Your questions, my answers! Good questions, this week guys! A couple of these were tough! I hope I did them justice!
Dear Crabby,
You have LOST Season 37 on DVD but no DVD player, a bottle of Fess Parker's 2008 Pinot Noir but no corkscrew, and a pack of cigarettes but no lighter. It's raining out. What do you do?
Hugs and kisses,
MacGuyer
Dear MacGuyver,
Number one, how did you get Lost season 37? I’m intrigued as I have only seen (and drooled over) seasons 1 – 6 which I was led to believe were all that existed. Tell me more. Okay, let’s see here. It sounds like you are in a bit of a pickle. Here’s what I’d do: Shove the cork into the bottle and begin enjoying the wine irresponsibly and quickly. Then I'd take the cigarettes and head to the black market part of town (I'll have the guts to go there alone because of all the wine, obvs). I'll tell a guy the cigarettes are made out of all kinds of illegal narcotics so as to up the street value. Then I can trade them for a DVD player with the registration number scratched off. Go back home, watch the movies. Duh!
Dear Crabby,
I've got a big first date coming up this weekend. What do I wear???
Thanks!
-Nervous is Nebraska
What's up, Nervous? First of all, you gotta calm down. Dressing for a first date is SOOOOO easy! Assuming you are a GIRL, just wear dark jeans, black shirt, colorful high heels, hair down. Done. Unless you wanna be a little more, uh aggressive. If that's the case, change the jeans to a short skirt. If you're trying to GIVE the milk away, keep everything but the black shirt, which you should just leave at home I guess. Now, you could always go the LBD (Little Black Dress) route, but it depends on what you're doing on your date. If you're going rock climbing, or horseback riding, or going to like Applebees, I'd skip the dress route. Then again, maybe you should just wear whatever makes you comfortable. Oooh, or you could do leggings with a cute t-shirt dress with a belt and some bomb heeled boots, with your hair all wavy and like slept-in. Then again, maybe stick with jeans but do a funky t-shirt and lots of fun jewelry. Oh boy, Nervous. I don't know. Turns out, this is a very difficult decision. It's just really important to give the best possible first-impression, without looking like you're trying too hard, but you also want to let him know you care about your looks. Crap, now I'M nervous for you. Yikes. You better get started on going through all your clothes. Good luck, lady. You're going to need it.
Dear Crabby,
What do you do when you are feeling crabby? I got the crabbys...
Signed,
Itchy in Rhode Island
Dear Itchy in Rhode Island,
I believe there’s a special shampoo for those pesky crabs. Or you could just shave off all your hair. Either way: Ew.
How'd I do this week? Good stuff? Think you could do better? Jot down any other pieces of advice you may have down there in the comments. Good luck, though, I'm pretty sure my answers are the best ones ever. If you find yourself with a burning question, email me at pharonsquare@gmail.com.
Showing posts with label Fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fashion. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Future's so Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades
Halleluiah! You guys? The SUN...was OUT...TODAY. I dug around in my purse, and had to take out my Kindle, my planner, my phone charger, my Kate Spade card holder/wallet, my keys, my iPod, a coin purse, a pair of mittens, and a pack of gum, but I finally found them. My Sunglasses. I haven't gotten to use my sunglasses in, well, many many moons. But oh! The glorious sun has decided to make a much anticipated cameo in Minnesota. And believe you me, I was in desperate need of the Vitamin D. I ran outside during lunch, with my mittens on, my full-length, down, enormo-coat zipped up, and the hood pulled up over my head, and just stared straight up at the sun. I willed the 4 square inches of my visible face skin to absorb all the vitamins and warmth and loveliness possible. I put my sunglasses on and it felt almost alien to have them on my face again. But there they sat, for 7 glorious minutes before I had to run back inside and thaw out my eyelashes.
That's something I always forget about in winter: sunglasses. I NEVER need to use my sunglasses in winter, unless I'm driving and the hazy sun somehow still manages to bounce right off the snow and directly into my corneas like I'm an ant at the mercy of some bratty kid with a microscope. But that almost never happens anyway. Usually I'm tucked inside work or my house or a bar, far away from the bitter cold of the ruthless Outdoors. So when I put my sunglasses on today, I was finally convinced that Spring is definitely right around the corner.
I need to buy new sunglasses, though. The ones I have now are, obviously, Kate Spade. And though I love them, due to my habit of tossing them into my purse with keys, pens, and apparently open switchblades, the lenses of the glasses are totally scratched beyond repair. There is nothing, in this blogger's humble opinion, dumber than dropping a huge chunk of dough on sunglasses. Sure, they may be cute or cool or like 3-D or something, but unless it says "Will not Break When Your Friend Ally Sits on the Them" or "Lenses Are Made Out Of Diamond", it's such a waste. I love the $5 sunglasses at Heartbreaker. Soooooo cheap! Sooooo cute! And somehow, they NEVER BREAK. I just straight up lose them. I'd go into cardiac arrest if I bought like a $750 pair of sunglasses and accidentally left them in the bathroom McDonald's. Good bye, money. Good bye, useless status symbol.
I bought Geo a pair of sunglasses for Christmas. He is a legit sunglasses hoarder. He has at least 6 pairs just in his car at any given time. Anyway, so Geo and I watch this show called Sons of Anarchy on FX (if you aren't watching this show, you are bad at life). It's about a motorcycle gang who have hearts of gold. (Sort of. They like deal drugs and run guns and hang out with, eh hem, ladies of the night, but it's SOOOOOOO good.) Whatever, the main character, Jax - played by the very yummy and drool-worthy Charlie Hunnum, wears these sunglasses on the show whenever he's on his Harley. Geo wanted them soooo badly. So one day, I looked them up. I found them, and they are legit. They are old-school authentic motorcycle glasses that have been around since the 50's. The best part? Eight dollars. Eight little bitty dollars. So, I ordered them and was ready to lie my face off and tell Geo they were mad expensive. However, apparently he had already done some of his OWN research, and confessed that he was already planning on ordering like 10 pairs of them so he had them every where at all times.
For all intents and purposes, sunglasses are basically disposable, though. That's why I think spending a ton of hard-earned cash on something you're just going to sit on anyway is crazy. That doesn't change the fact, though, that I need some new ones. I like the obnoxiously large ones, too. Geo says they make my freakishly small head look smaller. I'm pretty sure that's an insult, but whatever. They also leave horrible sunglasses tans in the summer. But I just figure it's a highly effective way of preventing premature aging of my eyes, and also hiding hangovers . And Punxutawney Phil basically guaranteed that I'll be laying out and drinking Mojitos by the Lakes in no time, so I need to be ready!
Alright, loveys. I'm signing off for now. I hope you have a bright, sunny, and wonderful weekend!
That's something I always forget about in winter: sunglasses. I NEVER need to use my sunglasses in winter, unless I'm driving and the hazy sun somehow still manages to bounce right off the snow and directly into my corneas like I'm an ant at the mercy of some bratty kid with a microscope. But that almost never happens anyway. Usually I'm tucked inside work or my house or a bar, far away from the bitter cold of the ruthless Outdoors. So when I put my sunglasses on today, I was finally convinced that Spring is definitely right around the corner.
I need to buy new sunglasses, though. The ones I have now are, obviously, Kate Spade. And though I love them, due to my habit of tossing them into my purse with keys, pens, and apparently open switchblades, the lenses of the glasses are totally scratched beyond repair. There is nothing, in this blogger's humble opinion, dumber than dropping a huge chunk of dough on sunglasses. Sure, they may be cute or cool or like 3-D or something, but unless it says "Will not Break When Your Friend Ally Sits on the Them" or "Lenses Are Made Out Of Diamond", it's such a waste. I love the $5 sunglasses at Heartbreaker. Soooooo cheap! Sooooo cute! And somehow, they NEVER BREAK. I just straight up lose them. I'd go into cardiac arrest if I bought like a $750 pair of sunglasses and accidentally left them in the bathroom McDonald's. Good bye, money. Good bye, useless status symbol.
I bought Geo a pair of sunglasses for Christmas. He is a legit sunglasses hoarder. He has at least 6 pairs just in his car at any given time. Anyway, so Geo and I watch this show called Sons of Anarchy on FX (if you aren't watching this show, you are bad at life). It's about a motorcycle gang who have hearts of gold. (Sort of. They like deal drugs and run guns and hang out with, eh hem, ladies of the night, but it's SOOOOOOO good.) Whatever, the main character, Jax - played by the very yummy and drool-worthy Charlie Hunnum, wears these sunglasses on the show whenever he's on his Harley. Geo wanted them soooo badly. So one day, I looked them up. I found them, and they are legit. They are old-school authentic motorcycle glasses that have been around since the 50's. The best part? Eight dollars. Eight little bitty dollars. So, I ordered them and was ready to lie my face off and tell Geo they were mad expensive. However, apparently he had already done some of his OWN research, and confessed that he was already planning on ordering like 10 pairs of them so he had them every where at all times.
For all intents and purposes, sunglasses are basically disposable, though. That's why I think spending a ton of hard-earned cash on something you're just going to sit on anyway is crazy. That doesn't change the fact, though, that I need some new ones. I like the obnoxiously large ones, too. Geo says they make my freakishly small head look smaller. I'm pretty sure that's an insult, but whatever. They also leave horrible sunglasses tans in the summer. But I just figure it's a highly effective way of preventing premature aging of my eyes, and also hiding hangovers . And Punxutawney Phil basically guaranteed that I'll be laying out and drinking Mojitos by the Lakes in no time, so I need to be ready!
Alright, loveys. I'm signing off for now. I hope you have a bright, sunny, and wonderful weekend!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Cold Feet
I've waited as long as possible. I've held my tongue, I've waited for it to change, I've tried to see the bright side. And yet, there is no denying it any more. It's really effing cold out. Like: surface of Pluto cold. I know, I know. Back in November I talked about how people need to get over the coldness of Minnesota because it's MINNESOTA. But we are barely (if even) halfway through the winter, and my eyelashes froze together this morning. Very uncool.
So, okay so you know how the heat and humidity remind me of swimming in pea soup and being punched in the face with mayonnaise? Well the cold, man. This crazy frigid cold. It's like standing in a wind tunnel while shards of glass fly at my face at light speed I while wear a suit made out freezer burn and my blood has turned into a Coke slushie...or Rumpleminz. It's all sharp and jagged and unyielding. So yes, I'm officially complaining about the weather.
It's not the snow that gets me. It's not the impossible parking restrictions, it's not even the slippery sidewalks. It's the absolute PAIN of freezing from the outside in. It's the crickly crackly frozen feeling of my skin, the fear that my nose will snap right off my face, and the sadness I get when I lose all the feeling in my toes. Sometimes I worry about whether or not toe-amputees can still wear peep-toe heels.
Despite the frigidity outside, I've been living in a 65 degree house too - for those who don't know, that's COLD. But tonight, I got gutsy and turned the thermostat up to Sixty Seven Degrees. Then I pulled out some duct tape and fixed the little tears in our window plastic that fancies up our house. (Okay, so I understand that putting plastic on your drafty windows keeps your house warm, but why can't someone make window plastic that doesn't tear and come off with the slightest breeze? Come on, Science.) I've got some bedazzled Vikings sweatpants on, a pink furry fleece sweatshirt, and wool socks tucked into fleece-lined slippers. I do NOT look good. But I'm warm. That's the main problemo with winter. I don't care how many pairs of tights you have, or how many sweaters you layer, or how inconspicuous you think your long underwear is, NO ONE LOOKS HOT IN THE FREEZING COLD.
I once heard of a girl in middle school who walked outside in winter with wet hair, and when she brushed her fingers through her hair, all her hair just snapped right off. So, you can imagine my horror when I was walking to work this morning, and the homocidal, stabbing cold wind started smacking me in my face until my eyes watered. I tried to not blink. I stared into that bitter wind like it stole my purse. I felt my tears smearing my makeup, but I didn't want to blink. I willed my eyes to stay open. I felt my contacts freeze to my eyeballs, and all of a sudden I just did it. I blinked. The corners of my lashes stuck together like a tongue on a lamp post. I started to panic, imagining that girl snapping off her own frozen hair. I wondered what I'd look like without eyelashes. It wasn't pretty.
As soon as I walked into our building, though, my frozen tears mercifully thawed and my fears subsided. That, my friends, means it is officially too cold. The disturbingly tan weather man has been throwing around words like "tundra", "icy" and "permafrost" lately. That's not weather, people, that's uninhabitable terrain. I'm not complaining about a little chilly weather, you guys. I'm not all "Oh no! I can see my breath!" It's more like "I'm afraid of losing appendages while I'm waiting for the bus".
I guess I just have to focus on July, when it's BOUND to be warmer. Though, by then it's all back to pea soup and mayonnaise punches. You just can't win here, huh?
Well, (try to) stay warm, kids, and have a wonderful weekend!
So, okay so you know how the heat and humidity remind me of swimming in pea soup and being punched in the face with mayonnaise? Well the cold, man. This crazy frigid cold. It's like standing in a wind tunnel while shards of glass fly at my face at light speed I while wear a suit made out freezer burn and my blood has turned into a Coke slushie...or Rumpleminz. It's all sharp and jagged and unyielding. So yes, I'm officially complaining about the weather.
It's not the snow that gets me. It's not the impossible parking restrictions, it's not even the slippery sidewalks. It's the absolute PAIN of freezing from the outside in. It's the crickly crackly frozen feeling of my skin, the fear that my nose will snap right off my face, and the sadness I get when I lose all the feeling in my toes. Sometimes I worry about whether or not toe-amputees can still wear peep-toe heels.
Despite the frigidity outside, I've been living in a 65 degree house too - for those who don't know, that's COLD. But tonight, I got gutsy and turned the thermostat up to Sixty Seven Degrees. Then I pulled out some duct tape and fixed the little tears in our window plastic that fancies up our house. (Okay, so I understand that putting plastic on your drafty windows keeps your house warm, but why can't someone make window plastic that doesn't tear and come off with the slightest breeze? Come on, Science.) I've got some bedazzled Vikings sweatpants on, a pink furry fleece sweatshirt, and wool socks tucked into fleece-lined slippers. I do NOT look good. But I'm warm. That's the main problemo with winter. I don't care how many pairs of tights you have, or how many sweaters you layer, or how inconspicuous you think your long underwear is, NO ONE LOOKS HOT IN THE FREEZING COLD.
I once heard of a girl in middle school who walked outside in winter with wet hair, and when she brushed her fingers through her hair, all her hair just snapped right off. So, you can imagine my horror when I was walking to work this morning, and the homocidal, stabbing cold wind started smacking me in my face until my eyes watered. I tried to not blink. I stared into that bitter wind like it stole my purse. I felt my tears smearing my makeup, but I didn't want to blink. I willed my eyes to stay open. I felt my contacts freeze to my eyeballs, and all of a sudden I just did it. I blinked. The corners of my lashes stuck together like a tongue on a lamp post. I started to panic, imagining that girl snapping off her own frozen hair. I wondered what I'd look like without eyelashes. It wasn't pretty.
As soon as I walked into our building, though, my frozen tears mercifully thawed and my fears subsided. That, my friends, means it is officially too cold. The disturbingly tan weather man has been throwing around words like "tundra", "icy" and "permafrost" lately. That's not weather, people, that's uninhabitable terrain. I'm not complaining about a little chilly weather, you guys. I'm not all "Oh no! I can see my breath!" It's more like "I'm afraid of losing appendages while I'm waiting for the bus".
I guess I just have to focus on July, when it's BOUND to be warmer. Though, by then it's all back to pea soup and mayonnaise punches. You just can't win here, huh?
Well, (try to) stay warm, kids, and have a wonderful weekend!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Queen of Clubs
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Evil Eye
Wednesdays. Geez, it feels like every single week there’s a Wednesday. But, you know what? It’s nearly over, which means the week is almost over, which means the weekend is almost here. I can almost see Saturday from here. ALMOST. I’ll bet it’d be a lot clearer if I had better vision. (Oof, that transition was rough. Even for me. Gimme a break…it‘s Wednesday for crying outloud.) At any rate, I was at work this afternoon when my contact just straight up fell out of my eye. Bloop! Right there onto the floor. Luckily, I found it right away, because I would have most certainly been ruined for the rest of the day with just one working retina. How limiting! Geez, if my contact fell out while, I don’t know, driving, I’d have to pull over or drive with one eye shut. Whoops! There goes my depth perception!
