Hope springs eternal. Box springs, on the other hand, need to be replaced every eight years. Mattresses, too. If my husband so much as sneezes in our bed, it feels like he’s having an epileptic seizure. Throw two kids and an itchy canine into the mix, and we might as well be sleeping on the San Andreas Fault. I keep waiting for The Big One.

So I asked my friend, who recently got a Sleep Number bed, whether they’re really worth the money.

She nodded emphatically, “That bed saved our marriage.”

Yesterday I brought a basket of my husband's fresh-grown tomatoes into work and set it down in the kitchen.

Beside it, I placed a sign:

FOR ANYONE WHO'S EVER WANTED
TO GRAB AMANDA'S TOMATOES;
HERE IS YOUR CHANCE.

I'm proud to report that within five minutes, the basket was nearly empty.

My husband has so many wonderful qualities. So many. But when it comes to basic home repairs, he could glean a few tips from Handy Manny, the lovable cartoon contractor.

Let's say, for instance, Handy Manny was called in to unclog a toilet in our downstairs bathroom. Do you think that once he had cleared the clog, he would just walk off, leaving the dirty toilet plunger sticking straight out of the toilet?

I don't think he would.

So I tried a Pilates class at the Y yesterday.

Outside.

On the roof.

At noon.

(In August)

And yes.

I would like a medal.

Or if you don’t have a medal, a slice of caramel cake would be nice.

Developed in ancient times (the early 1900s), Pilates is designed to put your core muscles to work.

This is all well and good if your core muscles are accustomed to having a job. But mine married straight out of high school and have never worked a day in their lives. They don’t even volunteer. So, you can imagine what a star that made me in class.

This is not funny.

But I feel it’s my duty to warn you.

Have you been to the Sun & Ski Sport store at Opry Mills?
And if so, have you disrobed in the dressing room there?

OH.
MY.
GOD.

The mirrors have cellulite BUILT IN.

You know. In case you didn’t bring your own.

I was there to buy a new pair of Crocs for my older son, and I saw some running shorts on sale. Against my better judgment, I decided to try them on. Because after all, I do run. Daily. For exercise.

You’d think that would make me a reasonably fit individual, right?

So perhaps you've gathered that I like me some celebrities. Young ones, old ones, it girls, out girls, actors, musicians, newscasters from the seventies, I don't care. If you're more famous than I am, I would like to watch you drink your latte.

An US Weekly from 1996 is better than no US Weekly. That's my motto.

And, as my husband says, a woman's obsession with celebrities is no different than a man's obsession with sports.

Except that celebrities are about a thousand times more interesting.

It recently came to my attention that I haven’t taken a week’s vacation in eight years.

Funny, I hadn’t even noticed.

There have been getaways, of course. A long weekend here. A Christmas with loved ones there. But never a full week in one place with the sole purpose of relaxing and (gasp) having fun.

When my mom called a few months ago to say she and my father were thinking of renting a house in Maine this summer and would we like to join them for a week, I balked.

“A week? No. I don’t do that. A long weekend perhaps …”

Which way did she go?

Come on. I know you saw her! That insane blogger posting a bunch of rambling nonsense about Angelina Jolie's twins being born in Connecticut.

The one who was all, "but my mom's manicurist's doctor said it is so, and therefore it MUST be true!"

Every celebrity junkie worth her margarita salt knows that celebrities don't give birth in Connecticut. They might have hedge fund managers who give birth in Connecticut ... but they themselves give birth in exotic places like Namimbia and Nice and (in Nicole Kidman's case) Nashville.

Angelina Jolie, you crazy pregnant prankster, you!

You're not in Nice.
You're not even in France.
Or Europe for that matter.

Are you?

No. You are not!

You and that hottie husband of yours are hunkered down in Connecticut, of all places.

My home state.

Sexy, Scintillating, Star-Studded ... CONNECTICUT.

God it just rolls off the tongue.

Like it or not, we all have to dish out a little constructive criticism from time to time. So how do you make negative feedback easier to swallow? Some experts suggest serving it up in a “Feedback Sandwich.”
 
The idea here is that in order to change someone’s behavior, you need to sandwich your criticism between two compliments.
 

To make a long story short, I’m cleaning my own house again.

Just as I was falling for Shelly and the sweet perfume of her Mop & Glo; she disappeared.

A week went by without a word.

And then another.

I felt confused. I felt betrayed. I felt cheddar cheese goldfish and a dog dreadlock stuck to the bottom of my foot.

When I’d all but given up hope, I got a message on our answering machine: