First Rule of Fight Club

I'm struggling to write. Physically, I mean. My arms are all jelly-like and my fingers are shaking from being clenched for a couple hours straight. Them's the brakes of a being professional fighter, I guess. Tonight, Sanna and I went to our very first kickboxing class. We. Were. Terrified. We spent a good hour freaking out about what it would be like, if we'd be able to do it, what the other people in the class would be like, if there were going to be boys in the class, what to wear...all that stuff.

Being anxious, we arrived at the class a good half hour early. We sat in the car, nervously checking our phones and trying to research some reviews on the gym we were going to (an ACTUAL BOXING GYM). Finally we pysched ourselves up and walked in to the gym. First thing we see: two other girls, grasping the very same Groupon we were holding. They were like golden tickets, and we all had 'em. It was also a sign that they, like us, were n00bs. Yes! So a total of 5 chicks sat around waiting for God-knows-who to come in and whip our saggy scrawny butts into shape. While we waited, we sat watching some dude who may as well have been Rocky Balboa, punching the crap out of the bags. He bopped around, listening to his iPod. He looked positively focused and determined. I knew my inspiration.

Then he walked in. Russian Tony. He was late, and he breezed in the gym in a suit, and said "One minute, ladiezz, I've got to go change eento somesing a little more appropriate for bohxing." Twenty seconds later, Tony reappeared. "Let's get to wohk ladies, come out here. No shoes. I once [something non-understandable because of his accent] and my ankle just POP! Anyway, line up." We all uncomfortably lined up, facing a mirror. I immediately regretted my clothing decision which consisted solely of clothes that accentuated anything that bounced - purposely or not. Gross, I thought. I shifted uncomfortably as Tony stared at me and said "First eez the jab. Watch my stance." Turns out, I caught on. He pointed at me and said "Yes! Yes. Good!" I beamed, unfortunate clothes be damned! Five seconds in and my Xbox Kinect Dance Central skills are already paying off. Score! And only once did I make an uncomfortable joke (Tony: "Clench your feests like zees, and punch like zhat." Me: "What about this? What's this called" - I start playfully girl-slapping the air in front of me. Tony was not amused. "Zhat's nothing".)

I was like a troll in that class, though. I was roughly 3 feet shorter than everyone else, and I am, uh, sturdy. But I will tell you one thing: I can punch and kick with the best of them. And thanks to my extensive (read: 2 years) training in cheerleading in high school, I can kick and balance and control my bod. So, yeah. I stopped dissecting myself in the mirror and started punching right at my own reflection and exhaling a little "Oosh! Oosh!" with each jab and cross, just like Russian Tony did. It felt great.

Then came the best part. The GLOVES. While I was utterly gnarled out at the sweaty, grainy insides of the gloves, Tony insisted, "Yes, theeeze gloves are sweaty, but they are a DIFFERENT kind of sweaty! Eeet's a GOOD sweaty!" So I sucked it up and clenched a loose fist inside the glove. First, we had to pair up and one person punched/kicked, and the other blocked. It was not ideal, as my partner (NOT Sanna) was def not as coordinated as me and kept getting too close to me. Space, woman! Don't make me TKO you! (I don't know what TKO means, btw.) But OMG, you guys. The punching bags! Punching a giant bag with giant, padded gloves on is positively empowering. I felt stronger than ever. Plus, Tony kept saying "Excellent!" to me, so I'm pretty sure he's going to recruit me for a women's boxing team. Coooool!

So we punched bags and kicked bags and I wiped my sweaty brow with the back of my gloves. I felt like a pro. Tony strolled around, fixing our techniques, and then declared "Eet's too quiet in here! Let's leesten to some music!" And cranked up something pounding and loud. "Eef you don't like techno, get out now! Hahahahahahaha!" Did I mention I love Tony? 'Cause I do. My hips, shoulders, calves, and big toes were aching. An hour after we started, we were already finishing up. I was beat, but I was so into it that I wanted to keep punching and kicking and checking out my "mean face" in the mirror. Tony ran through some totally awesome things we'd learn "in the next couple classes". Little things like, oh, ROUNDHOUSE KICKS and some move that allegedly could break someone's back. Yes, yes, yes! When is the next class!?

