As I was tidying up the other day, I was horrified to discover that the cello Rob rented me for Christmas has actually, literally been collecting dust.

I learned to play the cello as a kid. Not Suzuki or anything serious — just orchestra class in school, and a few private lessons as I got older. I was something like fourth or fifth chair in the high school orchestra. Out of eight. I wanted to be better, of course, but it was never my top priority. I had a lot of other things going on.

I just liked playing the cello. I liked the deep, mellow tone. I liked putting rosin on my bow. I liked being part of an orchestra, playing beautiful, classical, important-seeming pieces I had never heard before.

Since I met Rob, I have spoken with great fondness about the cello, which I haven’t been able to play since high school, since I never actually owned an instrument. So, finally (and undoubtedly with designs on adding a little rock cello to the band), he rented one for me for Christmas.

It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever gotten. And now, one of the most guilt-inducing.

I’ve had a whole arsenal of excuses: It’s my busy season for work. It’s too loud to play in the house without disrupting the entire building. I don’t have rosin. I need music. I need lessons.

The real problem: I tried playing it. And. I. Suck.

Sure, some of it came flying back to me. I was pleasantly surprised at my muscle memory, how easy it was to finger the right notes with my left hand. But something about the bowing is just horrendous. The sqwuaking! The moaning! It sounds like an elderly cow trying to pass a kidney stone right here in my living room.

Molly DOES NOT LIKE IT.

I don’t remember it ever sounding this bad. I don’t remember it ever being this hard.

So, most days, the cello just stares at me, reminding me that, like so many things in my life, I am willing to try for about fifteen minutes, and when I discover that I’m not the best at it, I flat out give up. Then, I plummet into an existential crisis about how horrible I am at everything. And then, even worse, once I have given up and sent the cello back, I sit around marveling that I ever gave it up in the first place, and wishing that I had tried harder  to be better or at least to have enjoyed it while I still had the opportunity.

This could literally be the great metaphor of my life. It occurs to me just how absurd that is. If I only had a month to live, would I spend it trying to re-learn the cello? And if I did, would I be so mad at myself for not being very good?

Before I cut off monthly rental payments, this cello deserves another chance. I deserve another chance. I am going to try again to play the cello, if for nothing more than the adventure of working on something that does not come very easily to me, and for the opportunity to try to laugh at how horrible I am at it.

And then, I’m going to assess whether or not trying to play the cello really brings me happiness, or if it’s just something I’m doing because I feel like I should be doing it, and, worse, if doing it not very well is just making me feel bad about myself.

And if, in the end, I give it up, I’m not going to be mad at myself for that, either. I’m going to be proud of myself for recognizing that there are many adventures in life, but you can’t have them all at once. And how lucky am I to be able to choose more than one? Or choose at all?

Or something like that. There’s a fine line between being a quitter and being good to yourself.

In the meantime, the least I can do is take some photos of the damn thing for posterity. Photography is another one of those hobbies of mine that I don’t put enough effort into, for fear of failure and for the sheer disappointment of not being good at it right off the bat.

Are other people that much more patient with new or difficult things than I am? Or do they just not have to work as hard to get great results? That is not meant as a rhetorical question. Sincerely, dear universe, I ask of you: Am I trying too hard, or not hard enough?

There’s something about this beautiful weather that makes you feel like eating healthy. And there’s something about food on a stick that just tastes better.

Inevitably, there were going to be kebabs.

After a few failed attempts last summer, I am proud to say this year’s grilling debut was a huge, if surprising, success. (More photos here.)

Remind me again why I endure Chicago winters? I swear, I’d be the healthiest, happiest person if the weather was beautiful all the time.

Unless it got too hot. In which case, I’d be eating ice cream four times a day and sitting in front of the air conditioner griping about how the humidity makes my hair all frizzy and my thighs rub together. It’s always something with me, isn’t it?

So, I skipped my yoga practice for three days. During this time, I also ate half a jar of vanilla frosting with a spoon. And I lost two pounds.

Not a fluke. It has been three days. Two pounds. Vanished.

I may have found my calling as a dieting guru. A book called The Frosting Diet would fly off the shelves, don’t you think?

Proof once again that life is not fair. But boy oh boy, do I love it when it works out in my favor.

Oh yeah, that bathroom remodel.

It hasn’t been going well. Or going at all, that is.

Back in September, when work was slow and I was feeling all project-y, I decided more or less on a whim to paint the bathroom cabinets. The cabinets were fine, really — I just didn’t like the color of the stain on the oak. But apparently, my brain operates according to this adage: If it ain’t broke, break it.

