Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Viva

I'm leaving very early tomorrow morning on a jet plane for vacation. I don't like to say that I "deserve" a vacation, based upon my strong dislike for implying that I'm entitled to something, but I will say that it's much-needed.

I need to get away--if only for a few days. OK, four days and three nights. I need to clear my mind. I need to spend days on end worrying only about what fruity drink I'm ordering next and what time I'm going up to my hotel room to shower and get ready for dinner. I need a moment to take a deep breath, while laying in the sun and taking it all in.

This trip with the girls is just what the doctor ordered, if doctors did things like prescribing vacations to patients.

So, I plan to be "out of the office" for the remainder of the week. When I return, I hope to be ready to let you in on what I've been dealing with for the last 6 months. What we have been going through. I've been hinting at something (see here for reference) but haven't had the guts to say it out loud. I anticipate I will be ready after a moment to clear my head in the desert.

In the meantime, let your mind drift away to me having the time of my life on a girl's trip to....



Oh, and check out my sweet new ride. Isn't she pretty?


Monday, May 24, 2010

The end of an era


I don't consider myself sentimental, but when things in my life begin to change I begin to get all mushy and teary-eyed. I don't like change and have an overwhelming fear of the unknown; even with the most minute of things. I want things to stay familiar and I want to know what to expect for every moment of every day. Change presents an opportunity for things to be different and unknown; that's what scares me.

As inconsequential as it may seem, I'm feeling a pang of sadness over the fact that I'm preparing to say goodbye to my car. I know, I know. Who cares, right? Me. I care. I care because this is the first car I've ever owned; the first vehicle I've known to be mine. The thing that makes car salesmen so sneaky is that they realize how emotional you are about your car; they realize it's all about falling in love with a hunk of metal and buying a car really is an emotional experience. It turns out letting it go is just as emotional.

I bought my car, a black Mazda 3i, brand spanking new in 2004. I used my own money as a down payment after working several jobs during college and felt such a sense of pride in knowing that I was doing something so "adult" for myself. I'll never forget the excitement and fear I felt when I wrote that huge check and handed it over to the jerky salesperson, essentially clearing out my bank account. It was scary and exciting, all at the same time.

I remember him handing me the keys and feeling the thrill of clasping them in my hand and knowing they were all mine. I remember staring at the odometer as I drove the shiny car off the lot, marveling at the fact that there were just 8 miles on the odometer. I rolled down all four windows, turned up the stereo and took my sweet time driving home as the wind blew through my hair. It was the beginning of a long journey together.

Now, six years and 98,000 miles later, we're parting ways. It might be time for us to go, but I can't help but feel sentimental about everything we've been through together. I was a 21 year-old college student when we began our journey together that summer before my senior year. Back then, my car took me to the grocery store, to jobs and internships and to my parent's house to do laundry. It took me to visit my boyfriend, who went to college some 50 miles away.

We took good care of each other over those years; regular maintenance, new tires, brakes and regular oil changes for the car and a reliable means of transportation for me. Seemed like an even trade. For my part, I maintained by psychotic, anal-retentive ways when it came to my vehicle. From regular car washes to barring anyone from eating food in my vehicle, I took good care of my automobile. In turn, it never failed to take me where I needed to go.

My car and I have been through a lot and have trudged through so many things together. It was like having a constant companion through it all. I graduated from college, took my first job, got engaged, moved across the state for a new job, got married and built a life all while driving this car. The odometer says 98,000 miles, but I can't help but think about all that is contained in that number--all the experiences I've had in those miles. All the experiences we've had together over the past 6 years.

For me, the sadness isn't about how hard it is to let my first car go. No, it's about feeling like that car contains all my best memories and fearing that letting my car go is like letting all the best parts of my life leave with it. It feels like an old friend that knows me, one that never fails to be familiar, is moving to California. Except my car isn't moving to the West Coast, it's being purchased by a relative. So, it's not like we'll never see each other again. I just hope it remembers me, that's all.