I have suuuuper bad eye sight, and I’ve worn glasses since 5th grade. I. Loved. My. Glasses. They had giant round lenses, rimmed in a gold tortoise shell. They were Nickelodean brand. I used the little spray and cloth that came with my glasses to clean them compulsively. During my yearbook pictures in 6th grade, the photographer made me take off my glasses because there was a glare. When I got my yearbook, I looked at my picture and was horrified. By that time I was so used to seeing my face framed by the giant gold rims, that I felt like I looked like I was missing my eyes altogether. So I took out a pen and drew the glasses on myself. I ruined the picture, and thus, the only photographic evidence that I attended 6th grade.
Then, sometime around 8th grade, my mom must have looked at me, with my big silver braces and gold ginormous glasses, and thought, “Well, you just look ridiculous.” She took me to get contacts. Yay! Contacts! Or so I thought. I have a disgustingly vivid memory of that first eye exam. In order to test the amount of natural tears I could produce (you need tears for contacts, FYI), they took these pH strip-looking pieces of paper and slipped one INTO the corners of each of my eyes. I sat there and waited for the test to be done, closing my eyes with paper sticking out of them, and thinking “This is torture. This is ridiculous. How am I going to ever put things in my eyes after this?!” Needless to say, I had enough tears. Well, duh! I was ACTUALLY CRYING because those paper things hurt so bad. (If ANYONE ELSE had to go through this, please TELL ME! Everyone is convinced this is a “false memory”, but I remember it like it happened 20 minutes ago.)
These days, you’ll probably never see me with glasses. My contacts are every bit a part of me as my finger nails. I never take them out. And by “never”, I mean “NEVER”. I sleep with them in. It’s a really bad habit I got into in college. Waking up and not being able to see the alarm clock frequently resulted in many missed classes, so I learned to just sleep with my contacts in. People with 20/20 vision will never understand the panic and frustration of waking up and not being able to see past your own hand. So now I sleep with my contacts in my eyes rather than in their little case where they belong. Apparently, though, you’re supposed to take them out because when you sleep your eyeballs roll back in your head, making it very easy to lose a contact inside your brain. (Does it help you read minds? No.) But it’s never happened to me, so why fix something that ain’t broke?
Okay, I’m not the greatest at taking care of my contacts. But today when my contact fell out, I gave in and thought “Well this is a sign that I might need to go back to glasses.” Unfortunately, the glasses I have NOW are not exactly the bomb Nickelodean frames I used to drool over. I love the look of them…they are thick, black rectangular frames, but because I have a child-sized head and my glasses are made for ADULTS, they just slip off my head anytime I look down. Not exactly ideal (Eye-deal? Oooh, dumb. Sorry.)
But now my eyes are watering - either because I’m tired or because I’m having flashbacks to the Paper Strip in the Eye Nightmare - so, I’m gonna go attempt to take out my contacts and go to sleep. I just hope no one breaks in in the middle of the night…I won’t be able to see them and will probably mistake them for a roommate and just go back off to sleep. I wouldn't exactly make a suitable eye witness...
I have suuuuper bad eye sight, and I’ve worn glasses since 5th grade. I. Loved. My. Glasses. They had giant round lenses, rimmed in a gold tortoise shell. They were Nickelodean brand. I used the little spray and cloth that came with my glasses to clean them compulsively. During my yearbook pictures in 6th grade, the photographer made me take off my glasses because there was a glare. When I got my yearbook, I looked at my picture and was horrified. By that time I was so used to seeing my face framed by the giant gold rims, that I felt like I looked like I was missing my eyes altogether. So I took out a pen and drew the glasses on myself. I ruined the picture, and thus, the only photographic evidence that I attended 6th grade.
Then, sometime around 8th grade, my mom must have looked at me, with my big silver braces and gold ginormous glasses, and thought, “Well, you just look ridiculous.” She took me to get contacts. Yay! Contacts! Or so I thought. I have a disgustingly vivid memory of that first eye exam. In order to test the amount of natural tears I could produce (you need tears for contacts, FYI), they took these pH strip-looking pieces of paper and slipped one INTO the corners of each of my eyes. I sat there and waited for the test to be done, closing my eyes with paper sticking out of them, and thinking “This is torture. This is ridiculous. How am I going to ever put things in my eyes after this?!” Needless to say, I had enough tears. Well, duh! I was ACTUALLY CRYING because those paper things hurt so bad. (If ANYONE ELSE had to go through this, please TELL ME! Everyone is convinced this is a “false memory”, but I remember it like it happened 20 minutes ago.)
These days, you’ll probably never see me with glasses. My contacts are every bit a part of me as my finger nails. I never take them out. And by “never”, I mean “NEVER”. I sleep with them in. It’s a really bad habit I got into in college. Waking up and not being able to see the alarm clock frequently resulted in many missed classes, so I learned to just sleep with my contacts in. People with 20/20 vision will never understand the panic and frustration of waking up and not being able to see past your own hand. So now I sleep with my contacts in my eyes rather than in their little case where they belong. Apparently, though, you’re supposed to take them out because when you sleep your eyeballs roll back in your head, making it very easy to lose a contact inside your brain. (Does it help you read minds? No.) But it’s never happened to me, so why fix something that ain’t broke?
Okay, I’m not the greatest at taking care of my contacts. But today when my contact fell out, I gave in and thought “Well this is a sign that I might need to go back to glasses.” Unfortunately, the glasses I have NOW are not exactly the bomb Nickelodean frames I used to drool over. I love the look of them…they are thick, black rectangular frames, but because I have a child-sized head and my glasses are made for ADULTS, they just slip off my head anytime I look down. Not exactly ideal (Eye-deal? Oooh, dumb. Sorry.)
But now my eyes are watering - either because I’m tired or because I’m having flashbacks to the Paper Strip in the Eye Nightmare - so, I’m gonna go attempt to take out my contacts and go to sleep. I just hope no one breaks in in the middle of the night…I won’t be able to see them and will probably mistake them for a roommate and just go back off to sleep. I wouldn't exactly make a suitable eye witness...
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Twelve Drinks of Christmas
Seriously, can someone please just give me a sick Christmas gift idea for Geo? He’s pretty much the last person I need to shop for. I have a couple ideas, but I’m not totally stoked about either one. I hate that feeling, because there really is nothing better than finding the perfect gift for someone. It’s totally cheesy, but my favorite part of Christmas is seeing someone open a gift that I know they are going to love.
That being said, I did some shopping for myself this weekend. I had to. I’m out of clothes, and I just needed an easy shopping trip with no stress. And I always know just what to get myself. I left the house explaining to Geo that I needed new pants. I came home with 4 sweaters.
On Friday night, Kim and her boyfriend Nick came over for beers and lime vodka tonics. We threw in a game of Trivial Pursuit, which Kim and I lost interest in almost immediately. But I was inspired to go shopping the next day because Kim always has cute sweaters on. When she showed up looking all put together, I was painfully reminded that the particular sweater I was wearing was about 6 years old.
So, Saturday night I put on a new sweater and headed out to a holiday party for the Ultimate Frisbee community in Minneapolis. It was at the Surly Brewery. Drinking beer in a place where the glorious stuff is birthed? Yes please! The brewery itself was awesome. It seemed like it would be an incredible place to work. All the guys I talked to who work there really have a passion for it, and it was a super refreshing atmosphere. I don’t know a lot of people who love their job as much as those guys do. It probably helps that they have easy access to booze.
This morning, though, my appreciation for those guys was replaced with a throbbing headache. I don’t drink heavy beer all that often. I’m sort of a Coors Light kind of gal. And though the beer was delicious, it must have increased the size of my brain while shrinking the size of my skull. I went to babysit my nieces tonight, and luckily they were not offended when I dozed off while listening to them tell me what they want for Christmas.