The paint job didn’t turn out so hot. So I ended up taking down all the cabinet doors and drawer fronts and stripping and sanding them. This was a messy project, and because I was reluctant to use the stripping solvent anywhere near our newly installed hardwood floors, and because by now it was November and too cold to move the project outside, I ended up taking everything to my dad’s garage, where there is a floor nobody cares about, an installed furnace (not just a space heater — an actual furnace), an arsenal of tools and supplies, an utterly absurd collection of posters (seriously, that link is worth clicking!), and, most importantly, my dear old Dad himself, who I knew would take over the project in his usual, busybody, project-loving way.

As expected, Dad took to scraping and sanding and staining my cabinets with far more TLC than I would ever have been able to muster. I was there to take photos, which, you know, is just oh so helpful.

A conversation:

Dad: “Hey, do you want an iced coffee?”
Amanda: “Uhm, wha!?!?”
Dad: “An iced coffee.”
Amanda: “Are you seriously offering me an iced coffee? In your garage? Who are you?”
Dad: “Mom bought these Starbucks things at Costco. They’re in the fridge.”
Amanda: “You mean a frappuccino? Since when do you like frappuccinos?”
Dad: “Well, do you want one or not?”
Amanda: “Actually, yes. I’ll get them.”
Dad: “I’ll take mine in a glass with ice. With whiskey.”
Amanda: “OK, this is making a lot more sense now.”

Unfortunately, the project gods were not smiling on us that day. I had brought over the same sanding sealer and stain that I used to refinish my desk. Which, may I remind you, turned out fine. But the cabinets just didn’t want any part of it, and the sanding sealer, which is supposed to help the stain absorb evenly, ended up repelling the stain altogether, so that it didn’t soak in to the wood. At all.

We even double-checked the label to make sure we had used the sanding sealer as instructed. We double-checked it real good.

And yet. The stain rubbed right off.

So, I got frustrated and went home, leaving my Dad to have another go-round with the cabinets and the paint stripper. At least one of us was still in good spirits.

Then it was Christmas, and we had invited 50 people to cram into our tiny condo for our annual party. Which meant, inevitably, people would be trying to use our bathroom, where there were still no cabinet drawer fronts.

I suggested that this was a thoughtful gesture on our part as hosts: our guests could relieve themselves in peace, without grappling with the moral dilemma of respecting our privacy versus poking around in our medicine cabinets. It would all be right out there, for everyone to see.

Rob disagreed with this philosophy, so we ended up closing the door and posting a sign that said “OUT OF ORDER: Please use the other bathroom. Thanks!”

(But, people still used it. And they inevitably got an unobstructed eyeful of our collection of tampons and toilet paper and expired condoms and, wait, is that really a MacBook Pro? In fact, rumor has it that one couple went into the Forbidden Bathroom to make out, which is by far the most exciting thing to ever happen in that room, despite what the presence of outdated prophylactics and that computer might suggest. So don’t think I don’t know who you are!)

Suddenly, it’s February. The cabinets, still unwilling to absorb the stain because of that damn stain sealer, are essentially garbage. I’ve looked in to ordering new, unfinished cabinet doors, which would only cost about $200, but I don’t know that my dad or I have it in us to stain them, let alone deal with the frustration when inevitably the cabinets are not the right size and we have to start all over. Again.

I’ve got a guy who will order new cabinet fronts for us, stain them, and even create a new toe kick panel (which was also ruined, and I’m using the passive voice there for a reason!), for $700. That’s highway robbery, given that I know for a fact the doors themselves cost under $200.

But there’s that other adage: You get what you pay for. Which really is a better adage to live by than “If it ain’t broke, break it.”

I have learned the hard way that I do not have a Midas touch. On the contrary, everything I touch turns to crap. At least, as far as household projects are concerned. Have I mentioned the stain on my desk is rubbing off? Just rubbing right off.

(I assure you that, in person, it doesn’t look nice and/or rustic, as it does in this photo. That’s just the f/1.4 talking.)

I need to accept that I am really good at spending money, and not so hot at saving money by doing it myself (see also: Waffle FAIL). Bring on the self-loathing.

My sister gave Rob a waffle maker for Christmas, after hearing him gush about how he was once at a Courtyard Marriott and they made him a waffle at the complimentary breakfast buffet right before his very eyes and it was just the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him in his whole entire life.

I’ve never seen the guy so excited about an appliance, except maybe when he opened the Roomba we got for our wedding.

