I really think every chick needs a good book club. Or, well, at least SOME sort of club where you all do something for a month and then get together and talk about it. Tonight was the 11 month anniversary of our little club (but who's counting). I only knew a couple of the girls when it started, but now it's like seeing old friends, which is just lovely.
Full disclosure: I didn't think this club would last more than a couple months when my friend Liz started it. It was an awesome concept with awesome girls, but I'm not exactly the girl who typically sticks with "clubs" very long. It's not like I go in with bad intentions of dropping out or flaking out, I just, I dunno, lose interest. Luckily, that is not the case with my Book Club. It's awesome. I hope we continue it forever. Though, based on my history, I have my fears.
Okay, so yes I was in band and soccer and cheerleading when I was young. Those weren't like "clubs" though. Those were competitive and there were prizes and awards. But, okay, I remember being in a New Kids on the Block club when I was young. Claire, our neighbor Johanna and I started the club. We met every day in Johanna's garage and each set up a desk. We each chose our favorite New Kid and we'd tape their trading card to our "desk" and, like, write them letters we never sent. I somehow got stuck with Danny. Ew. But we'd sit and write and talk about our favorite songs. We'd congregate in the driveway and make up dances to Hangin' Tough, and just generally gush over how much we loved them. But, because I got stuck with the sucky New Kid, I bailed on the club after about our 4th meeting.
Then there was a period of time where I was in the Leggings/Jean Shorts club. In middle school, my friends and I would only wear jean shorts over leggings, and side ponytails. That particular club last a couple disgusting weeks. I'm pretty sure I only had one pair of shorts and maybe two pairs of leggings. And with the unreliable laundry schedule at my house, I probably never washed them. I must have quit soon after the chaffing started.
In college, I was in a BIG TIME club. A NATIONAL club, if you will. I was in a sorority for my freshman year. I loved it. I met my best friend Madeline in the House. All the members met for weekly formal dinners, wore matching t-shirts to fundraisers and hay rides, chanted House cheers, hosted parties, and studied together. Well, when we weren't out partying. I especially liked the PROCESS of joining that club. Rushing sororities was incredibly fun for me. You go to all the different sororities in big groups of newbie freshmen, and talk to members of each house about random stuff..you know, like other clubs we were into - if I remember correctly, no one was too impressed with the Jean Short/Legging club. But despite all the perks of being a "sorority girl", I was only in my House for a year. I still get their newsletters and address labels, though, so it's like I still get the perks of club membership, but I don't have to actually do anything.
As of late, of course, I'm in the process of joining a new club. More specifically a GYM. There's a lot riding on this choice. Unlike the NKOTB club, I actually have full control over this choice and the consequences. There's the dirt cheap gym with bad classes, and the pricier gym with awesome classes. I don't know why I'm wiggin' out so much about this choice. It's not like I'll be there for more than a few months anyways...
But I've got a good feeling about Book Club. I think I'm really psyched about any club that enforces a Must Bring Wine policy, to be honest. Man, if only I'd known that back in the days I was in the Mickey Mouse Club.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Classic Phraud
Book Club tonight, kids. So far we've read some really great books in our fun little club. We scour Book Club and Bestseller lists for new titles, and with only a couple exceptions, they've all been great. Have you guys noticed the amount of Book Lists going around? Like the top 10 autobiographies, or the top 10 books about canker sores or whatever? It must be the time of year. They're everywhere. BUT: The one that really flips the script on me is the list of The Top 50 Books You Should Have Read By Now. (Or some variation of that...)
I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.
But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.
Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.
I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.
What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.
Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.
I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.
But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.
Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.
I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.
What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.
Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.
Monday, October 4, 2010
I'd Prefer Vodka-springa
Oh. My. Gah. I’ve been waiting for WEEKS for this book to come in to the library. Well, it finally came in. I picked it up during my lunch break today and, 100 pages later, I’m having a very difficult time putting it down to write this blog. It’s called Rumspringa: To Be or Not To Be Amish. And it is juicy!
Okay, so I’ve been completely obsessed with learning about Rumspringa for a while now. Basically, when an Amish child turns sixteen, they can start experimenting with the outside world. They do drugs, drink, fraternize with the opposite sex, wear regular clothes, and so much more. Then, at some point, they make a decision about whether they want to stay in the outside world, leaving their family behind, or return to their family and get baptized and stay Amish forever. Drama!