Luckily, Sanna and I have agreed to go every week for the next ten weeks (NOTE: Sanna is NOT as beat as I am. She is in markedly better shape than me). By the end I will probably be the best boxer ever. That is, if my legs ever stop shaking and my hips ever stop aching. I have sore muscles that I didn't even know I had, and they are clearly muscles I haven't worked in, oh, the past decade. But I'm hungry for more already. I don't know if it's the aggression I worked out, or the bod I worked out, but whatever it is, I feel good.

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.

Gleek Squad

I. Love. Glee. Does anyone NOT love Glee? Who woulda thought? The former band geek is now a loud, proud Gleek. It’s one of the few TV shows I try and stay home to watch. Why? Well, it’s got everything I love in a TV show. Dancing, singing, costumes, teen pregnancy, and ditzy cheerleaders who date the ditzy jocks. Ah, to be in high school again…

When I was in high school, as I’ve mentioned, I was a bandie. I played the flute. When my lack of practicing and frequently missed classes due to “doctor’s appointments” started to affect my standing in the flute chorale, I focused all my half-hearted energy on being the solo piccolo player. Every note I played was technically a solo. Didn’t really make sense at the time, as I was pretty content blending in to the middle of 15 girls faking my way through runs and trills, but it made me buckle down and not embarrass myself anymore. So, I practiced. I went to rehearsals. I even marched in Marching Band, when it didn’t conflict with soccer or cheerleading. Wow, that makes me sound both very nerdy and very well-rounded simultaneously. Anyway, the point is I started working. And I got by. Such a success story!

I guess I never really thought there was anything wrong with being in band. A lot of my friends were in band. Roughly 80% of the Homecoming Court was made up of bandies. It wasn’t the mark of shame that some would believe. I mean, yeah there were nerds and geeks IN band, but just being in band didn’t make you a nerd. At least, that’s what my mom tells me. But I liked it, dammit. I love music, and I loved being able to make it. And that is why I watch Glee.

I am totally unaware of whether or not my high school had a glee club. I’m 99% sure we didn’t. Even if there was one, I probably wouldn’t have joined. There’s no way they would have performed Britney Spears or Journey songs. They would not have embraced Lady Gaga’s disgusting, albeit totally funny, fashion choices with such…such…vigor. And they dance. It’s everything I never would have done in high school. Well, except for one thing: Rachel, the main character, wears Kate Spade sweaters. THAT I would have done.

See, the show is awesome. But it keeps the kids geeky and unpopular when possible. I like that. Being a geek makes a person much more interesting. I like to think of myself as a geek. And I made it through high school totally unscathed and almost totally free of emotional scarring...even though I wore one of the ugliest band uniforms ever created, and technically lettered in band. Of course I never put the patch on my letter jacket, but oh well. I put it on my college applications, and that’s really what counts.

So, if you haven’t watched it yet, start watching Glee immediately. And if you know of any 12 or 13 year-olds, or are one yourself, go ahead and sign up for something nerdy before it’s too late. Just make sure they don’t end up in like CHESS CLUB. There’s no show on the planet that can give Chess Club any street cred.

Fantasy Football

Sunday blues are no more. I know that tomorrow is Monday, and the work week starts all over again, but Sundays are wonderful now because of football. I love it. I love my team, even when they are, um, inconsistent. But I love them so much more when they’re good and they win. So, Sundays are great in my book. Thank you, NFL. That being said, here are the reasons I could never play football (professionally or otherwise).

Reason #1: I am not in good enough shape. I’m not even talking about like RUNNING BACK shape, either. Have you seen the defensive players? They are roughly 1,000 pounds. They sweat when they bend over at the line of scrimmage. And I imagine that 90% of their weight is straight up French fries and pizza. But even these guys get more exercise than me. I mean, I could PROBABLY beat them in the Sit n’ Reach, but that’s of little consolation. There’s not one position I could play on the field. Sure I played soccer for 17 years, so I could MAYBE try for a kicking position, but even that’s pretty far-fetched. My hands are tiny, I’d drop the ball. And even if I held onto it, I’d probably only be able to kick it about 25 feet.

