1.  I still recommend taking a designated driver to see any installment to the Twilight series.  They just keep getting better and Jameson and Coke help immensely!  I believe I saw Edward training to kill newborns in the new fall line from JCrew and one of those really cool leather cuffs that one of the Real Housewives sells on QVC!  Remember, every time you laugh at a Twilight movie, somewhere a teenage girl quietly weeps.

2.  My husband now does this hysterical voice for Vampire Bill.  Kind of a stiff Elvis with a faltering Southern accent.  He says things like “Sookie, my panties, they are in a wad,” and “Do not disparage my acting abilities!”

3.  If you are related to Opie – your freckles will survive the change.  The new Victoria may be the only vamp who still has Angel Kisses.

4.  My husband really hated the So I married a vampire post.  Which makes it all the more timely now!

So I said I wouldn’t do it.  I wouldn’t  turn my spouse into a vampire.  Take away his mortality.  Steal him away from his family and friends.  Take away his ability to digest curry based sauces or fresh cherries (I know this one too well!  It is reason enough to stay mortal!).

Of course he would have turned me.  The man quoted Depeche Mode lyrics in flirtatious e-mails and read Baudelaire in late night phone calls during our courtship.  He so would have turned me on our third date.

When marital fights veer into the absurd like this – all your answers are wrong.  I think I know what to say when we have the money fight (make more, spend less, save more) or the sex fight (have more) or the household chore fight (hire a maid), but the when-to-make-you-undead-fight?  Really?

Of course I thought about it.  Can you turn someone with some conditions?  Like a little vamp pre-nup?  Something like “I will grant you eternal life and pledge my undead love – but you will foreswear to never speak to me until noon (or three am or so if you are the nocturnal undead types) and I will get to pick out all of your clothing.  Separate rooms and computers.  I plan the vacations.  Eternal life, eternal love, but a little more on my terms.

And how does one win an imaginary fight?  By fighting dirtier.  Tell him you want to have a baby.  Even imaginary fights have winners.

This comes not at the end of a great diet or fitness plan but a pretty annoying illness.  I never thought I needed to lose twenty pounds.  I never agonized about fat clothes or bought things a size too small in hopes of making some crazy goal.

I’m so much thinner – a skinny girl sat next to me at a party and wouldn’t eat a piece of cake.

I’ve never been thin and the only time I felt fat was following the loss of my mother.  I ate pizza and drank bourbon for about 6 months. Then I went to the gym, worked hard, and felt everything start to move back into place.  I became strong.  I had the beginning of a little six-pack.  I could lift my body up over and over on something called “the Roman chair.”  It was the happiest I’ve ever been in my body.  And I was at least ten pounds heavier than I am now.

Two weeks ago I went on an semi-annual Dallas shopping spree and fit into shockingly small clothes.  I stood in a Anthropologie and sent a sales girl out for a size 4 dress.  Then that night I went out for a fabulous Indian restaurant and gagged on a beer and tandoori chicken while my husband and best friend had lamb phaal and cocktails.  Guess which I would rather have?  A size 4 or a good meal?

So I went back to the doctor.  Specifically, I went to another doctor.  Apparantly I can handle prolonged weight loss, nausea, and overall GI discontent – but I can’t face another trip to Dallas without curry and beer.

So far, so good.  I have quit losing weight and don’t seem to be gaining.

Still trying to figure out how to feed, dress, and exercise my smaller body.  I wore shorts and a tucked in blouse to lunch today. Who knew that was possible?  But I would have untucked that blouse for a piece of Italian Cream Cake.

This is what my weekends have become.

This is our tornado routine.  Some steps are for safety and security.  Some are to ensure you are never interviewed by a TV news crew:

1.  Answer phone call from grandmother.  My all time favorite warning is “There’s a bad cloud a-coming.”

2.  Rolling kitty round-up.  Lure cats into a small space.  One by one each cat disappears.   They suspect I am finally sending them to the farm I keep mentioning when they pee on the laundry.

3.  Start charging Kindle, lap top, and cell phone.  Gather all prescription meds, Mom’s pearl’s, and shotgun.  Everything but shotgun goes into best purse (currently, a gray Marc by Marc Jacobs I accidently sat in a puddle of Simple Green, yet I refuse to give it up).

4.  Bring in dogs.

5.  Feed husband.

6.  Make sure to be wearing jeans, sturdy shoes, panties and bra.

7.  Put on make-up or throw it  into above-mentioned bags.

8.  Call back grandmother to ensure we are in/on way to cellar.

9.  Call friend who you know will have no idea there is a storm yet inexplicably lives in the area most likely to be hit and explain the difference between “watch” and “warning.”

10.  Sit on front porch counting “one Mississippi, two Mississippi” between lightning strikes and thunder claps.  When you see the pine trees rotating or hear the train sound – run.  This step is always confusing because there will always be an actual train passing through at this time.