They get cell phones, drive cars, go shopping, snort cocktails of drugs, and act “English” like their mainstream new friends. The book starts with a few girls quietly whispering in a bedroom on a farm. They light a candle in the window, and that’s the sign that these chicks are ready for action. Up the long unpaved driveway comes an old truck, filled with ne’er-do-well boys. Then they stop at a gas station, buy beer, change into jeans and skanky shirts, and head off to an open field to party with “thousands” of other teens also on Rumspringa. Kids do all sorts of illegal things. And not just “illegal” in the Amish sense, but straight up ILLEGAL. Heroin, cocaine, drinking, smoking. These little 16 year-olds do it all. Meanwhile, their God-fearing parents snooze away, knowing that their kids are up to no good, but praying for their adolescent souls.
Then, come Monday, the kids are back at home honoring their parents, farming the cows (or whatever farmers do), and reading the bible in High German. At that point in the book, I was all “Lame! Who’d choose to be Amish?”
Then the author, Tom Shachtman, really throws a wrench in the system. He goes on to explain that a lot of Amish people find happiness in a life strictly lived to serve their family and faith. And when most of these kids go out in the real world, they are confronted with emotions like temptation, guilt, disappointment, fear, instability, and addiction. At this point in the book, I was all “Lame! Who’d want to live that kind of life?!” Well, color me conflicted. Okay, Mr. Shachtman, you’ve piqued my interest. Before I thought it was all hilarious and circus-like that these kids do all these crazy things (sorry, Amish people, but it’s funny. Not like you’re reading this anyway). Now I feel, like, horrible for these kids. What 17 year-old is capable of making such a huge decision?
Okay, so I’m at the point in this book where I’m just as torn as these kids. They seriously have to choose between finding and making their own life, and staying committed to their faith and family. I couldn’t make that decision, and I’m like a decade older than these kids. So, something like 80-90% of these kids return to their families, get married, and have like 20 kids, only to watch their kids go through the same thing in 16 years.
Amish Fun fact: Amos and Anne Bieler, of Aunt Anne’s Pretzels notoriety (not to be confused with Famous Amos), are both Amish. They left the church, got married, and were all “Oh crap. We don’t know anything about ourselves, or how to deal with emotions.” Then they were all “How do the non-Amish people deal with this stuff?” So, they went to therapy. And started a pretzel chain. The American Dream: fulfilled.
Learning more about this has proven to be more way more profound that I anticipated. Sure it's still a little hilarious (the kids can't take Science classes in school, but still find ways to make their own crank), but it's provoking and intriguing as well. My main question remains: HOW IS THIS NOT A REALITY SHOW?! Hello? TLC? Get on this! I'll sign on as Executive Producer. Now if only we could do it without technology...hmm. Okay, I'll get to work on that.
Okay, so I’ve been completely obsessed with learning about Rumspringa for a while now. Basically, when an Amish child turns sixteen, they can start experimenting with the outside world. They do drugs, drink, fraternize with the opposite sex, wear regular clothes, and so much more. Then, at some point, they make a decision about whether they want to stay in the outside world, leaving their family behind, or return to their family and get baptized and stay Amish forever. Drama!
They get cell phones, drive cars, go shopping, snort cocktails of drugs, and act “English” like their mainstream new friends. The book starts with a few girls quietly whispering in a bedroom on a farm. They light a candle in the window, and that’s the sign that these chicks are ready for action. Up the long unpaved driveway comes an old truck, filled with ne’er-do-well boys. Then they stop at a gas station, buy beer, change into jeans and skanky shirts, and head off to an open field to party with “thousands” of other teens also on Rumspringa. Kids do all sorts of illegal things. And not just “illegal” in the Amish sense, but straight up ILLEGAL. Heroin, cocaine, drinking, smoking. These little 16 year-olds do it all. Meanwhile, their God-fearing parents snooze away, knowing that their kids are up to no good, but praying for their adolescent souls.
Then, come Monday, the kids are back at home honoring their parents, farming the cows (or whatever farmers do), and reading the bible in High German. At that point in the book, I was all “Lame! Who’d choose to be Amish?”
Then the author, Tom Shachtman, really throws a wrench in the system. He goes on to explain that a lot of Amish people find happiness in a life strictly lived to serve their family and faith. And when most of these kids go out in the real world, they are confronted with emotions like temptation, guilt, disappointment, fear, instability, and addiction. At this point in the book, I was all “Lame! Who’d want to live that kind of life?!” Well, color me conflicted. Okay, Mr. Shachtman, you’ve piqued my interest. Before I thought it was all hilarious and circus-like that these kids do all these crazy things (sorry, Amish people, but it’s funny. Not like you’re reading this anyway). Now I feel, like, horrible for these kids. What 17 year-old is capable of making such a huge decision?