Well, between the beers on Saturday, the lime vodka tonics Kim and I drank on Friday night, and the liters upon liters of water re-hydrating me throughout the days this weekend, I’m finally balancing out. I’m ready to take on the work week ahead. OH WAIT! I only have to work tomorrow morning, and then I’m off until 2011. I’m both stoked and nervous about having all that free time on my hands! I better stock back up on the vodka and tonic water…
That being said, I did some shopping for myself this weekend. I had to. I’m out of clothes, and I just needed an easy shopping trip with no stress. And I always know just what to get myself. I left the house explaining to Geo that I needed new pants. I came home with 4 sweaters.
On Friday night, Kim and her boyfriend Nick came over for beers and lime vodka tonics. We threw in a game of Trivial Pursuit, which Kim and I lost interest in almost immediately. But I was inspired to go shopping the next day because Kim always has cute sweaters on. When she showed up looking all put together, I was painfully reminded that the particular sweater I was wearing was about 6 years old.
So, Saturday night I put on a new sweater and headed out to a holiday party for the Ultimate Frisbee community in Minneapolis. It was at the Surly Brewery. Drinking beer in a place where the glorious stuff is birthed? Yes please! The brewery itself was awesome. It seemed like it would be an incredible place to work. All the guys I talked to who work there really have a passion for it, and it was a super refreshing atmosphere. I don’t know a lot of people who love their job as much as those guys do. It probably helps that they have easy access to booze.
This morning, though, my appreciation for those guys was replaced with a throbbing headache. I don’t drink heavy beer all that often. I’m sort of a Coors Light kind of gal. And though the beer was delicious, it must have increased the size of my brain while shrinking the size of my skull. I went to babysit my nieces tonight, and luckily they were not offended when I dozed off while listening to them tell me what they want for Christmas.
Well, between the beers on Saturday, the lime vodka tonics Kim and I drank on Friday night, and the liters upon liters of water re-hydrating me throughout the days this weekend, I’m finally balancing out. I’m ready to take on the work week ahead. OH WAIT! I only have to work tomorrow morning, and then I’m off until 2011. I’m both stoked and nervous about having all that free time on my hands! I better stock back up on the vodka and tonic water…
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Snow Place Like Home
I don’t think I need to tell anyone that, well, it snowed a little bit in Minnesota on Saturday. And by “a little bit”, I of course mean that it is Armageddon. On Saturday morning, I made the very genius decision to go to the grocery store. By then it had only snowed about 12 out of the total 20 inches. I thought to myself, as I lay in bed with grumbling stomach, “Should I go to the grocery store NOW or LATER? The answer should have been “anorexia”. It was way too dangerous for me to be driving. All that crazy snow was blowing around like the inside of a Dyson vacuum. After the most treacherous 2 hours of my driving career, I pulled up at home to park in front of my house. I got stuck. I had to have Geo come outside and dig and push me into a spot.
As soon as I crawled my way up to my front door and dragged the groceries inside, I swore I wasn’t going back out there for the whole rest of the weekend. Unfortunately, I forgot that I had parked my car on the wrong side of the street, and hours later I was back outside, digging my car out AGAIN to move it to the other side so the plows could get through. It took a snowblower, 2 fully grown men, 2 shovels, and some creative driving, but I got out (also? All-Wheel Drive is a total lie. Total. Bold-faced. Lie). Then we dug out Sanna’s car, and our other neighbors truck, and some strangers car down the road. We hauled probably 100 tons of snow, but I believe I lost 5 pounds in sweat, so I guess that was okay.
Besides all the shoveling and shivering and tire-spinning, I just holed up in various different pairs of sweatpants all weekend. At one point, I asked Geo if it disturbed him that I had so many pairs of sweatpants, and that I just kept wearing different pairs. Luckily for everyone involved, he said it did not. But I mean, what else was I going to do? I couldn’t go out, nobody could come over, and I figured I may as well be warm.
I was, however, excited for the Vikings game today. Sanna came up with a couple extra tickets, and Geo and I were going to brave the snow to scream at people and cheer on our boys. Then this happened: Metrodome Roof Caves In. Needless to say, there was no game. But I luckily had a fresh pair of Vikings sweatpants to get me through all the naps.
Then, because I had gone through so much to get to the grocery store, I decided I’d just cook all weekend. Sweet potato fries, cornbread from scratch, cookies, and so much more. Instead, I found myself googling “Why won’t my oven turn on?” and “What is a pilot light”? And “How can I tell if I have renter’s insurance?” No oven + no clue how to turn on over + fear of blowing myself up so close to Christmas = sloppy joes and peanut butter sandwiches all weekend. Flurrrg.
But my God! I felt suffocated all weekend. I like to choose to be lazy. When the choice is taken away from me, I get a headache and start having thoughts like “I think I could look really good in bangs.” Luckily, our scissors were too dull from me using them to cut pizza and using them as a hammer.
Going to work tomorrow will be a mixed blessing, then. I’ll get out of this hellhole, yes. But I don’t think I’m allowed to wear sweatpants to work. Or CAN I? No, no I can't.
Ugh. Okay, well, if you have a heart, the least you guys could do is cheer on the Vikings tomorrow night when they play their rescheduled game in Detroit. Minnesota is hurtin’ pretty bad, and they have no home field anymore. And we really just need the pick-me-up before Round 2 of Doomsday hits us this week.
Well, stay safe and warm, everyone!
As soon as I crawled my way up to my front door and dragged the groceries inside, I swore I wasn’t going back out there for the whole rest of the weekend. Unfortunately, I forgot that I had parked my car on the wrong side of the street, and hours later I was back outside, digging my car out AGAIN to move it to the other side so the plows could get through. It took a snowblower, 2 fully grown men, 2 shovels, and some creative driving, but I got out (also? All-Wheel Drive is a total lie. Total. Bold-faced. Lie). Then we dug out Sanna’s car, and our other neighbors truck, and some strangers car down the road. We hauled probably 100 tons of snow, but I believe I lost 5 pounds in sweat, so I guess that was okay.
Besides all the shoveling and shivering and tire-spinning, I just holed up in various different pairs of sweatpants all weekend. At one point, I asked Geo if it disturbed him that I had so many pairs of sweatpants, and that I just kept wearing different pairs. Luckily for everyone involved, he said it did not. But I mean, what else was I going to do? I couldn’t go out, nobody could come over, and I figured I may as well be warm.
I was, however, excited for the Vikings game today. Sanna came up with a couple extra tickets, and Geo and I were going to brave the snow to scream at people and cheer on our boys. Then this happened: Metrodome Roof Caves In. Needless to say, there was no game. But I luckily had a fresh pair of Vikings sweatpants to get me through all the naps.
Then, because I had gone through so much to get to the grocery store, I decided I’d just cook all weekend. Sweet potato fries, cornbread from scratch, cookies, and so much more. Instead, I found myself googling “Why won’t my oven turn on?” and “What is a pilot light”? And “How can I tell if I have renter’s insurance?” No oven + no clue how to turn on over + fear of blowing myself up so close to Christmas = sloppy joes and peanut butter sandwiches all weekend. Flurrrg.
But my God! I felt suffocated all weekend. I like to choose to be lazy. When the choice is taken away from me, I get a headache and start having thoughts like “I think I could look really good in bangs.” Luckily, our scissors were too dull from me using them to cut pizza and using them as a hammer.
Going to work tomorrow will be a mixed blessing, then. I’ll get out of this hellhole, yes. But I don’t think I’m allowed to wear sweatpants to work. Or CAN I? No, no I can't.
Ugh. Okay, well, if you have a heart, the least you guys could do is cheer on the Vikings tomorrow night when they play their rescheduled game in Detroit. Minnesota is hurtin’ pretty bad, and they have no home field anymore. And we really just need the pick-me-up before Round 2 of Doomsday hits us this week.
Well, stay safe and warm, everyone!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Good Thing Hipsters Don't Read Blogs Anymore
I looked up the meaning of “hipster” today. That’s right, I went to good ol’ urbandictionary.com just so I knew for sure what I was saying when I snarl “UGH, HIPSTERS". Turns out, too many hipsters are web-savvy and know how to enter their own meanings on urbandictionary.com. Here are some gems:
“The Hipster walks among the masses in daily life but is not a part of them and shuns or reduces to kitsch anything held dear by the mainstream. A Hipster ideally possesses no more than 2% body fat.”
