Beware, all ye souls who enter here!!!! … for a haunting and twisted Halloween tale awaits. (For those particularly faint of heart, it is advised that you skip directly to the photos at the end.)

November 1 is the deadline for college a cappella groups to apply to participate in several programs run by my small business, Varsity Vocals. And, because we are talking about college students here (and a cappella singers, no less!) this means that, every year, 98 percent of the hundreds of applications we receive are delivered to my door between October 30 and November 2.

Every year, without fail, some group from a nearby university procrastinates so long that they have to hand-deliver their application. (And, to be honest, it is always a group from Northwestern. As a rule, the more competitive the academic institution, the more ridiculous the antics of the a cappella groups. It is always the Ivy League students whose members (and, yes, members’ parents) try to engage me in the most asinine, illogical arguments about, for example, why their group should have won the entire tournament, instead of taking last place in the first round of competition. See here, here, here, and here.)

Anyway, every year, without fail, a Northwestern group shows up at my doorstep. They are always a bit startled to discover that Varsity Vocals Headquarters is, in fact, a residence, and there is no lobby with a doorman or secretary with whom they can leave their application materials. They have to actually ring the bell, and a person will answer.

And that’s where it gets really scary.

Inevitably, these poor, procrastinating souls are completely spooked when The Head Of The Company and A Cappella Queen Of The World, Madame Yours Truly, answers the door herself, wearing head-to-toe spandex yoga clothes or equivalent, without makeup, completely sweaty and disheveled, dog barking and lunging maniacally.

Today, I answered the door braless, in mismatched pajamas, puffy-eyed, unshowered and Medusa-haired, and once again completely physically and mentally unprepared to interact with any human soul but perhaps for the UPS delivery guy (who I always think is the only person who could possibly be ringing my doorbell, and who always sees me at my worst anyway).

This year, to make matters additionally hair-raisingly, spine-chillingly scary, I am visibly pregnant. Those poor students took one look at me, blanched visibly, dropped their application packet and turned and ran.

Next year, I can’t imagine things will look better, considering I will have a 7-month old in tow. Spooky, scary.

In other horrifying Halloween news, I chose today to go shopping for new undergarments (having come to the startling conclusion that my usual bras have slowly and inexplicably started to shrink). I was measured by a perky twentysomething sales girl who couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds (that bitch) and who brightly announced that my bra size now officially has the word “double” in it.

I let out a blood-curdling scream in my head and then wept openly in the dressing room. With all due respect to the lovely large-chested women in my life, of whom I have always been quite jealous, it was unnerving for the typically flat-chested girl in me to learn that there is, in fact, absolutely nothing that feels sexy about trying on a thick-strapped, grandma’s girdle-looking support brassiere with cups big enough to cover your head.

Fortunately, there is always comic relief, even on the spookiest of days:

(If you must ask, I didn’t wear a costume to the Halloween party I attended this year, although I did roll up my jeans to reveal my black- and orange-striped knee socks. Several guys asked me what I was supposed to be, and I answered, “A crabby pregnant lady.” They seemed scared.)

Edited to add: In defense of my lingerie department outburst, and upon subsequent personal reflection and Internet searching, I realize now that the twitty little salesgirl had only brought me the most heinous, supportive garments she could find. I think a second shopping trip is in order.

Remember February? Yuck.

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?

When I woke up this morning, something in me had changed. After struggling through more than a few weeks of internal darkness, suddenly, in the smallest of ways, everything was just a little bit warmer. Lighter. Sunnier.

Of course, today was one of the first mornings of spring that it was actually warm, light, and sunny out. I’m sure that had something to do with it, even if I hadn’t opened the curtains yet.

Certainly, this delightful awakening was also made possible in part by the hour or so I spent at Rob’s parents’ house last night, wherein we met to discuss the impending purchase of our apartment (more on that later).

I’m not just sucking up to the in-laws, here. I really mean it: those people make me feel good about myself. I could show up filthy, drunk, swearing and twenty pounds heavier, and it wouldn’t be ten minutes before they would be all, ”Well don’t you look pretty!” and, “Wow, you are looking so skinny these days!” and, “Remember when you did that one thing that you can’t even remember doing and it was the most brilliant thing we had ever heard?” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ad nauseam, except it doesn’t make me nauseated BECAUSE I LOVE IT.

Everyone in this life needs a fabulous friend and a family-in-law like mine. I am convinced that the wasteland of my typical psycho-emotional condition is entirely attributable to a deficiency of having these people in my physical presence on a daily basis.

Imagine what my ego could be! Every morning would be like this wonderful morning.

There is also tiny part of me that really believes, but is still reluctant to admit, that my newfound, in-fact-quite-bearable lightness of being may well be the product of a religious experience.

Bear with me, now. If you woke up to the dog retching, retching, retching and then puking all over the place, dragged yourself out of bed and cleaned it up, got back into bed and managed to fall asleep for five blissful minutes before waking up to feel the best you’ve felt in months, well, you would think you had found God, too.

Last night I had the good fortune of being invited to a Passover seder in the home of a family friend. Although I have the unfortunate condition of being a decided atheist, I very much enjoy being included in and learning about other people’s religious celebrations. Especially when these events take place in a happy, positive environment, such as, say, over dinner. (Feed them and they will come; the Jews know how to do this right. It bears consideration here that perhaps I may not have lapsed in my Catholicism had, say, some of the sacraments been conducted while I was being fed.)

During the seder, the Jewish people outline a litany of wonderful things God has done for them, culminating in their salvation. Although of course they are grateful for the whole shebang, they make special mention of each individual element along the way. After naming each item, they say in Hebrew, “Dayenu,” which (loosely) means (something like), “It would have been enough.”

It would have been enough.

What a concept. To be able to see the big picture, and even hope for it, but to be fully content and grateful for what you do have, right there in front of you.

We have all heard this before, of course. But something about dayenu stuck with me, and I woke up today thinking about what my life would feel like if I accepted and appreciated that this is all there ever would be.

I always say I realize that I have a great life — better than I could have imagined, asked for, or planned. But the overachiever in me is constantly pushing for more, telling me that it’s not enough to be doing the best I can if there’s still more out there to accomplish.

This, of course, is important. We have to try in life. But some of us push too hard, too often, and lose sight of the big picture, which is actually the small picture — the short-sighted vision of what is right there in front of us. Which is the thing that actually exists, as opposed to the thing that we are trying to bring into existence. It is the only real thing.

So, for today at least, I am trying to reconcile my drive to do more, be more, and want more from this life with a real and heartfelt appreciation for what I do have right this very minute, despite all the hassles and headaches and missing pieces and glaring errors that point in no uncertain terms to my own personal shortcomings.

I am trying to learn how to care about getting things done, and getting them done well, while also being content with things as they are right now, and equally happy if nothing works out the way I want it to.

What is right in front of me is all there really ever will be.

And that is enough. Dayenu.

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.

I want this dog’s life.

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!