Okay, so I’m at the point in this book where I’m just as torn as these kids. They seriously have to choose between finding and making their own life, and staying committed to their faith and family. I couldn’t make that decision, and I’m like a decade older than these kids. So, something like 80-90% of these kids return to their families, get married, and have like 20 kids, only to watch their kids go through the same thing in 16 years.
Amish Fun fact: Amos and Anne Bieler, of Aunt Anne’s Pretzels notoriety (not to be confused with Famous Amos), are both Amish. They left the church, got married, and were all “Oh crap. We don’t know anything about ourselves, or how to deal with emotions.” Then they were all “How do the non-Amish people deal with this stuff?” So, they went to therapy. And started a pretzel chain. The American Dream: fulfilled.
Learning more about this has proven to be more way more profound that I anticipated. Sure it's still a little hilarious (the kids can't take Science classes in school, but still find ways to make their own crank), but it's provoking and intriguing as well. My main question remains: HOW IS THIS NOT A REALITY SHOW?! Hello? TLC? Get on this! I'll sign on as Executive Producer. Now if only we could do it without technology...hmm. Okay, I'll get to work on that.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Titles are Hard
(Quick Prologue: This has GOT to be fate! As I was writing my blog tonight, I got an email from Kate Spade alerting me that they now have BOOK OF THE MONTH clutches. PURSES, shaped like NOVELS. Seriously. It simply doesn't get better than Book Clutches.) Okay, continuing on...
Should I be writing a memoir? I learned today that Justin Bieber has a memoir coming out (First Step 2 Forever. Um…okay). Really? Really, Justin Bieber? Okay, well, it seems that I too am qualified to pen a memoir.
First thing’s first. I have to have a great title. It should be punny, as I just really love puns. Pharon Nuff (say it fast)? I could also name it something really heavy and serious to totally mess with the readers. The Tragedy of Misfortune – and it’d be, like, hilarious. Or maybe something like Eat Drink Love (Then Eat Again…and Probably Drink Again)? I don’t know. Okay, let’s not start with the title. Titles are hard.
Now, what’s happened in my life that warrants a good memoir? My sister Prinna is working on hers. She’s one of those pesky “legitimate writers” who has all this "talent" and “material” to put down onto paper that actual people will want to “read”. Annoying.
The problem is, I haven’t learned any great truths in my life (yet), and I’m not a multi-millionaire, platinum-record selling, international superstar (yet). If I were to write a memoir right now, it’d be about what I’m having for lunch today and what my lunch may consist of tomorrow. Not exactly page-turning stuff, folks.
Yes, I realize there is irony in blogging daily about things that basically boil down to things like “what I had for lunch”, and then writing about how I’d have nothing to write about if someone actually asked me to write about something. I get it. But penning an actual BOOK, on paper, that has a binding and sticker price slapped on it seems so different to me. I’ve always had a love affair with books. I love the smell of the binding, I’m one of those hated – and misunderstood – “page-folders” who turns down a corner of the page to mark my spot, and I love running my fingers over books on the shelf and feeling their rough, tangible covers.
So, to put something together that would sit on someone’s bookshelf seems like such an incredible feat to me. I wonder if people think about this when they write their memoirs. Did Paris Hilton take note of the texture of the pages as she signed the zillions of copies she sold? I doubt it.
But I started reading a memoir tonight called The Glass Castle (which I HIGHLY recommend!) and I caught myself remembering the way my mom’s top dresser drawer always smelled just like her Estee Lauder perfume, and I couldn’t stop myself from writing down all the contents of that drawer. Which led me to write about her pair of black patent leather high heels with leaf-shaped cut-outs that I used to put on and pretend I was at a gala of some sort. I loved those shoes. And I loved that drawer. And I really loved writing about them.
But, if I end up putting those things on paper, printing the pages out and binding them, I should probably rethink the possibility of a title like Getting’ Drunk and Bein’ Irresponsible.
Should I be writing a memoir? I learned today that Justin Bieber has a memoir coming out (First Step 2 Forever. Um…okay). Really? Really, Justin Bieber? Okay, well, it seems that I too am qualified to pen a memoir.