“…a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.”
Okay, so riddle me this, Hipsters. Where, in all the definitions of “hipster” does it say you have to be a total D-Bag whilst shunning conventions? I had the unfortunate opportunity to wait in line at the grocery behind two hipsters last night, and I gotta say: Idiots. Total idiots. The guy and the girl were trying to scan a loose apple. For like 5 minutes. And they dawdled around like they were the only people in store. The guy was wearing glasses with no lenses in them (I could tell, because he stuck his finger through the frames to rub his eye) and French-rolled jeans with an ironic Polo tshirt on, as if he's trying to say, “Take THAT, societal norms! I am dressing like an 80’s homeless person and it’s cool because I am NOT FITTING IN!!” Yes, bravo, young lad. You’re really proving to everyone that you are different. By wearing exactly what all the other hipsters wear. COOL.
I know not all hipsters are like this. I know that there's a breed of wannabe-Hipsters, or Whipsters, who probably give the good ol’ fashioned hipsters - the creative, eccentric, tight-pants-wearing, advertising-firm-working, A Clockwork Orange-reading pioneers - a bad name.
But, much like crazy people, these Whipsters flock to me like I’m a half-off sale at American Apparel. There was the couple at the grocery store, the guy with fake glasses (what IS it with the fake glasses!?) who spilled his beer all over me at the bar who shrugged and said “Guess I need a refill”, or the moron walking through the DON’T WALK sign while I’m making a legal right turn. When I yelled “Don’t Walk, Hipster! Can‘t you read?!” He yelled back “Reading is for the bourgeois!” Okay, fine, he didn’t yell that, but if he had even remotely acknowledged the world around him, I imagine that’s what he would have said.
The point is this: I don’t care what you wear, what music you listen to, what your political views are, or how many pairs of leggings you have. I really don’t. But for the love of God, have a little basic awareness of those around you. You’re no more special than I am. You’re not. I don’t care how many times you’ve been to the Salvation Army to buy your clothes, or how you‘ve refused to eat anything but soy since 2003…you can’t just la-di-da around the world and ruin my day. I’m not asking you to go to med school, or eat a burger, or even [gasp] buy an American car. I’m just saying that you’re kind of just acting like jerks. Let’s pull it together, shall we?
(As an added bonus, and if there’s any question left as to what a “hipster” looks like, allow me to direct you to Look at this F&*#@!% Hipster for some ridiculous examples. It’s an awesome time suck, though not for people who are easily offended. For the record, this website was introduced to me by a rad dude who is, arguably, a hipster, Geo’s friend Guam.)
“The Hipster walks among the masses in daily life but is not a part of them and shuns or reduces to kitsch anything held dear by the mainstream. A Hipster ideally possesses no more than 2% body fat.”
“…a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.”
Okay, so riddle me this, Hipsters. Where, in all the definitions of “hipster” does it say you have to be a total D-Bag whilst shunning conventions? I had the unfortunate opportunity to wait in line at the grocery behind two hipsters last night, and I gotta say: Idiots. Total idiots. The guy and the girl were trying to scan a loose apple. For like 5 minutes. And they dawdled around like they were the only people in store. The guy was wearing glasses with no lenses in them (I could tell, because he stuck his finger through the frames to rub his eye) and French-rolled jeans with an ironic Polo tshirt on, as if he's trying to say, “Take THAT, societal norms! I am dressing like an 80’s homeless person and it’s cool because I am NOT FITTING IN!!” Yes, bravo, young lad. You’re really proving to everyone that you are different. By wearing exactly what all the other hipsters wear. COOL.
I know not all hipsters are like this. I know that there's a breed of wannabe-Hipsters, or Whipsters, who probably give the good ol’ fashioned hipsters - the creative, eccentric, tight-pants-wearing, advertising-firm-working, A Clockwork Orange-reading pioneers - a bad name.
But, much like crazy people, these Whipsters flock to me like I’m a half-off sale at American Apparel. There was the couple at the grocery store, the guy with fake glasses (what IS it with the fake glasses!?) who spilled his beer all over me at the bar who shrugged and said “Guess I need a refill”, or the moron walking through the DON’T WALK sign while I’m making a legal right turn. When I yelled “Don’t Walk, Hipster! Can‘t you read?!” He yelled back “Reading is for the bourgeois!” Okay, fine, he didn’t yell that, but if he had even remotely acknowledged the world around him, I imagine that’s what he would have said.
The point is this: I don’t care what you wear, what music you listen to, what your political views are, or how many pairs of leggings you have. I really don’t. But for the love of God, have a little basic awareness of those around you. You’re no more special than I am. You’re not. I don’t care how many times you’ve been to the Salvation Army to buy your clothes, or how you‘ve refused to eat anything but soy since 2003…you can’t just la-di-da around the world and ruin my day. I’m not asking you to go to med school, or eat a burger, or even [gasp] buy an American car. I’m just saying that you’re kind of just acting like jerks. Let’s pull it together, shall we?
(As an added bonus, and if there’s any question left as to what a “hipster” looks like, allow me to direct you to Look at this F&*#@!% Hipster for some ridiculous examples. It’s an awesome time suck, though not for people who are easily offended. For the record, this website was introduced to me by a rad dude who is, arguably, a hipster, Geo’s friend Guam.)
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Mall of America('s Next Sweetheart)
Ahhhh…the Mall of America. Where people shop, get married, and go to college. Then ride the rollercoasters. Typically, I don’t go to the Mall all that much. It’s giant. Too many options. Too many pre-teens, and not nearly enough aisle-side beer vendors (Currently: Zero). But I put on my walkin’ boots and headed out in search of a birthday present or two for Geo. It’s his birthday tomorrow and I have left the shopping until the last minute, which is actually very unlike me. So, I had to go to the place with the most to offer.
It was a pretty typical trip at first. Then, much to my surprise, I discovered that Tim Gunn (from Project Runway and my dreams at night) was making an appearance there to sign some books and no doubt, be very concerned with the current state of Midwest “fashion”. A very familiar feeling rushed through me as I slithered my way through the tangled crowds of people. “If Tim Gunn sees me, I’ll be famous.”
Wait. Huh? Yeah. See, I’ve always had this notion that if a famous and/or powerful person saw me at the mall (this scenario always happens at a mall for unknown reasons), they’d want to meet me and then fly me to Hollywood to be a famous something-or-other. Like, they’d see me from across the masses of dull, boring, average people and say “Now THAT girl is what I’ve been looking for!” and then they’d have their bodyguard or agent or handler come and escort me to a limo waiting outside. Then it’d be off to Hollywood to become a rich, powerful [insert current career-obsession here].
I’ve had this feeling ever since I was little. My sister Padrin thinks it’s hysterical. When I was much younger, Padrin would take me to the mall to watch her shop (apparently, I loooooved it). Padrin tells me that I used to always put on a skirt before going to the mall. I had like mousey brown hair, in a bowl cut, I was scrawny, dirty, and usually scraped up from head to toe from playing outside in the trees with my friend Claire. But, I’d put on a skirt every single time, in the hopes that someone would see me and want me to be a model. Something about putting on a skirt made me feel like less of the tomboy I was, and more like a girl in the Gap Kids ads. I was the undiscovered talent.
At any rate, all those skirt-wearing days must have really seeped into my self-conscious. To this day, I’m sure that some TV star or reality show crew will stop me in the mall. These days, though, it’s not to approach me with a modeling contract. It’s way more vague now, and depends on what I’m feeling/wearing/carrying/doing at that moment. Tonight, for instance, I had on a coat, jeans and boots. So, nothing room-crossing there. But my hair is like incredibly shiny, and I actually dried and straightened it this morning. In my totally messed up 9-year-old subconscious, I thought, “Tim Gunn will see me, and then compliment me on my hair. And then ask me to be in a Garnier Fructis commercial.”