Reason #2: I would cry. I don’t know how these guys don’t just sit on the field after getting smashed by two ginormotrons and have themselves a good cry. Plus, have you heard the kind of mean things these guys say to each other? Sticks and stones will break my bones, sure. But words will ALSO hurt me. If I dropped the ball, or missed a tackle, I’d be sitting on the sidelines blubbering, “But they were YELLING at me! Right in my face! They wouldn’t leave me alone! Why won‘t they just shut up?” But mostly, it’s the physical contact. My eyes start watering when I stub my toe. If I got hit late, or I wasn’t expecting it, I’d just start crying and say that my knee hurt so I could go to the locker room and sit in the shower with my uniform on and just cry.

Reason #3: I don’t have the focus. When I played soccer in high school, I’d play terribly if a guy I liked came to watch. I’d be distracted by who he was talking to, wondering if he’s looking at me, or thinking about how good that pretzel he’s eating looks. There are a LOT of distracting things at football games. I would dance around to the music in between plays, tuning out the audibles. I’d be looking up at the Kiss Cam to see if anything embarrassing happens. I’d try and count how many people were wearing my jersey, or how many people painted signs that expressed their love for me. I’d constantly be wondering if I looked fat in the spandex pants and would miss the snap completely because I’d be checking myself out on the Jumbtron to see if I had panty lines. Game? What game?

Reason #4: I don’t like people getting all up in my personal space. All the butt-slapping, helmet-bumping and shoulder slamming that goes on would drive me nuts. I like the idea of huddles, and telling each other secrets or whatever they do in there, but that’s as close as I want to get. Stop spanking me. Stop coming up behind me and smacking my helmet. And for God’s sake, stop jumping on top of me after I get a touchdown. I know it was a good play, but instead of suffocating me, just give me a high five, or a firm handshake.

Reason #5:Finally, I couldn’t be a football player because it just sounds like a lot of work. All those practices and games? Sheesh. Plus, they work on nights and weekends and that’s when I do some of my best napping.

So, despite the thousands of offers I’ve received to try out, I’m going to have to just come right out and say Thanks, But No Thanks, NFL. I’m sure you’ll find a way to go on without me on your team.

What We’ve Got Here is A Failure to Communicate

So, I'm in a bit of a war with a dude/chick on eBay right now. It’s a fierce battle of wits and honor, and there can be only one winner. It’s a matter of principles and integrity. As William Wallace might say, "It's well beyond rage. Help me. In the name of Christ, help yourselves. Now is our chance. Now. If we join, we can win." Plus, the whole thing is just plain annoying.

Here’s the long and the short of it. Two weeks ago, I was looking for a sweatshirt to give as a gift to Geo. The ones I was finding on the regular sites and stores were BLAHHHH, but then I found the one I wanted. On eBay. The seller claims to have a “store” where they print and ship everything, and indeed their stock levels were quite high. So, I did some clicking around and quickly decided, “Yup, this person checks out!”

Well, the Seller is a jerk. I may be getting scammed here. But I am way too stubborn to put a stop to the whole thing. See, here’s how it all went down:

I purchased said sweatshirt on a Tuesday. On Wednesday, I thought, ‘Maybe I should follow up with them and let them know I’m kind of on a deadline here.’ So, I sent a very nice email, requesting information. Here’s a snippet of my email:

”Can you please let me know the estimated delivery date of this item? I saw your excellent feedback and comments on how quickly you ship items, and initially didn't give it a second thought, but it's a gift for someone, so I just want to double check.”

Here was the response I received, verbatim:

”shouldn’t take to (sic) long”

Uh, okay. Helpful? Well, the birthday came and went. No sweatshirt. Then I got a message that the Seller was now “Unavailable until October”. So immediately I panicked, punched the air, and launched some profanities at my computer screen. Then I composed myself and emailed the seller again.

”It appears as though you are gone until Oct. and there is no shipping information/tracking # available. I need to know if this will not be sent until you return in October, or the tracking information so I can figure out whether or not I need to cancel this transaction.”

The seller’s response, again, verbatim:

"youll have it soon"

Well, that was it. I sent another email to Shakespeare. I informed him/her about the basic principles of Business Ethics, and how he/she was failing miserably. Then I reminded him/her of the repercussions bad feedback can have, and reiterated my overall disgust with the lack of information I was getting. I then threatened, “You are making me very worried about my purchase, and making yourself seem very shady. Don’t make me ask for my money back.”