First thing’s first. I have to have a great title. It should be punny, as I just really love puns. Pharon Nuff (say it fast)? I could also name it something really heavy and serious to totally mess with the readers. The Tragedy of Misfortune – and it’d be, like, hilarious. Or maybe something like Eat Drink Love (Then Eat Again…and Probably Drink Again)? I don’t know. Okay, let’s not start with the title. Titles are hard.
Now, what’s happened in my life that warrants a good memoir? My sister Prinna is working on hers. She’s one of those pesky “legitimate writers” who has all this "talent" and “material” to put down onto paper that actual people will want to “read”. Annoying.
The problem is, I haven’t learned any great truths in my life (yet), and I’m not a multi-millionaire, platinum-record selling, international superstar (yet). If I were to write a memoir right now, it’d be about what I’m having for lunch today and what my lunch may consist of tomorrow. Not exactly page-turning stuff, folks.
Yes, I realize there is irony in blogging daily about things that basically boil down to things like “what I had for lunch”, and then writing about how I’d have nothing to write about if someone actually asked me to write about something. I get it. But penning an actual BOOK, on paper, that has a binding and sticker price slapped on it seems so different to me. I’ve always had a love affair with books. I love the smell of the binding, I’m one of those hated – and misunderstood – “page-folders” who turns down a corner of the page to mark my spot, and I love running my fingers over books on the shelf and feeling their rough, tangible covers.
So, to put something together that would sit on someone’s bookshelf seems like such an incredible feat to me. I wonder if people think about this when they write their memoirs. Did Paris Hilton take note of the texture of the pages as she signed the zillions of copies she sold? I doubt it.
But I started reading a memoir tonight called The Glass Castle (which I HIGHLY recommend!) and I caught myself remembering the way my mom’s top dresser drawer always smelled just like her Estee Lauder perfume, and I couldn’t stop myself from writing down all the contents of that drawer. Which led me to write about her pair of black patent leather high heels with leaf-shaped cut-outs that I used to put on and pretend I was at a gala of some sort. I loved those shoes. And I loved that drawer. And I really loved writing about them.
But, if I end up putting those things on paper, printing the pages out and binding them, I should probably rethink the possibility of a title like Getting’ Drunk and Bein’ Irresponsible.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Weakend
We have this phrase we use in our house when someone is acting just a little off. We call them Bizarro. Typically it happens after someone’s had a few too many wine coolers. Like, they're all normal, cleaning dishes, or making a midnight snack, but they're doing it without pants on. This weekend was Bizarro.
To start, instead of having a weekend, I worked all the way through Saturday night. We have an annual Sales Conference every year, and it’s a really big deal. So I spent Friday night, all day Saturday and Saturday night with 45 reps from around the country being Bizarro Pharon (B.P. wears chic black dresses and lipstick, and loves to talk Business). Instead of feeling all “worky”, Bizarro Pharon actually had a good time. Example: At one point, one of the older reps, she’s probably about 75, says to me, “I may be old, but I still loooove to dance!” and then shook her booty in my general direction. Bizarre. And a little bit awesome.
Nevertheless, it was 120% exhausting. I came home and plopped down on the couch, turned on the TV, propped my feet up, and had a few glasses of wine. Oddly, no one else was home, so I enjoyed a little TV mash-up of Hannah Montana and Locked Up: Raw. Yeah, that’s a normal combo.
So, Sunday morning I woke up early (bizarre), ready to take on the day and cram a whole weekend of relaxing into one day. I got up and decided to make some toast. All the knives were dirty, so I buttered my bread with a steak knife, which is more difficult than it sounds. Then I went to Barnes & Noble to buy the book for our book club this week (Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler). But, my intentions were not entirely pure when I swiped my credit card at the register. I was planning on reading the book then returning it. Twenty-five bucks for a book!? No thanks.
I packed up some water, a beach towel, and my soon-to-not-be-mine book (careful to leave the dust jacket in the car so I didn’t ruin it) and I headed down the block to read near the lake. I know of a little “secret spot” that no one knows about and was thus unoccupado. I spread out my towel and got down to business. It was wonderful. For 15 minutes. Then a couple with 2 of the whiniest babies ever came and set up camp next to me. Rude! And Bizarro! So, I left and read the entire book in the comfort of my own hammock.
Yeah, I finished the book, so what? So, I got in my car to return the book. I had a bulletproof response. “Of COURSE it’s never been read. I just bought it today. Who could read a whole book in one afternoon?!” As I gingerly slipped on the dust jacket, I somehow managed to rip it. Rather than risking looking like a Bizarro jerk trying to return a clearly-used book, I sped past Barnes & Noble and went to Target instead.