Rob had to go out of town on an intellectual property emergency over his birthday, but he was home for the weekend, a few days later. I decided to give him a birthday do-over on Saturday morning, so I woke up early to make him coffee, bacon, and, yes, a birthday waffle.

Sadly, trophy wives do not come programmed to use specialty kitchen appliances, so although the waffle iron itself came with several recipes for waffle batter, I thought nothing of instead using the fancy Williams-Sonoma pancake mix I had on hand (sitting in the cabinet for months while I instead went out to innumerable breakfasts).

However. Pancake mix is apparently incompatible with waffle makers. Do regular people really know these things without first encountering this disaster?

Rob woke up to the smell of bacon cooking in the microwave (where all the fat and other inherent values are absorbed into paper towels), took one look at this mess, and proclaimed:

“Good thing I had a birthday waffle at the hotel this weekend.”

Never light a cigarette at a gas station, lest you should ignite the few drops of gasoline that have spilled en route from tank to pump, or the gallons that have choked unstoppably forth from the nozzle when some yuppie idiot girl on her iPhone pulls it from her car before it’s done pumping and without making sure the nozzle lock is off — and as she stands there, unable to figure out how to make it stop, looking around idiotically for help, the highly flammable liquid spews and splatters all over everything (her car, her yoga pants, her knit Ugg boots, and yes, the ground), and her fluffy little dog leans out the window and sneezes in protest at the chemical smell, as if trying to tell the idiot girl to just shut the damn thing off already — before, finally, the gas station attendant comes rushing out to help, and they both proceed to wipe out on the little lake of gas that has formed and is, surprisingly enough, quite slippery.

And never use your cell phone while operating a gas pump, lest you should be that very girl.

Now, does anyone know how to get the smell of gasoline out of my boots? They’ve already been through my washing machine twice …

Bad dog mom that I am, I had almost forgotten that today is Molly’s birthday!

I always think her birthday is in February, but that’s actually the anniversary of the day we drove 20 hours round trip in a sleeting-sideways blizzard to pick her up in Missouri, Rob grumbling the whole way there about how he doesn’t want a non-human living in his house, and then the woman pulled from the back of her Suburban this quivering ball of fuzz, sopping in its own vomit and urine, and Rob took one look, gasped audibly and exclaimed, ”Look at that face!” the way only a man smitten with an animal baby can. And then Molly clung fearfully to me the whole way home, and I didn’t just tolerate it but almost kind of liked it, and it occurred to me that that is the way mothers must feel about their babies’ poop — not only is it just not that bad, but its endearing to the point of being pleasant. Almost. Especially if the poor thing is sick and frightened and clinging to you for dear life, and all you want in the world is for her to know she’s safe and to wag her tail.

Happy Birthday, Molly! Today you are three years old. Now that the Terrible Twos are behind us, I expect you will comport yourself with the civility and decorum befitting of your age.

To that end, instead of complaining about how horrendous of a little monster you can be, I’ll share some footage of you being the very dear little doggie that I love.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Happy birthday, Molls!

So … the bathroom remodel isn’t coming out quite as I had hoped.

The cabinets are painted, and the color is fine. If you blur your eyes, or, for instance, look at a photograph taken from a distance, it looks halfway decent. (Note sample paint color on wall.)

But if you look closer (and how can you not, in a room the size of a walk-in closet), the paint is all goopy and globby, and it didn’t stick to the cabinets, even though I used the same special primer that I used to paint the mantel last year, so it’s already all chippy and peel-y and awful.

So it’s back to Home Depot for scrapers and putty knives and highly toxic paint remover that looks and smells dangerously like melted orange sherbet. (And yes, I mean sherbet, not sorbet — the gooey kind that comes in a giant two-gallon plastic tub from Jewel.)

Dangerous, that is, for me. I’m not concerned about Molly eating it. She won’t event set foot in The Room Where The Bathtub Is And Also Where She Keeps The Hairdryer Monster.

Looks like we’re refinishing the bathroom cabinets, now, kids! Any suggestions for stain color?

Do you think they make a pill for people like me? Somebody, please, save me from myself.

Oh god, scary thought: Am I nesting? Is this hormonal?

My constant need for a home improvement project has officially gotten out of hand.

My inspiration (source: Restoration Hardware)

I swear I decided to do this almost on a whim. I mean, I ran it by Rob, but just barely. In fact, he kind of imploded about it last night when he came home, but fortunately for our marriage, it looks like its going to turn out OK.

