I do. I’ll admit it. Not only do I apply a silicone based product, followed up by HD foundation, but I’ve been known to paint my wee little piggies, too. Phil’s always impatient and in a rush to go places, expecting me to move and operate at the same whirlwind pace as he does. So I make certain compromises and apply my makeup in the car as he drives. Full disclosure: I pluck things in the car too. Once I was wearing a tennis skirt and realized, in that certain light that comes with a bend in the road, that "Oh, my stars, where the whose daddy did those come from?" A few long blond hairs on my inner thighs. Not so long that you can braid it or anything. I’m not a neanderthal, but you might be able to floss the teeth of an American Girl doll with it. Well, Jesus. And there’s not a thing I can do about it until I get home? Hells no. I feel empty inside if there isn’t a sharpened Tweezerman within reach. Don’t get me started on the cuticle clipper (great when you’re in a pinch and need to trim an eyebrow).

I wasn’t given much notice when the producers of the Rachael Ray show phoned, asking if I’d be a guest on the show (which airs on Election Day next week, Nov. 3). I had a little over an hour to shower, pack, and haul ass to the airport. "So there I was in my closet–sans fan, sans air conditioning, sans circulation–jumping into outfit options, taking photos of myself to email my friend Leigha (the honest girl shopper I’ve been looking for all my life), when I hear the garage door open. I froze. Then quite simply, I whispered, "balls!"

It’s 2pm; the nanny is going to pick the kids up from school, WITH ALL OF MY MAKEUP IN THE CAR! And she won’t make it back home in time to catch me before I leave. I couldn’t move fast enough. No, really, I couldn’t. Instead, I used my photo-taking phone to call Phil, who was working downstairs. "Dude, you must stop Norma–my makeup bag is in the car!" What would I do with the crapass leftovers of sparkle makeup that’s chockablock in a makeup drawer that hasn’t been touched in years? I needed my makeup! His response?

"Did you just call me Dude?"

"Go! Stop her!"

Then I heard the door to the laundry room below swing open, with Phil running after the nanny in the SUV. STOP THAT BUS! And there you have it: my husband, my hero.

A YEAR AGO: Advice Is What You Want When You Already Know the Answer
3 YEARS AGO: Mr. Mom
4 YEARS AGO: Beautiful