I’m sorry, I meant that I went to Bizarro Target. My beloved Regular Target is great, except on Sundays when it turns Bizarro. People understand the rules of shopping on a Tuesday night. Not so on Sundays. Slow drivers, slow walkers, slow talkers, slow cashiers, no carts. UGH! I got out of there in 10 minutes flat.
It’s like all the elements of a great weekend were there, the perfect weather, the relaxing time on the hammock, the errands, and the wine. But none of it was normal. None of it happened the way I wanted, or the way it typically would have happened. It’s like I ordered a plate of spaghetti and got angel hair pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and extra meatballs. Sure, it may taste good, but it’s not exactly what I wanted and certainly not what I ordered.
To start, instead of having a weekend, I worked all the way through Saturday night. We have an annual Sales Conference every year, and it’s a really big deal. So I spent Friday night, all day Saturday and Saturday night with 45 reps from around the country being Bizarro Pharon (B.P. wears chic black dresses and lipstick, and loves to talk Business). Instead of feeling all “worky”, Bizarro Pharon actually had a good time. Example: At one point, one of the older reps, she’s probably about 75, says to me, “I may be old, but I still loooove to dance!” and then shook her booty in my general direction. Bizarre. And a little bit awesome.
Nevertheless, it was 120% exhausting. I came home and plopped down on the couch, turned on the TV, propped my feet up, and had a few glasses of wine. Oddly, no one else was home, so I enjoyed a little TV mash-up of Hannah Montana and Locked Up: Raw. Yeah, that’s a normal combo.
So, Sunday morning I woke up early (bizarre), ready to take on the day and cram a whole weekend of relaxing into one day. I got up and decided to make some toast. All the knives were dirty, so I buttered my bread with a steak knife, which is more difficult than it sounds. Then I went to Barnes & Noble to buy the book for our book club this week (Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler). But, my intentions were not entirely pure when I swiped my credit card at the register. I was planning on reading the book then returning it. Twenty-five bucks for a book!? No thanks.
I packed up some water, a beach towel, and my soon-to-not-be-mine book (careful to leave the dust jacket in the car so I didn’t ruin it) and I headed down the block to read near the lake. I know of a little “secret spot” that no one knows about and was thus unoccupado. I spread out my towel and got down to business. It was wonderful. For 15 minutes. Then a couple with 2 of the whiniest babies ever came and set up camp next to me. Rude! And Bizarro! So, I left and read the entire book in the comfort of my own hammock.
Yeah, I finished the book, so what? So, I got in my car to return the book. I had a bulletproof response. “Of COURSE it’s never been read. I just bought it today. Who could read a whole book in one afternoon?!” As I gingerly slipped on the dust jacket, I somehow managed to rip it. Rather than risking looking like a Bizarro jerk trying to return a clearly-used book, I sped past Barnes & Noble and went to Target instead.
I’m sorry, I meant that I went to Bizarro Target. My beloved Regular Target is great, except on Sundays when it turns Bizarro. People understand the rules of shopping on a Tuesday night. Not so on Sundays. Slow drivers, slow walkers, slow talkers, slow cashiers, no carts. UGH! I got out of there in 10 minutes flat.
It’s like all the elements of a great weekend were there, the perfect weather, the relaxing time on the hammock, the errands, and the wine. But none of it was normal. None of it happened the way I wanted, or the way it typically would have happened. It’s like I ordered a plate of spaghetti and got angel hair pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and extra meatballs. Sure, it may taste good, but it’s not exactly what I wanted and certainly not what I ordered.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Forgive me...
There are a few things you must know about me. I consider myself a pretty decent judge of music. I was in band and played piano until I was 18, and I go through phases of obsessively listening to every type of music from NWA to Prince to Reba McIntyre to Bob Dylan to Ke$ha. I’d also consider myself a pretty decent judge of literature. I majored in English in college, worked at a magazine for a few years and now work at a publishing company. Lastly, I’m obsessed with all that Kate Spade has ever made and everything she will ever put her name on. So, with all that explained, I have some confessions I’d like to make.
I love Miley Cyrus, Cosmo Magazine, and $10 bags from Heartbreaker stores.