You guys, I KNOW this is weird. I KNOW that none of it really makes sense. But somehow, in my puny little pre-adolescent brain, it’s the life I concocted. And now it simply won’t go away. Sometimes it feels really weird that it hasn’t happened. I’ve seen plenty of famous people (local weatherman/overly-tanned “celebrity” Sven Sundgaard was just outside my house TONIGHT on a run around the lake), and nothing has ever come of it. I’m quite the opposite of famous, actually. Still, though, at least it encourages me to not go to the mall looking like a homeless person. Nothing wrong with that, I guess.
It was a pretty typical trip at first. Then, much to my surprise, I discovered that Tim Gunn (from Project Runway and my dreams at night) was making an appearance there to sign some books and no doubt, be very concerned with the current state of Midwest “fashion”. A very familiar feeling rushed through me as I slithered my way through the tangled crowds of people. “If Tim Gunn sees me, I’ll be famous.”
Wait. Huh? Yeah. See, I’ve always had this notion that if a famous and/or powerful person saw me at the mall (this scenario always happens at a mall for unknown reasons), they’d want to meet me and then fly me to Hollywood to be a famous something-or-other. Like, they’d see me from across the masses of dull, boring, average people and say “Now THAT girl is what I’ve been looking for!” and then they’d have their bodyguard or agent or handler come and escort me to a limo waiting outside. Then it’d be off to Hollywood to become a rich, powerful [insert current career-obsession here].
I’ve had this feeling ever since I was little. My sister Padrin thinks it’s hysterical. When I was much younger, Padrin would take me to the mall to watch her shop (apparently, I loooooved it). Padrin tells me that I used to always put on a skirt before going to the mall. I had like mousey brown hair, in a bowl cut, I was scrawny, dirty, and usually scraped up from head to toe from playing outside in the trees with my friend Claire. But, I’d put on a skirt every single time, in the hopes that someone would see me and want me to be a model. Something about putting on a skirt made me feel like less of the tomboy I was, and more like a girl in the Gap Kids ads. I was the undiscovered talent.
At any rate, all those skirt-wearing days must have really seeped into my self-conscious. To this day, I’m sure that some TV star or reality show crew will stop me in the mall. These days, though, it’s not to approach me with a modeling contract. It’s way more vague now, and depends on what I’m feeling/wearing/carrying/doing at that moment. Tonight, for instance, I had on a coat, jeans and boots. So, nothing room-crossing there. But my hair is like incredibly shiny, and I actually dried and straightened it this morning. In my totally messed up 9-year-old subconscious, I thought, “Tim Gunn will see me, and then compliment me on my hair. And then ask me to be in a Garnier Fructis commercial.”
You guys, I KNOW this is weird. I KNOW that none of it really makes sense. But somehow, in my puny little pre-adolescent brain, it’s the life I concocted. And now it simply won’t go away. Sometimes it feels really weird that it hasn’t happened. I’ve seen plenty of famous people (local weatherman/overly-tanned “celebrity” Sven Sundgaard was just outside my house TONIGHT on a run around the lake), and nothing has ever come of it. I’m quite the opposite of famous, actually. Still, though, at least it encourages me to not go to the mall looking like a homeless person. Nothing wrong with that, I guess.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Emmy AwardZzzzz
Yay! Live blogging from the Emmys! (well, from my couch, WATCHING the Emmys). I love me some Emmy Awards Shows. I’m about 4 minutes in, and already totally in love with the opening sequence. It’s like watching a professionally-produced high school prom. “Oh my God! I know him! That’s Hugo from Lost!!” Ooooh, I just love it.
I watched the E! special before the Emmys, where a bunch of people interview the stars going in to the show. They have to compliment the royal blue seashell dress, and be cordial to the rando wife Nobody that insists on standing next to her star husband. I could not do that job. How do you stifle the laughter?? Tell me, Seacrest!
Okay, so there are a lot of acceptance speeches going on now. Snooze. I wonder what my acceptance speech would be. I’d probably say something weird like “Thank you, Spanxx, for all your support.” Crickets.
I can’t get over Neil Patrick Harris. I just love him. His suit is completely debonair. And that says something, considering all suits look exactly the same to me. But, he looks fantastic. Everybody else just looks…shiny. Speaking of which, I didn’t realize that Kim Kardashian was the unofficial mascot of the Emmys this year. She’s everywhere. Please go away.
I’m legitimately holding my breath for LOST to win everything. Like, everything. Best supporting actress in a comedy? Lost. Best 3D effects in a mini-documentary? Lost. Best show in the history of TV? Lost. Noooo! First nomination, first loss for Lost. Ugh. This had better not be a trend.
Okay, second loss for LOST. This show is clearly rigged. This is ridiculous. Meanwhile, I’ve never seen any of the shows on which the nominees for Best Supporting Actress appear. Again, snooze.
My roommate Tina correctly notes how odd it is that all these actors are so, uh, uncomfortable in front of cameras. It’s like the winner of Top Chef not being able to make Mac n’ Cheese.
Another loss for Lost. I’ve about had it with this. If it weren’t for Betty White, I would have already turned this off. Oooop, hold on. Jimmy Fallon as Elton John? Alright, I’m listening…
There’s some downtime. I find myself thinking about the dresses I saw before the show started. Lots were gorgeous (especially the gold sequined dress worn by Glee‘s Heather Morris). If I were invited to the Emmys, I feel like I’d go way overboard and wear a ginormous pink princess dress with a tiara and sceptor. Also, the more feathers and sequins, the better. It’d be a wonderful travesty. But how do you “hold back” on your first Emmys?? Yeah, I wouldn’t.
Humanitarian Award. I’ll watch because it’s George Clooney. Can he do ANYthing wrong? No, he can’t. Beautiful speech. But more importantly, beautiful face, Clooney. Thanks for that.
Yay! There’s Tom Hanks! I’ve been looking for him!
Yup, just almost fell asleep. Speeches are too long, and awards are for people I neither know nor like. God, people have pretty terrible speeches tonight. Their feigned surprise at winning the award has also gotten old and played out. I want to see a giant reaction of disappointment or joy. None of this crappy calm head-nod junk. Every once in awhile, I’d love to see someone react like a normal person. I’ve been practicing my reactions in the mirror for years. When I win? Fist-pump, self high-five, followed by finger guns at the losers. When I lose? Well, let’s be real. That’s not going to happen.
Does anyone else remember Claire Danes with Kool-Aid dyed hair on “My So-Called Life”? She was so cool. Well, she looks pretty nice tonight too. I love her dress. I miss the Kool-Aid hair, though. And Jared Leto.
I’m sorry, is that JACK KEVORKIAN? At the Emmys?! That’s just, well, that’s just wrong. Maybe he’s there to put this show out of its misery. There’s no life left. Paging Dr. Kevorkian…seriously, I’ve lost all interest in the show right now. Guess what world! I don’t have HBO. None of these awards mean anything to me. Where’s the award nomination for Lifetime’s The Pregnancy Pact? That’s a great made-for-TV movie. What a shame. They got robbed. Also? If you want to be guaranteed an Emmy win, make a miniseries about a war or an old lady (who/what is a Temple Grandin?). Apparently, that’s an automatic win. Snooze.
FINALLY. The last two categories of the night. Oh, and another loss for Lost. That seals it. This show is totally rigged. Any show that snubs Lost AND The Pregnancy Pact is not a legit awards show. I’m over the Emmys. SPOILER ALERT! Only 3 shows won anything this year. Modern Family, Mad Men, and that Temple Grandin thing. Why have so many nominees? Just pick your favorite show that I don’t watch out of each category, give them all the awards, and call it a night, Emmy staff. Then I can have my Sunday night back. Well, I blame myself. I got sucked in by the sequins and shiny skin, like a moth to a very glittery flame. All those pretty, famous people together in one place? I can't NOT watch. Ugh, I'm such a sucker for TV celebrities...
I watched the E! special before the Emmys, where a bunch of people interview the stars going in to the show. They have to compliment the royal blue seashell dress, and be cordial to the rando wife Nobody that insists on standing next to her star husband. I could not do that job. How do you stifle the laughter?? Tell me, Seacrest!
Okay, so there are a lot of acceptance speeches going on now. Snooze. I wonder what my acceptance speech would be. I’d probably say something weird like “Thank you, Spanxx, for all your support.” Crickets.