Once everyone and everything is in the cellar  - you  listen and wait.  The cats cry a little (intermittently remind them the farm).  The dogs fall asleep.

Last night we went finally gave up when we heard these words  ”This storm is far less impressive than it was.”  Who knew the robot voice at the Emergency Broadcast system was so judgemental?

All is well – and we are still packed for the next time.  Or the next trip to Europe – the packing list is oddly similar.

I was slightly disappointed to see tie-dye instead of horses, but it did remind me of my favorite gas station memory.

A while back I was inside the same gas station choosing gas station snacks when some young skinny cowboy walked in.  Very young.  So young I think I heard the kid’s voice crack when he asked the owner if she sold tampons.

Yes.  Gas station.  Skinny cowboy.  Tampons.  At this point I should add that the owner is this really kick-ass strong and tall woman who probably loves this story more than I do.

“Tampons?”  Well – directions were given.  Everyone pretended not to listen, especially to the explanation about super versus regular.

“They’re not for me!” the guy says.  ”They’re for my horses!”

It seems that the guy was on his way to a rodeo.  His buddy sent him in to buy tampons to put in the horses’ ears.  Or that’s at least what he was told.  He swore they would work like ear plugs and keep the horses from getting spooked.

Or perhaps it was part of a rodeo hazing ritual.

I really love this story, but I really hate that I missed the next part where he pulled up at the rodeo, unloaded his horses, and pulled out a box of supers.

Hal Holbrook’s character (her real husband and husband in the film) is describing the dreams he has of his late wife.  We have repeatedly seen his dream in the film.  He recalls an intimate and sweet memory of a beautiful woman at her vanity. We see her perfume, her knickknacks, her lacy  gown, her lovely smile and the stark signs of aging on her hands and those of her spouse.

As I watched, I was reminded of the smell of my grandmother’s White Shoulders perfume and my mother’s Pond’s cold cream.

I also realized that I needed to make my routine a little nicer so maybe my husband would recall more smiling and perfume and less swearing and saggy PJ pants.

In my dreams, I first saw my mother in a grocery store. I lectured her about why she should buy turkey lunch meat without nitrates.  I awoke disappointed.

Where was my prophecy?  My assurance of my mansion in heaven?  My answers for all the questions in our unresolved relationship?

In the film, we learn that the marriage was not perfect.  Abner was not kind. But in his dream he is forgiven. Perhaps graced.

The dead don’t often speak in dreams.   They swish their tacky green velour robes, smell like cucumbery cold cream, and listen.

“Mostly she is forgiving.”

The dead-they are forgiving.

Mother:  Empty the wastebaskets and clean the mirrors.

Mother-in-Law:  Always light your candles for a couple seconds.  The wicks should look like they’ve been burned a little.

Me:  Clean the tops of your lotion bottles, soap dispensers, etc.  Dusty soap is gross!

***To prove this comes full circle, my mother-in-law actually always tells me to serve some really good food.  She says that people remember what they ate, not that your home was spotless.  I think that she may know about Mamaw’s cookie jar.***

Of course, the soggy gingersnap did not give its life in vain.  It led to my husband’s startling quote “I thought you liked cleaning the kitchen.”

On that day my husband’s Oedipal Donna Reed dream died.

Since then we have tried many strategies to try to stay one step ahead of having Niecy Nash and the gang ring our doorbell.

We have disparate points of view about what is acceptable.  I am ok with a piles of papers, cats, and books, as long as all are dusted and the toilet and sinks are clean.  He needs the stuff and cats gone.

We have some friends who described a similar problem at their house.  He thinks everything is clean if the counters are clean, she thinks it’s clean if the floor is clean.  This leads him to sweep all the crumbs off the counters and onto the floor.  Good times at their house.

We tried getting someone to clean for us. We never could get the hang of it.  Do we stay at the house?  Do we go somewhere?  And my husband has “talk to me” etched into his forehead.  Done time?  Finally sober?  Talk to him about it.  Me – I got things to do.

Like the time a lady was cleaning and was still there when I got back from getting a manicure.  And she asked to see my nails.

Now we do it all ourselves.  We finished our big Spring Clean this Saturday.  Dueling music.  Dueling chore list.  It’s like taking separate cars to church.

But now I am not worried about Niecy showing up.  Clinton and Stacy – maybe.

But for everyone else who isn’t cool enough to drive through Costa Rica:

5 points if you ate it in another country

5 points if you ordered in another language

5 points if they actually understood you

5 points if your friend said “Eat it, it’s chicken,” and you ate it even though you knew she was lying.  And it had a tentacle.

Deduct  1 point each for:  being stacked, in a ring, or on a funny shaped plate.

Also – we probably need a similar positive point system for anything eaten from a trailer, cart, or trunk of someone’s car.  Around here we used to have a trailer that said “Meals on Wheels for Jesus” but they really sold barbecue out of it.