The Seller replied that answering my emails was taking time away from shipping items, and they would just as soon refund my money than have to deal with this transaction any longer. HA! We’ll see about that! I will NOT be bullied into giving in to the crazy demands of an Evil Corporation who preys on the innocence of people who just want a stupid Sons of Anarchy sweatshirt! Cancel the transaction? NEVAHHH! Muahahahaha!

So I started to write another furious, spiteful email informing the Seller of my refusal to be neglected as a paying customer. Then, I stopped writing it. How long would this go on? How long will I be at the mercy of this faceless scam artist? I can end this. I decided to cut my losses and admit defeat. Sure, it may scar my reputation in the crazy-competitive world of the online sweatshirt-buying biz, but who cares? I can take the high road here (see MOM??) and sleep well tonight.

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.

List-o-mania

I’m getting ready for my solo road trip to Iowa City this weekend. I’m meeting up with Freda, Madeline, and Kelly for the U of Iowa vs. Iowa State football game, and I. Am. Stoked. In preparation for my travels, I’ve begun My Packing List. I absolutely love making lists. And since the rest of my week is pretty crazy, tonight is really the only time I have to prepare.

I’m a really bad packer. I always over pack, and not in the “I just don’t know what the weather is going to be like” kind of way. I pack 6 different pairs of shoes for two nights away because I just don’t know what I’ll feel like wearing, and I like to have options. So packing is a big job for me. But while I may bring 7 sweatshirts, I’ll forget pants. And thus the need for a List.

So far, my Packing List consists of 3 categories: Clothes, Accessories, Other Stuff. Then there are subcategories that are broken down by day. So, Friday, I’ll need these 2 pairs of pants, these 4 shirts, and these 2 pairs of black heels to choose from. And this continues on through the end of the trip. And because I forget things all the time, there are things included on there like KEYS. Really, Pharon? You really think you’ll be DRIVING to Iowa and realize you’ve forgotten your car keys? I’m impossible…

One time while packing for Mexico, I had Geo read me my list back to me so I could make sure I had everything. He read,”Okay, um…comfy jeans?” Check. “Regular jeans?” Check. “Black shirt with thing on collar?” Check. “Black shirt without thing on collar?” Check. “Thing for the night? What is that?” I said “Check” and quickly moved on. I realized at that moment that my lists are unintentionally coded. Instead of writing “my blanket” I wrote “thing for the night”, embarrassed that someone would find the list and discover that I still have my childhood blanket (another post all in itself). So besides the vague descriptions of clothes that only I can understand, I guess I also code items that I wish didn’t have to be on the list, but MUST be included out of fear of forgetting them. I remember a list I made once that had “Thing I Need” under the Miscellaneous header, which to this day I have no idea what it was. I had out-coded myself.

I don’t know what it is about lists, but I just feel incredible when I can check off items. I have about 6 lists running at any given time in my life. Right now it’s: Blogs I Must Read, Blogs I Must Write, Books I Want to Read, Gift Ideas, Target List, and a list of offensive Russian Phrases that might come in handy some day. I feel so organized! And this doesn’t include my many, many, many To Do Lists. I have a To Do list at work (two, actually), I have Things to Do This Month, Things To Do Today, and just general things I have to do in my lifetime. You know, stuff like “Understand Math”. Sometimes I’ll add items to the list after I’ve done them, just so I can check them off.

So, I’ve got my Packing List almost done. I’ve put it into 3 columns, and made all the bullets into check boxes. I can’t wait to start checking things off. Tonight, I’m going shopping with my mom and Prinna, which will be good because just now I added a header called, “Things to Buy”. A list within a list. Perfection.

Cabin Fever

I finally got a tan. All summer long, the weekends have either been rainy and gross, or suffocatingly hot. So outdoors has not been my friend. But after spending the weekend at my sister's cabin in the sunshiney perfectness, my shoulders are burnt, my nose hurts when I crinkle it in disgust, and life is very good. In said sunshiney perfectness, I spent the days learning that I am good at both shooting a BB gun and fishing. I was as surprised as your are…

I love cabins. I am very disappointed that at this point in my life, I myself do not have a cabin. Though I am not a fan of bugs, the outdoors, or doing a lot of work, there is something about cabin life that agrees with me. Cabin life is much better than home life. Both mornings, I woke up with a very awesome alarm clock. My niece, Eve, would come and put her face right next to mine and just wait for me to open my eyes. Also, the lax showering rules are great, there’s always something to do, and having a beer with breakfast is not out of the question.