I can’t get over Neil Patrick Harris. I just love him. His suit is completely debonair. And that says something, considering all suits look exactly the same to me. But, he looks fantastic. Everybody else just looks…shiny. Speaking of which, I didn’t realize that Kim Kardashian was the unofficial mascot of the Emmys this year. She’s everywhere. Please go away.
I’m legitimately holding my breath for LOST to win everything. Like, everything. Best supporting actress in a comedy? Lost. Best 3D effects in a mini-documentary? Lost. Best show in the history of TV? Lost. Noooo! First nomination, first loss for Lost. Ugh. This had better not be a trend.
Okay, second loss for LOST. This show is clearly rigged. This is ridiculous. Meanwhile, I’ve never seen any of the shows on which the nominees for Best Supporting Actress appear. Again, snooze.
My roommate Tina correctly notes how odd it is that all these actors are so, uh, uncomfortable in front of cameras. It’s like the winner of Top Chef not being able to make Mac n’ Cheese.
Another loss for Lost. I’ve about had it with this. If it weren’t for Betty White, I would have already turned this off. Oooop, hold on. Jimmy Fallon as Elton John? Alright, I’m listening…
There’s some downtime. I find myself thinking about the dresses I saw before the show started. Lots were gorgeous (especially the gold sequined dress worn by Glee‘s Heather Morris). If I were invited to the Emmys, I feel like I’d go way overboard and wear a ginormous pink princess dress with a tiara and sceptor. Also, the more feathers and sequins, the better. It’d be a wonderful travesty. But how do you “hold back” on your first Emmys?? Yeah, I wouldn’t.
Humanitarian Award. I’ll watch because it’s George Clooney. Can he do ANYthing wrong? No, he can’t. Beautiful speech. But more importantly, beautiful face, Clooney. Thanks for that.
Yay! There’s Tom Hanks! I’ve been looking for him!
Yup, just almost fell asleep. Speeches are too long, and awards are for people I neither know nor like. God, people have pretty terrible speeches tonight. Their feigned surprise at winning the award has also gotten old and played out. I want to see a giant reaction of disappointment or joy. None of this crappy calm head-nod junk. Every once in awhile, I’d love to see someone react like a normal person. I’ve been practicing my reactions in the mirror for years. When I win? Fist-pump, self high-five, followed by finger guns at the losers. When I lose? Well, let’s be real. That’s not going to happen.
Does anyone else remember Claire Danes with Kool-Aid dyed hair on “My So-Called Life”? She was so cool. Well, she looks pretty nice tonight too. I love her dress. I miss the Kool-Aid hair, though. And Jared Leto.
I’m sorry, is that JACK KEVORKIAN? At the Emmys?! That’s just, well, that’s just wrong. Maybe he’s there to put this show out of its misery. There’s no life left. Paging Dr. Kevorkian…seriously, I’ve lost all interest in the show right now. Guess what world! I don’t have HBO. None of these awards mean anything to me. Where’s the award nomination for Lifetime’s The Pregnancy Pact? That’s a great made-for-TV movie. What a shame. They got robbed. Also? If you want to be guaranteed an Emmy win, make a miniseries about a war or an old lady (who/what is a Temple Grandin?). Apparently, that’s an automatic win. Snooze.
FINALLY. The last two categories of the night. Oh, and another loss for Lost. That seals it. This show is totally rigged. Any show that snubs Lost AND The Pregnancy Pact is not a legit awards show. I’m over the Emmys. SPOILER ALERT! Only 3 shows won anything this year. Modern Family, Mad Men, and that Temple Grandin thing. Why have so many nominees? Just pick your favorite show that I don’t watch out of each category, give them all the awards, and call it a night, Emmy staff. Then I can have my Sunday night back. Well, I blame myself. I got sucked in by the sequins and shiny skin, like a moth to a very glittery flame. All those pretty, famous people together in one place? I can't NOT watch. Ugh, I'm such a sucker for TV celebrities...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Pharon Vs. The State of Denim
I hereby call this case to order. Prosecution, please proceed.
Members of the jury, we are in the clutches of evil, and I urge you to consider your children’s future when it comes to the matter at hand. We, as a People, need to stand up any say “Enough”! No more will we fall victim to your deceitful games! No more will we blindly follow your lead into the black abyss that shall become reality if we do nothing to fight the dark, washed-up Denim Empire.
My friends, we have reached an era where it is common to combine words in the spirit of efficiency. Speidi. Spork. Murse. While I whole-heartedly and emphatically agree with this practice, I find it appalling that people have used technique in such a frivolous manner, thereby inventing what can only be called fashion travesties. Please, brace yourselves as we put on trial two man-made constructions that must be stopped: Jeggings. And Jorts.
Order! Order in the court! Please, members of the jury, contain yourselves! Let us get down to the business of justice. What we are facing today is the inexplicable decision-making that has created new and dangerously tasteless trends simply by combining words. In the case of Pharon vs. Jeggings, let me please direct you to Exhibit A:
Do you see? The jean+legging combination of “jeggings”, as we are forced to call them, are simply TIGHTS, masquerading as pants. Yes, the feet have been removed, but I believe that is but a safety precaution to ensure the blood is still flowing to your feet. Also even the tall, leggy model wearing the Jeggings (who wisely has chosen to hide her face) appears to be short, and stout! The pants should be called Tea Pot jeans!
Please note that while Jeggings mimic leggings, Jeggings falsely lead the victim to have an unusually high confidence level, and wrongly encourage her that they “count” as jeans. Leggings, on the other hand, rightfully and constitutionally serve as adorable accessories. Additionally, do not confuse skinny jeans with Jeggings. Skinny jeans are actual pants that look good on a wide population of people, both men and women, and are highly acceptable in society. But the fashion industry has fooled otherwise beautiful and smart women into slipping into these atrocious Jeggings and walking around as if they are not only wearing pants, but that they look good in them! Do not be fooled, dear citizens! The Emperor has no clothes, and we all know it!
Let us move now to the disfigured and orphaned child of the Jeggings. Jorts. Jeans + Shorts. In the spirit of full-disclosure, let us all admit that we indeed own, or have owned, jean shorts. There is nothing to be ashamed of here. Jeans are great. An American standard. And taken at the letter of their name, jean shorts can be just dandy. However, by taking the next step and actually combining “Jean” and “Shorts” into Jorts makes them an entirely different garment. What we have created is the worst thing to happen to denim since the Canadian tuxedo. Members of the jury: you must not sit idly by and allow the Jorts to take over. Next thing you know, you’ll be washing your boyfriend’s Jort Zubaz, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.
With that in mind, may I present Exhibits B and C:
There is no greater crime than a crime of fashion. We must put an end to Jeggings and Jorts. These “trends” have moved, and they’ve moved quickly people. And now they're knocking on the doors of Suburban America. Will you let this poison into your home? Will you allow this toxic display of “taste” to suffocate the bodies of the ones you love? Or will you stand tall, shoulder to shoulder with me, and declare “You look like a disproportionate idiot!” Who can we count on if not ourselves? Who must we trust if we cannot trust ourselves? I urge you to take a good look at the evidence. Look at these photos, and the seemingly disfigured bodies. Then do the right thing and condemn these perpetrators.
The prosecution rests.
Members of the jury, we are in the clutches of evil, and I urge you to consider your children’s future when it comes to the matter at hand. We, as a People, need to stand up any say “Enough”! No more will we fall victim to your deceitful games! No more will we blindly follow your lead into the black abyss that shall become reality if we do nothing to fight the dark, washed-up Denim Empire.
My friends, we have reached an era where it is common to combine words in the spirit of efficiency. Speidi. Spork. Murse. While I whole-heartedly and emphatically agree with this practice, I find it appalling that people have used technique in such a frivolous manner, thereby inventing what can only be called fashion travesties. Please, brace yourselves as we put on trial two man-made constructions that must be stopped: Jeggings. And Jorts.
Order! Order in the court! Please, members of the jury, contain yourselves! Let us get down to the business of justice. What we are facing today is the inexplicable decision-making that has created new and dangerously tasteless trends simply by combining words. In the case of Pharon vs. Jeggings, let me please direct you to Exhibit A:
Do you see? The jean+legging combination of “jeggings”, as we are forced to call them, are simply TIGHTS, masquerading as pants. Yes, the feet have been removed, but I believe that is but a safety precaution to ensure the blood is still flowing to your feet. Also even the tall, leggy model wearing the Jeggings (who wisely has chosen to hide her face) appears to be short, and stout! The pants should be called Tea Pot jeans!