I'm certain that I'll own many cars over my lifetime, but I'll never forget my first car. We went through a lot together and I only hope that it's not too upset over the fact that my soon-to-be new ride gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Oh wait, that's just the heated leather seats. My mistake. Hey, if you're going to move on you might as well upgrade. Right?

Friday, May 21, 2010

What you get when you don't get what you want

A few weeks ago, I convinced myself that I wanted something. Needed it. Just HAD to have it. It would make me happy, I surmised. Solve all my problems. Turn the world into an abundance of rainbows and kittens. So, I put myself out there. I took a chance. I risked it. Turns out, I didn't get what I wanted. You could even say that I failed. Strangely, I wasn't upset by this news--it actually made me happy.

I believe that life is just as much about letting things go as it is about accepting them. When we let one thing go, it means we have to accept that it's gone. Accept that it just wasn't meant to be. Accept whatever is left in its place. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that we need something when really and truly, it's just something we want. I'm notorious about this little mind game; I see something I like and want and subsequently manage to convince myself that I actually need it. Do I? No, I do not. But in my mind, I've already decided I need it and have found the perfect place to put it. Or, the perfect occasion to wear it.

For me, not getting the thing I thought I wanted made me realize how much I want what I already have. We tend to believe that changing something major in our lives will make us happy. The reality is, nothing is perfect. Something will always be wrong. Some things will be awful. Others will be incredibly f-ed up. But, that's just the way life goes. And really, it's not all bad. There will always be good things, bright sides to gaze upon and redeeming qualities to even the most awful of experiences.

So, we learn to grow up and appreciate what we have. And sometimes? Well, just sometimes when we don't get what we want, something even better comes along in its place. The thing we were meant to have, the thing that we deserved and needed all along just waltzes in and lands in our lap. And that? That makes all the failure worth it.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

May 20, 1982



Today is his 28th birthday.

On his day, he deserves to relax and take a break from his hectic schedule. Instead, he's working, coaching and going to class--because that's what he does. He doesn't take breaks or slow down, he just works harder. So on today, the day of his birth, I think he deserves to know how wonderful he is.



(Yes, that's my spouse. No, he doesn't always look like this.)

He's a hard worker. He's ambitious. He's a leader. He can't sit still. He's patient. He reads directions. He is an excellent chef. He's a fantastic teacher. He doesn't care what anyone thinks. He follows his heart. He carefully thinks everything through. He is level headed. He's always calm. He's honest. He listens carefully. He's my rock. He talks me down from every crazy thought. He truly loves me, flaws and all.

He tells me to look on the bright side when things are awful. He always knows just where the bright side is hiding. He cooks me dinner because he knows I'm a terrible chef. He takes out the trash because he knows it's my least favorite task. He tells me I look beautiful when I'm not wearing any makeup. He kisses me when I have morning breath. He fixes things, builds things and puts everything back together. He's the glue that holds us together.

He's messy. He cuts his own hair. He brews his own beer. He grows a beard every winter. He chews on his fingernails. He listens to talk radio. He loves sports. He trusts my fashion advice. He wears flannel...against my fashion advice. He researches everything. He's a penny pincher. He drives a pickup truck littered with trash and old fast food wrappers. He honors my anal-retentive wishes and doesn't eat in my car. He laughs at my awful jokes. He holds my hand. He wipes my tears. He always fights fair.

He's the one person on this earth who knows what I'm going through, because he's going through it too. When no one knows how I feel, he does. When I don't know what to do, he does.  

If I'm a good anything--a good person, a strong woman or a great wife-- it's because my husband is such a good man. So on today, his day, I thank him for making me a better person. He truly is my better half.


Tuesday, May 18, 2010

I might have a new crush

My sincerest apologies, Laynce Nix, but I think I might have a new man crush. Er, I mean MEN crush. On these men. They're awesome. I think I love them. There are some very questionable fashion choices going on here, but Lady Gaga is helping me to look past Plaid Shorts, Man Shants, Flip Flops Boy and White Sunglasses Dude to their true talent.

Monday, May 17, 2010

My Current Obsession: protecting my body's largest organ

So, you're now aware that I am essentially a walking freckle. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Because there is nothing wrong with that. What is wrong is the fact that I'm the poster child for wearing sunscreen and staying out of the sun's rays.