Of course, this essentially necessitates painting the walls. Probably like the picture, though I’ve picked out a bit more of a greenish shade. And, while I’ve had a can of white semi-gloss open, I’ve been touching up the trim around the house. Because, I mean, why not.

Oh yeah, and this nightstand, too.

And then tomorrow, my neighbor and I are going to the mothership Home Depot to pick out some flower bulbs and shrubs to plant in the front yard. I got a quote from a landscaper, but of course we know that we can do it better ourselves, and for free. (She works from home, too.)

I definitely do not have time for this.

I definitely missed my calling as a manual laborer.

Even Molly thinks I’m nuts.

Liz is my fabulous friend.

Most people have a fabulous friend — or if they don’t, they should. Nearly all of my Back In The Day When We Were Young And Crazy stories involve Liz. She brings something out in me, although she swears up and down it’s the other way around.

From almost the day we met, Liz was adamant that I was fabulous — far more fabulous than I thought — and that she was fabulous, and that a girl was entitled to be fabulous. A girl ought to be girly, she insisted, and her things ought to be covered in rhinestones and sequins and pink maribou.

This is the girl who was so gobsmacked when she learned I never had a pedicure that she gave me one on the spot, in her mother’s kitchen. This is the girl who taught me all manner of Important Things To Know When You Are In A Relationship, from lingerie to, uhm, personal grooming, to, errrm, technique.

This is the girl that made a girl out of me. And she is the closest thing to an older sister as I’ve ever had.

I have a beautiful memory of Liz and I leaning over the sinks in the community bathroom of her dorm at Brown, sizing ourselves up in the mirror, powdering and plucking and primping, singing along to a certain TLC song — that anthem of Getting Ready To Go Out, played in bedrooms and dorm rooms across the country in the winter of 1999.

Apparently I met Jim from The Office that night, and the princess of some island in the Pacific — both her classmates — but those recollections are hazy at best. But I do remember getting ready. I was happy that night. I wasn’t happy many nights in those days, but I was happy then.

Oh, and there was glitter. Lots of body glitter.

Back then, Liz was also heavily into Mac Cosmetics. Fabulosity was her religion, and damn straight she was prosthelytizing. Liz made it her personal mission to rid my paltry little makeup bag of Cover Girl mascara and those matte brown eyeshadows that come with little sponge applicators. Walgreens makeup, she liked to call it.

So, for my 20th birthday, Liz took me to the suburban mall, parked me on a stool at the Mac counter, and ordered the works. And I went home that afternoon just a little more f*cking fabulous, thankyouverymuch.

Of course, I have proudly (and dutifully) worn the same eyeshadow and lip color ever since. I get a lot of compliments, too, and I have made Patina eyeshadow-users out of many a friend and acquaintance. In fact, it was this summer, at her own wedding, when Liz overheard me recommending my eyeshadow to a wedding guest and immediately flew into a blind rage. Who, she demanded to know, uses the same singular eyeshadow for nearly ten years?! And then, in the words of her new husband: How dare you.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when the entire contents of a Mac store arrived on my doorstep on my birthday last month, courtesy of Her Fabulousness. We’re talking palettes of coordinating eyeshadows, eyeliners, lipstick, lip gloss, and an assortment of brushes I have no idea how to use. And an illustrated sketch of where and for what occasion I should apply each shade.

I have mostly stared at these items for a month, flabbergasted by Liz’s generosity and by her confidence in my ability to pull off more than one shade of eyeshadow on the same lid at the same time.

Finally, I gave it a shot. Abbie was over — we were having one of our Work Dates and were naturally being very busy and important — and we decided to try one of the eyeshadow palettes on her. Even though our coloring is totally different and I’m sure Liz would totally lose it if she witnessed this breach, as would the counter guy with the neon orange eyeshadow and the makeup belt who custom selected these particular shades for me based on the photos Liz brought him.

Apart from Abbie looking only slightly like she could stand to spend 20 minutes with a bag of frozen peas over her eyes — largely a product not of the colors but of my complete ineptitude to select from a variety of brushes or to blend without using my fingers — I think we ended up looking pretty great. Pretty damn fabulous, in fact. Not bad for a pair of girls with crooked faces and upsettingly visible smile lines.

Liz, this is for you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the gift, and more importantly, for that special way you always have of making me feel beautiful, inside and out.

Now I just need you to come home to Chicago so you can show me how to use this stuff.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Afterword: I just learned that the actual lyrics are “all the makeup that man can make.” Dislike.