And no matter which cabin I’m visiting, there are things about each one that makes me feel at home. Every bathroom has the AIM toothpaste that is in the process of expiring and the one-ply toilet paper. Every living room has a handful of year-old Good Housekeeping magazines and some crossword puzzles, and it‘s decorated with wooden-carved signs that say things like We Don‘t Skinny Dip, We Chunky Dunk. And outside has the reclining lounge chairs, the fire pits, the yard games, the giant grill, and a dock leading out to a boat. Everything at a cabin suggests relaxation at any cost.

Like cabins, I also looooove me a boat. I still don’t know how to drive one, or how I would dock it, but I am a great boat passenger. What is better than a boat? You can lay around in it, catching some rays, then just roll overboard into the water for a little relief from the heat. You can sip on a beer while towing a wake boarder through the double ups. And, like this weekend, you can just hang out, listen to music, and occasionally catch huge fish. Boats are the greatest. I really need to find a way to get a sick boat, and then I’ll just need to find a place to dock it. And learn how to drive it. And save my money for gas.

So now I’m home, my skin feels like fried chicken, all my clothes smell like a bonfire, and I’ve got more bug bites than I can count (who gets a bug bite on the outside of their pinky toe!? It’s the worst place, hands down). And I’m too pooped to write too many clever, witty remarks, but I’m definitely okay with that. Maybe I should be glad I don’t have my own cabin. I’d never get anything done, and I’d probably be too relaxed all the time to care about anything other than whether or not I should bring the hammock inside at night in case of rain.

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.

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.

I Put the "Ph" in Phobias

For no particular reason, here’s a list of some irrational fears I have.

* Wearing dirty clothes and not knowing it. I put on a pair of pants a few days ago before work, and if I had not had the, eh hem, hindsight to check out my own butt in the mirror, I might not have seen the giant spot from God knows what plastered into the left cheek of the pants. I wonder what shirt goes best with humiliation. I also get scared of staining clothes in an unfortunate place. I once spilled my red Crystal Light on my lap. Had I not been wearing black pants, I would have just about died from embarrassment.

* Not having enough money at a check-out. There is nothing more frustrating than being behind someone at the grocery store who either doesn’t have enough cash on hand, or their credit card isn’t working properly. I fear that I am going to be that person holding everyone up behind me, hearing their murmurs of disgust, “She shouldn’t be buying all those bagels and bottles of wine if she doesn’t have money.” The worst part of this fear manifests itself in parking lots where you pay as you exit. I check out my cash situation before I even park, and then I spend a few minutes making sure I’ve got more than enough again before I leave, and that I have it ready in my hands before pulling up to the booth. The fear that I may have to back up, potentially causing a line of other drivers to do the same thing, re-park, and get out and find an ATM is palpable.

* Eating a Band-Aid. The only thing worse than finding a Band-Aid in your food at a restaurant is not finding the potential Band-Aid. Since I’ve never actually found one in my food, I have put myself in danger of having eaten like a dozen in my lifetime.

* Feet. This is no secret to anyone who knows me. I hate feet. I can’t look at them, I can’t stand it when people look at mine, and, under no circumstances, are feet to come in direct contact with any parts of my skin. Feet are horrible. They smell. They’re either bony and bumpy, or thick and swollen. They have all kinds of rough areas. So I’m pretty much on constant alert for any offending feet in my immediate area. When my mom is feeling particularly wicked, she’ll poke me on the leg with her toe and I’ll freak out. The one exception to this fear? My niece’s feet. Her toes feel like little pieces of rice, and smell like her cotton socks. They’re soft and I simply don’t mind them at all.

* Inadvertently Stealing. I can walk around Target for hours. I like wandering from department to department. And by the time I get to Electronics, I’ve forgotten that the lip balm I picked up in Cosmetics is in my hand, not my basket. So I’ll start piling my stuff on the conveyer belt to check out (only after making sure to have enough money, btw) and I’ll come thisclose to dropping the lip balm in my purse to free up my hands. I’m terrified that I’ll be walking out of the store, alarms will sound, and I will be caught stealing $3 lip balm.

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.