Blonde hair? Check.

Blue eyes? Double check.

Fair skin that freckles easily and a family history of cancer and melanoma? Pardon me while I check the living daylights out of this question.

Knowing that I'm already in danger of being harmed by the sun's rays has made me realize how important it is to stay out of the sun and to slather myself with sunscreen. I wasn't always this conscious, though. Not by a long shot.

In high school, I would frequent the local tanning salon and bake myself bi-weekly at 15 minute intervals. I did the same in college. I hit up the tanning bed and my backyard before my wedding day. No one likes a pasty bride in a white dress, right? Riiiight.

Despite my affinity for sun bathing, I always made my way to the dermatologist for my annual body check. Each freckle was observed and inspected and most of the time a few were removed for closer inspection. To date, I have had over 10 removed. Most left scars. I have the proof on my neck, arms, legs and back. I even had a large chunk removed on my back that required stitches. That was the last straw. Why would I continue to worry so much about the color of my skin when what I was doing caused myself to lose pieces of it?

Don't get me wrong, I think having a tan is nice and makes every outfit look better, but it's just not worth it anymore. I wear sunscreen on my face every single day without fail; it's just that important. If nothing else, I'd like to avoid looking like a hot wrinkly mess by age 35.

When I am in the sun, I wear rediculous things like hats and SPF 90. You know, the sunscreen that's made for people who happen to be vacationing on the surface of the sun for spring break. Partay!

Friday, May 14, 2010

Lady in Red

I'll be the first to admit that I am, by no stretch of the imagination, edgy. Sure I have a tattoo and I got my belly button pierced in college, but that's about as "on the edge" as it gets around here. Oh, and I have the cartilage on my left ear pierced, which is totally edgy. But, I digress.

I'm an all-around conservative gal: from my political beliefs to the way I dress, I'm not one to really put myself "out there" in any sense of the word. I want things to be peaceful, I don't want people to gasp at what I'm wearing and most of all, I don't want to be criticized. Or cat-called. Or judged.

So, I play it safe. I wear my hair in a ponytail on humid days so my lion's mane can be tamed. I wear cardigan sweaters over my tank tops. I wear the same eyeshadow configuration each and every day and I typically stray away from showing off my body.

But lately I have felt the need to be different, to take a chance when it comes to the way I approach the world. I'm not saying I have a strong interest in dressing like a hooker, I just see no problem in taking a few risks here and there. Maybe it's all in my head, but I find myself yearning to throw myself out there without caring about the results. Why should I care about what everyone else thinks?

Answer: I should not care. So, I'm learning to stop caring so much and to start living. My first foray into this new outlook may seem pathetic to my fellow Earth inhabitants, but it's a humongous leap for yours truly: I'm wearing lipstick. Not just any lipstick: the brightest, craziest lipstick I can find get into my grubby hands. I'm wearing it, embracing it and loving every minute of it. It makes me wonder how I have managed to live a practically lipstick-free life for approximately 26 years.

While perusing the aisles of CVS lately, I stopped at the Revlon display and snapped up two tubes of loveliness thanks to their current "Buy one, get one 50%" deal. I slapped 'em both on and immediately felt like Gwen Stefani:



Really and truly, the best part about my purchase is the names attached to my newest conquests:

Red Lipstick #1: Wine with Everything
Red Lipstick #2: Certainly Red

I think Red Lipstick #1 is my new BFF considering that it is most definitely a good idea to have Wine with Everything. Also, it reminds me of the fact that I enjoy Whining about Everything while drinking Wine with Everything.

It's a good thing I'm so interested in not caring what people think because the moment I walked into my place of employment I was tested. A particular co-worker who rarely hides their feelings took one look at me and screamed "HOLY LIPSTICK!" as though he had just been smacked in the face with a 2x4.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

That one time I broke that one promise to myself

I was just bragging about how awesome I am at keeping inane promises to myself, a la a brief mention and the electronic throwing of confetti HERE.

