Smug Marrieds: The Price of Beauty

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Winter is known around our house as "The Season of the Blair." The man can put off some serious body heat. You only have to hold your hand up to within maybe 4 inches of him and you can literally feel the heat radiating off him. Since my body temperature hovers somewhere around 30 degrees even in the summer, I love it. I I follow him from room to room and it's like having my own portable heater.

Except something has changed. We've both noticed it. Often times lately we'll hold hands and I'll remark how cold his hand is or--and this is Twilight Zone weird--he'll comment on how warm my hand feels to him. 

We were eating dinner the other night and Blair asked if the heat was on because he was freezing. 

"What's up with that?" I asked. "Where did thermonuclear man go?"

"I don't know," said Blair.

"I bet I know what it is. You lost all that weight this year (he lost 25 lbs in Jan/Feb) plus you eat mainly a vegetarian diet because of me. Vegetarians are known to have lower body temps than meat eaters."

"So what you're saying is this is your fault," said Blair.

"I'm saying a cold body temp is the price you have to pay for looking hot," I said, winking. 

Blair muttered something. "What?" I asked. 

"I said I think I liked it better when I was fat and warm," said Blair. 

Cheers,

Dena

Mom Diaries: The Mothership Is Calling

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I dropped my car off for an oil change today and called my mom to come pick me up while the car was being serviced. As I slid into her passenger seat, I remarked that it smelled really good in her car. 

"Oh, it's that thing," she said pointing to a deodorizer clipped to the passenger seat visor. 

I was surprised, as I'm not usually a fan of any fake scent smelling product. (Glade plug-ins are evil and should be destroyed.) "Where'd you get it?" I asked. 

"From the mothership," she said. At my quizzical glance she added, "Bath & Body Works."

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Smug Marrieds: The Revenge of Blair

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I was lying in bed yesterday morning as Blair got ready for work.

"Saw your post on the wrinkle creme," said Blair. "Funny stuff."

"I'm not the funny one. You're the funny one," I said. "I just record this stuff."

"I'm thinking I should start a blog of my own," he said. 

"Nooooooo!" I wailed, sitting up in bed. "I'll change. I'll be good. Don't out me. Please. Please." 

Blair grinned. 

"Fine," I said, lying back against the pillows. "Just what is this blog of yours going to be about?"

"I'm thinking of calling it 'Walking Through Landmines,'" said Blair. "Subtitle: "How to survive being married to a woman." 

"Congratulations my friend," I said. "You just made the blog again."

Hang tight, people. This could turn ugly. 

Cheers,

Dena

Smug Marrieds: Wrinkle Cream

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My mom likes to try new facial products and I am usually the beneficiary of the leftover or abandonded products that weren't quite right.

She came over the other day with Oil of Olay wrinkle creme. "This is wonderful. I just thought you might want to try this," she said, handing me the opened jar. 

"Seriously, that's your opening?" I asked. "You're handing me wrinkle creme and suggesting I might like to try it?" I looked at Blair standing next to me. "Do you have anything to say about this?"

There may have been a brief flash of sheer panic on his face before he took the jar from me and in his best southern drawl said, "Well I think it's good you learn about these things now, so in 15 or 20 years when you need them, you'll be ready." 

Niiiiice save.

Cheers,

Dena