Let me first explain Miley. I nannied for my niece Annabelle when she was 3 years old. I got positively sick of hearing Sesame Street or Dora the Explorer all the time. The happy medium we discovered was Mylie’s show Hannah Montana. She loved the music and colorful clothes, I loved that it wasn’t on PBS. But sweet nibblets! I got majorly sucked in. She’s like the new version of Clarissa Explains it All. So, when her songs started playing on the Top 40 radio station, I couldn’t make myself turn them off. She’s 17, not a “strong” performer yet, probably too provocative, maybe a little irresponsible, but what do I care? She’s not my daughter. So, I download her songs and crank them up. I have no apologies. Plus, I really doubt there’s anyone in the country who doesn’t know the words to Party in the U.S.A.
Second, Cosmo. I’ve read this magazine since I was 15 and stealing them from my older sisters. Cosmo is easy-reading full of girlie need-to-know stuff. Don’t know how to do a smokey eye? Here’s how: in 3 steps. Wondering what goes on in a guys brain on the first date? They’ve already polled 1,000 men. But my favorite part is always the quizzes. They could not be easier to ace. There’s always one crazy choice, one boring choice, and the perfect medium. This month, there’s a “What Kind of Hot Are You?” quiz. The results are: Statement-Making Hot, Down-to-Earth Hot, Bombshell Hot, and Girlie Hot. No matter what I choose, the result is: I’m Hot. It’s like a mug of hot chocolate for my self-esteem.
Finally, cheap bags. The only bag I carry right now is a Kate Spade bag with black and white logos on the outside, and purple silk on the inside. My boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday, and I adore this bag. But unfortunately, I do not enjoy the lifestyle that allows me to purchase Kate Spade items every day. I have Kate Spade shoes, jewelry, bags, wallets, stationary, glassware…most all of which have been gifts. So, when I’m really itching for a new bag, I feel like I’m cheating on Kate by buying a different, cheaper designer’s. Instead, I walk on down to Heartbreaker and by some no-name cheap pleather bag in a crazy color that I‘ll use like 5 times. It costs me all of $10, and I don’t suffer the guilt of investing in something non-Kate. When I’m finally at a point in life where I can choose quality over quantity, I would suggest you invest in Kate Spade stock.
Whew! That felt good to get that off my chest. Now I can get back to BBC and studying Pavarotti.
I love Miley Cyrus, Cosmo Magazine, and $10 bags from Heartbreaker stores.
Let me first explain Miley. I nannied for my niece Annabelle when she was 3 years old. I got positively sick of hearing Sesame Street or Dora the Explorer all the time. The happy medium we discovered was Mylie’s show Hannah Montana. She loved the music and colorful clothes, I loved that it wasn’t on PBS. But sweet nibblets! I got majorly sucked in. She’s like the new version of Clarissa Explains it All. So, when her songs started playing on the Top 40 radio station, I couldn’t make myself turn them off. She’s 17, not a “strong” performer yet, probably too provocative, maybe a little irresponsible, but what do I care? She’s not my daughter. So, I download her songs and crank them up. I have no apologies. Plus, I really doubt there’s anyone in the country who doesn’t know the words to Party in the U.S.A.
Second, Cosmo. I’ve read this magazine since I was 15 and stealing them from my older sisters. Cosmo is easy-reading full of girlie need-to-know stuff. Don’t know how to do a smokey eye? Here’s how: in 3 steps. Wondering what goes on in a guys brain on the first date? They’ve already polled 1,000 men. But my favorite part is always the quizzes. They could not be easier to ace. There’s always one crazy choice, one boring choice, and the perfect medium. This month, there’s a “What Kind of Hot Are You?” quiz. The results are: Statement-Making Hot, Down-to-Earth Hot, Bombshell Hot, and Girlie Hot. No matter what I choose, the result is: I’m Hot. It’s like a mug of hot chocolate for my self-esteem.
Finally, cheap bags. The only bag I carry right now is a Kate Spade bag with black and white logos on the outside, and purple silk on the inside. My boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday, and I adore this bag. But unfortunately, I do not enjoy the lifestyle that allows me to purchase Kate Spade items every day. I have Kate Spade shoes, jewelry, bags, wallets, stationary, glassware…most all of which have been gifts. So, when I’m really itching for a new bag, I feel like I’m cheating on Kate by buying a different, cheaper designer’s. Instead, I walk on down to Heartbreaker and by some no-name cheap pleather bag in a crazy color that I‘ll use like 5 times. It costs me all of $10, and I don’t suffer the guilt of investing in something non-Kate. When I’m finally at a point in life where I can choose quality over quantity, I would suggest you invest in Kate Spade stock.
Whew! That felt good to get that off my chest. Now I can get back to BBC and studying Pavarotti.
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