little guy that used to tug on the leash in Virginia . With or without a leash, Duncan was at my heels all day, staring up from the floor with those lively brown eyes and sweet little face. “Look at me! Play with me! Pet me! Toss me a bone!” Duncan ’s need for attention was not unlike a toddler’s. I could not go to the bathroom without Duncan , and he seemed perpetually peeved that I didn’t always accompany him outside when he needed to go.

Sometimes I felt smothered, but mostly I felt loved. Like the sun and the planets, Duncan never faltered. He protected me from the vacuum cleaner and other threatening power tools, he nipped at Eric’s legs to remind him who the Alpha Male in the house was, he reined in the kids when they got out of hand, and he peed on the bed so I’d never be without his scent, the ultimate sign of devotion. OK, some things I could do without—but every Grrrl needs a friend who is on call 24/7, and Duncan was that to me. Ever ready, ever faithful, the world’s smallest therapist and body guard.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 5, 2005

Sins of the Flesh

Yesterday Shirl Grrrl shared the painful truth of her descent into Mary Kay’s world. Shirl’s cousin Amy, a hardcore Mary Kay pusher, seduced the innocent and wholesome Shirl by providing her free samples of the devil’s own anti-aging regimen. Shirl is now proof that Mama was right—even just a taste of the devil’s sweet fruit can lead you down the road to ruin. Shirl’s one night stand with the Mary Kay samples has led to her enslavement to the desires of the flesh, a full blown addiction.

No longer a low-maintenance woman, Shirl now needs a flow chart to get ready for bed each night. As she stands before her altar of Mary Kay products, she must make sure she applies them all in the correct order. Should she fail to properly perform the sacred anti-aging ritual, she will be turned into an old crone as she sleeps, her fine lines replaced by crevices so deep her son will be able to push Hot Wheels through them. Everyone knows you can’t screw around with Mary Kay—or Mother Nature.

V-Grrrl is proud to say she has resisted the temptations offered by the Mary Kay vipers. She refuses to worship with the pushers of potions and promises. Instead, she’s a drugstore cowboy, using no-nonsense Neutrogena products and pledging her undying love only to sunscreen, which she’s been slathering on her face nearly every day since she was 19. She’s never had a manicure or a pedicure. She refuses to be enthralled by hair products or pricey salon services. She does her own color, and while every product for curly hair promises not to leave it greasy, stiff, or sticky, every freakin product for curly hair leaves it greasy, stiff, or sticky. V-Grrrl has seen the light and she’s not buying those ugly bottles of lies anymore. Her hair may be wild, but at least it’s soft.

But brothers and sisters, pride doth goeth before the fall. While V-Grrrl can claim the righteousness of pared down skin and hair care, her vanity has made her a fool for makeup. God save the Grrrls! Y’all have heard of Sodom and Gomorrah , well V-Grrrl was undone by Ulta and Sephora—the beauty temples that stock cosmetics of every imaginable category at every price point. Sucked into the evil Ulta cult by $10 off coupons and buy one, get one free deals, V-Grrrl accumulated a massive stash of eye shadow, pencils, blushes, foundations, and lipstick. She has a mini chest of drawers where all her eye products are sorted by color, and several metal baskets hold her blushes, bronzers, brushes, foundations and concealers.

If Ulta led V-Grrrl astray, Sephora wants her soul. Thanks to Sephora.com, V-Grrrl has been known to lose an hour in the afternoon, putting together wish lists online. She is counting down the days until she goes to Paris in November, not because of the wonder of the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower, no, her mind is possessed by the luscious delights that await her in the Sephora store on the Champs Elysee.

There’s something sacred about those moments in front of the mirror, when we cast off our old selves and witness a miraculous transformation—a new face for our shriveled little souls! Every morning when V-Grrrl baptizes her face with sunscreen and grabs her big fluffy makeup brush and applies her Cargo bronzer, she feels as if God has reached down from Heaven, touched her cheek, and said “Receive the look of life!” Immediately her pallor retreats and her color is restored. We’re sure Tammy Fay felt the same way about her mascara wand opening up the windows to her soul.

What can I say in closing except Peace, Love, and Lip Gloss y’all. See ya at the makeup counter—hope it’s in Paris.

September 29, 2005

My Life with Eddie

Eddie and I go way back. I may be married to Eric, but Eddie is my secret passion, the one who knows what I like and delivers it without question. When I’m exhausted, Eddie joins me in bed. When I open my dresser drawer or peer into my closet, I think only of Eddie. He rarely disappoints me, he carries my camera and gear without complaining, and he keeps me comfortable. Best of all, he’s available 24/7. Time and time again, in all kinds of weather and circumstances, Eddie is the one I reach for. Eddie Bauer, that is.

I buy the classic V-neck t-shirts in bulk: four white, one sprig green, one celadon, one shell pink, one pumpkin, one black. I love the zip-neck polos with their Jetson’s vibe. Not too tight, not too loose, Eddie’s embrace is always just right. I have linen and wool blazers, stacks of cardigans, long sleeve shirts, even hats and bags—all bearing Eddie’s signature.

Check out the Stine leather jacket with its totally cool buckles nipping in the waist--it makes me feel like Sheryl Crow in leather. When it rains, my yellow windbreaker mocks the gray skies and drizzle and feels silky, not stiff. When the first frost nips at my cheeks, I layer my corduroy field jacket over a wool sweater and feel oh so cozy. In winter when the snow starts to fall, my gray charcoal mittens and Sorel boots come out to play.

A recent Eddie Bauer order arrived with a shipping bill that read like a virtual feast. Clothing colors have sumptuous names, like plum wine, banana, cantaloupe, apple, orange. It only seems right that I unpack the box on the dining room table. The breezy linen dress with the modern print is sidewalk café perfect. And the two new hoodies will be my blogger uniform. And yes--another zip neck polo! I want to do a happy dance.

So today my blog is dedicated to my long-time companion, Eddie. Check out all he has to offer at eddiebauer.com.

September 9, 2005