Several weeks ago, I went to a Pampered Chef party hosted by my friend Becky. Becky lives just shy of a mile away from me, and she is a hosting fiend. She seems to enjoy entertaining people…having them in her space…plying them with alcohol…I love Becky.

Anyway, whenever she has a party, I go. At first it was just for moral support…then it was for fun…and now it's because the threat of me spending money makes my husband froth at the mouth. After all, it was through her that I got hooked on Wildtree, after which I stopped using almost all other oil but grapeseed and proceeded to replace our spices with their blends. Now, we both enjoy Wildtree, but it wasn't exactly wallet-friendly to up and revamp the pantry like that.



You can just imagine what raced through his little penny-pinching head when I wrote in my party plans on the calendar.

Two of the goodies I bought were a slicer and microwave-crisper. Now, I could take or leave regular old potato chips—I don't garner the same enjoyment from them as some of my associates…cough-NICK-cough. Now, a bag of sweet potato chips: I could do some damage there. To be fair, you could probably do just about anything with a sweet potato and I would eat it and love it. I abstain most of the time because (in case you didn't know), deep frying anything that is naturally nutritious actually makes it unhealthy.

I wanted an easy way to make homemade, healthy snacks for both me and Nick (but especially for Nick because chips aren't one of my main food groups). I thought he would be tickled if I made him homemade potato chips—he was tickled when I made him homemade scones, so why shouldn't he have the same reaction to chips? Well, my goodies came yesterday, and my first order of business was slicing up a potato.

I lovingly sliced that potato, painstakingly blotting out the excess moisture and seasoning the slices just so. The crispness was ideal, and they just tasted so perfect and fresh (I had to try one). I carried the trays out to him where he was sprawled on the couch watching sports. I expected a reaction, something. His eyes never left the television as he shoveled them into his mouth with his cocky, "I can eat whatever I want and not gain an ounce—and dammit, I'm hungry!" mentality.

I swear those chips were demolished inside of 30 seconds.

My jaw dropped. He noticed my look and at least had the decency to look ashamed.

I guess I should be happy that he can mindlessly eat my chips with the same vigor as the greasy stuff. But still. I'm downright deflated.

It's been just about three months now since my hysterectomy, and for the most part I feel great. I mean great. As in, I can't remember the last time I felt this good. Because of this monumental accomplishment, I don't dwell on some of the less desirable aftershocks of my surgery—but I don't have to be happy about 'em, either.

I've got a couple of decades left before I head into menopause. My surgeon had assured me that I would still feel like me after surgery, but a me without the pain. And yet, I started experiencing oddities shortly after coming home.

Suddenly, there are moments of unbearable heat that I am not equipped to handle—I've been cold all my life. (I like cold a whole lot better, by the way.) But I am most concerned with my face—I feel like I don't know myself anymore. My skin seems to change from day to day, and I don't know how to care for it . At a checkup with my regular physician, I mentioned my concerns when she asked how my recovery was going.

She nodded with a furrow in her brow and chose her words carefully. "Scientifically, you should not be experiencing any of this," she said. "But, I personally know several women who have had the same surgery, and they all experience menopausal symptoms after surgery. The good news is that they shouldn't last. It's just a shock to your system right now."

I am pretty sure that none of the many papers I had to sign before they put me under mentioned that I would come out of surgery as an adolescent…though admittedly, I was skimming a bit there by the last few pages.

So my doctor prescribed a topical antibiotic, and I think it's doing a really good job. It also is very drying: I never know what mood my skin is going to be in…like walking on eggshells, I tell you! Since there is no scientific reason for any of this, I have been scouring discussion boards looking for women who have been down this road and have shared the directions to the end.

A recurring suggestion was using petroleum jelly in conjunction with the medication. All said to lather up some of it with a mild soap like Cetaphil, get in the shower, and wash it off last. I did a little more research. Apparently petroleum jelly is a terrific facial moisturizer that does not clog pores. Worth a try.

I was completely unprepared to deal with the stubbornness of goop.

When the time came, I washed my face with more gentle soap to get the layer of stuff off my face. Strike one. I used a foam cleanser next. Strike two. I finally moved on to an exfoliating facial cleanser (thinking it was the strongest cleanser I had). Not only was that strike three, but all of the little exfoliating beads became embedded in the mesh of the jelly. What can you do at that point but laugh?

I desperately wished that we kept a squeegee in the shower.

Finally, I found a harsher body soap that at least broke up the bulk of the thick layer on my face (still leaving a faint water-repelling coat), but I pretty much wrote this idea off as a nice thought and nothing more. I know now that I will go through all of this again: the jelly made my skin so soft and downright friendly! I can't believe I am willing to repeat this scene…

Now, I just need to refine my process and figure out how to wash this stuff off my face without looking tarred and feathered by the end. I'm thinking industrial degreaser—they make a noncomedogenic version for sensitive skin, right?

I am quite loyal to my mechanic. When I first moved back to Wisconsin, he called me every three months to remind me to schedule an oil change after I admitted that I had (at that time in my life) a tendency to forget. I have complete faith that he will never allow me to drive off in an unsafe vehicle or charge me for more maintenance than I need. I freely admit that I am car-stupid, and he gives it to me straight. This morning when I called to schedule an oil change, he recognized my voice before I gave him my name. I like my Bruce an awful lot.

This is an area where Nick and I disagree. He takes his vehicles back to the dealership for maintenance. Especially in areas where I am not knowledgeable, I want the relationship to know that someone has my interests in mind instead of the bottom line. Bruce is my car-dad. (I adopt lots of parents all over the place.) My car-dad wouldn't steer me wrong (no pun intended—honestly). I think Nick and I have decided to agree to disagree on this one.

Yet, when my car was done and nicely backed into the stall (so I could make a quick getaway!), I felt renewed confidence in my decision: THEY RETURNED MY SEAT TO THE RIGHT POSITION! I know that they had to move it back because everybody has to move it back. People squeeze in my driver's seat and make a squished bug face while blindly, desperately, reaching for the release.

I was so tickled by this that I intended to rush home and tell Nick, thinking that this last piece would finally convince him to migrate my way. I gloated aloud in the car, with a bunch of take thats and so theres. By the time I pulled into the garage, I was all talked out and decided that he wouldn't appreciate the seat thing anyway being that he isn't THISCLOSE to needing a booster seat.