Please note that while Jeggings mimic leggings, Jeggings falsely lead the victim to have an unusually high confidence level, and wrongly encourage her that they “count” as jeans. Leggings, on the other hand, rightfully and constitutionally serve as adorable accessories. Additionally, do not confuse skinny jeans with Jeggings. Skinny jeans are actual pants that look good on a wide population of people, both men and women, and are highly acceptable in society. But the fashion industry has fooled otherwise beautiful and smart women into slipping into these atrocious Jeggings and walking around as if they are not only wearing pants, but that they look good in them! Do not be fooled, dear citizens! The Emperor has no clothes, and we all know it!
Let us move now to the disfigured and orphaned child of the Jeggings. Jorts. Jeans + Shorts. In the spirit of full-disclosure, let us all admit that we indeed own, or have owned, jean shorts. There is nothing to be ashamed of here. Jeans are great. An American standard. And taken at the letter of their name, jean shorts can be just dandy. However, by taking the next step and actually combining “Jean” and “Shorts” into Jorts makes them an entirely different garment. What we have created is the worst thing to happen to denim since the Canadian tuxedo. Members of the jury: you must not sit idly by and allow the Jorts to take over. Next thing you know, you’ll be washing your boyfriend’s Jort Zubaz, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.
With that in mind, may I present Exhibits B and C:
There is no greater crime than a crime of fashion. We must put an end to Jeggings and Jorts. These “trends” have moved, and they’ve moved quickly people. And now they're knocking on the doors of Suburban America. Will you let this poison into your home? Will you allow this toxic display of “taste” to suffocate the bodies of the ones you love? Or will you stand tall, shoulder to shoulder with me, and declare “You look like a disproportionate idiot!” Who can we count on if not ourselves? Who must we trust if we cannot trust ourselves? I urge you to take a good look at the evidence. Look at these photos, and the seemingly disfigured bodies. Then do the right thing and condemn these perpetrators.
The prosecution rests.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Sole Search
The good news is: I made it through the weekend alive. It was incredibly rejuvenating, and exhausting, being with great friends and laughing until my stomach hurt.
The bad news is, once left alone, I went ahead and fell in love. His name? Metallic Gray Stilettos (I think it‘s Dutch). Anyway, these shoes found their way into my heart this morning, and I’ve been obsessing every since. I can’t stop dreaming about outfits they’d complete, jeans they’d transform, and the adrenaline rush I got holding them in my hands. But, like many summer romances, that rush had to end. I wore them around the store, with my dirty red pants cuffed up to my knees, and I knew the second I looked at the price tag, this was but a fling.
I’m not the kind of girl who spends ridiculous amounts of money on shoes. I’m pretty sure I’ll never own a pair of Christian Louboutins. I can’t afford that kind of love. But I’ll salivate over the Gucci heels Victoria Beckham wears, and secretly kiss the Jimmy Choos featured in Vogue. I mean, they are positively tasty.
Guys may not appreciate the love a girl has for the leathery deliciousness wrapped around a foot. Last summer, I asked Geo to bring me a pair of shoes at work when we were on our way to a party. I specifically said “the black heels, with the little braid-y thing up the foot.” He showed up with a bag of 4 different pairs of black heels, with little braid-y things up the foot. He was astonished. “How could you have 4 pairs of shoes that are identical?” I was shocked. They were NOT identical. One pair has a strap around the ankle that I only wear with pants, another has an extremely skinny heel that only works when worn for very short periods of time, then there’s the patent leather pair, and finally the ones with tiny silver accents. See? Tooooootally different.
The guys I know have a similar relationship with their baseball hats, for example. You don’t have to explain it to me guys, I know. Each gnarly baseball hat serves a different purpose. One has the best fit, another is your favorite color, another your favorite team, and another one that’s just funny. I’ve known guys who actually have a “formal” baseball hat. The point is, I have zero baseball hats. I don’t see why you need 12 different hats, but hey, that’s just how you roll. I get it.
I’m ridiculous, I know. I’m still pining for the pair of Marc Jacobs Mary Jane’s (that’s a style of shoe, guys. Strap across the top of the foot. Very Catholic-schooly) that I found on CLEARANCE for almost HALF of what they were worth last year, and didn‘t buy them because I was trying to be “responsible“ with money. But oh my God. Perfect height heel, perfect patent leather black, and only one size left. Size 6. MY SIZE. I am obsessed with my shoe size. It’s display shoe size. That’s amazing. I’m not “display size” in anything. But with shoes, I can walk around any store and slip into any shoe I’d like. My shoe size never changes. I don’t have “fat foot days”, my feet are the most reliable thing about me. It’s so easy to find shoes that look cute on small feet, too.
But back to these shoes. If you didn’t know, gray is the new neutral. I mean, I can pretty much wear them with anything. It would almost be irresponsible NOT to buy them. But I’m giving myself 24 hours to decide. I’m going to take the time to weigh the options of paying my phone bill or buying a pair of shoes. Just don’t be surprised if you try and call me later this month and you can’t get through.
The bad news is, once left alone, I went ahead and fell in love. His name? Metallic Gray Stilettos (I think it‘s Dutch). Anyway, these shoes found their way into my heart this morning, and I’ve been obsessing every since. I can’t stop dreaming about outfits they’d complete, jeans they’d transform, and the adrenaline rush I got holding them in my hands. But, like many summer romances, that rush had to end. I wore them around the store, with my dirty red pants cuffed up to my knees, and I knew the second I looked at the price tag, this was but a fling.
I’m not the kind of girl who spends ridiculous amounts of money on shoes. I’m pretty sure I’ll never own a pair of Christian Louboutins. I can’t afford that kind of love. But I’ll salivate over the Gucci heels Victoria Beckham wears, and secretly kiss the Jimmy Choos featured in Vogue. I mean, they are positively tasty.
Guys may not appreciate the love a girl has for the leathery deliciousness wrapped around a foot. Last summer, I asked Geo to bring me a pair of shoes at work when we were on our way to a party. I specifically said “the black heels, with the little braid-y thing up the foot.” He showed up with a bag of 4 different pairs of black heels, with little braid-y things up the foot. He was astonished. “How could you have 4 pairs of shoes that are identical?” I was shocked. They were NOT identical. One pair has a strap around the ankle that I only wear with pants, another has an extremely skinny heel that only works when worn for very short periods of time, then there’s the patent leather pair, and finally the ones with tiny silver accents. See? Tooooootally different.
The guys I know have a similar relationship with their baseball hats, for example. You don’t have to explain it to me guys, I know. Each gnarly baseball hat serves a different purpose. One has the best fit, another is your favorite color, another your favorite team, and another one that’s just funny. I’ve known guys who actually have a “formal” baseball hat. The point is, I have zero baseball hats. I don’t see why you need 12 different hats, but hey, that’s just how you roll. I get it.
I’m ridiculous, I know. I’m still pining for the pair of Marc Jacobs Mary Jane’s (that’s a style of shoe, guys. Strap across the top of the foot. Very Catholic-schooly) that I found on CLEARANCE for almost HALF of what they were worth last year, and didn‘t buy them because I was trying to be “responsible“ with money. But oh my God. Perfect height heel, perfect patent leather black, and only one size left. Size 6. MY SIZE. I am obsessed with my shoe size. It’s display shoe size. That’s amazing. I’m not “display size” in anything. But with shoes, I can walk around any store and slip into any shoe I’d like. My shoe size never changes. I don’t have “fat foot days”, my feet are the most reliable thing about me. It’s so easy to find shoes that look cute on small feet, too.
But back to these shoes. If you didn’t know, gray is the new neutral. I mean, I can pretty much wear them with anything. It would almost be irresponsible NOT to buy them. But I’m giving myself 24 hours to decide. I’m going to take the time to weigh the options of paying my phone bill or buying a pair of shoes. Just don’t be surprised if you try and call me later this month and you can’t get through.
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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