I am very serious about keeping promises and holding true to my beliefs, however pitiful they may be. I promised myself, approximately 1 year ago, that I would never set foot in Awful Superstore (ya know, the one that rhymes with "Mall Fart") again. I don't like Awful Superstore. I don't want to go to Awful Superstore. I hate that Awful Superstore makes me want to buy 23489723 other things other than the 1 thing I intended to purchase. I don't like the Awful Superstore employees. I don't like my fellow Awful Superstore shoppers. I just don't like anything, really.

::Cue this noise::




Yes, I realize this makes you realize how fun I must be at parties. Trust me, I am WAY more fun than you could possibly ever imagine at a party-like setting. Way.

So, with all of this being said I must confess something: I went to Awful Superstore last weekend. Willingly. After celebrating my 1-year anniversary of NOT going to Awful Superstore. I purchased something and walked all over the store, admiring the shiny toys and bright lights. It felt like I was cheating on the ACT in a feeble attempt to get into Harvard.

I blame my husband. Shocker! You see, our gigantic green and yellow piece of crap lawnmower recently began acting testy and my better half and I ventured out to find a solution to what ails our poor, dying grass cutting device. For a while, we were "those people," who left the dead hunk-o-junk sitting in the yard, hood up, for roughly 3 days. When rain was in the forecast, we covered it with a blue tarp. I could literally feel the classiness oozing out onto our half-mowed yard.

Our search for solutions led us to several locales, each of which recommended we go to Awful Superstore to check out their abundant supply of whatever part it was we needed. The rest is a blur, so I can't even recall what it was that we needed. It was a total bust, involving us walking all over Awful Superstore, some of us cussing, scratching our heads and others wishing for slow death. We did not find what we were looking for. I considered crying over spilled milk and the fact that I had succumbed to the pull of Awful Superstore.

Instead, I announced that I refused to leave Awful Superstore without buying something. Because that's a logical decision, right? I hate the place and refuse to support its evil ways but will return the favor by buying something.

Let me just say that the dog really adores her new bed. Really.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

It's DIY day!

I'm not the crafty-est person you know, but today I'm flexing my craft-y muscles as a guest poster over on Get Craftin'.

Ana Paula, who is just so sweet and adorable and is very craft-y (I mean, just look at that beatiful blog!) was kind enough to let me do a tutorial on how to make an iron-on lace t-shirt. With a little help from my good pal Martha (that's Martha Stewart to you) and my iron, I managed to successfully complete a DIY project without burning the house down. Go me!

So, if you're stopping over from Ana's blog, welcome to my humble abode!

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Every year, my husband and I head to Chicago for New Year's. We have partaken in this particular ritual for several years now and have realized that the Land of Lincoln is far different than The Buckeye State. Land of Lincoln firmly believes that its drivers should pay tolls to do things like driving on the road. Pssh, Buckeye State lets us do that for free, yo!

So, because we are rebels without a cause, we elected to gallivant throughout the state and failed to pay a few measly tolls. In 2009. Also, in 2010. In our defense, the first two were blatant skip outs because we were told a few skip outs wouldn't amount to anything. For the last three we had a friend's iPass, but failed to understand how that new-fangled contraption worked and basically went through scott-free. Until today, that is. Scotting for free is now denied until further notice.

Turns out, Land of Lincoln has a good memory. How does that go again? Lincoln never forgets? Honest elephant? I wish I knew a witty line to describe the fact that we just got SERVED via the United States Postal Service today.

A crisp, white letter arrived addressed to yours truly today from the friendly folks at the Illinois Tollway. Actually, it arrived to who yours truly was almost 3 years ago before I changed my name to its current German moniker via marriage. This letter aint no joke. It's all quoting sections of the Illinois Toll Highway Act and providing me with photographic evidence of my blatant failure to follow said Act and stuff.

Then, for good measure, said letter reminded me how I managed to basically take a big, stinking you-know-what upon the great state of Illinois by not paying tolls:

"Toll evasion is a public, strict liability and vicarious liability violation."

Vicarious? Sheesh, the only thing I'm interested in doing in a vicarious manner is to live through my children someday by enrolling them in pageants. NOT violate Section 10/10(a-5) of The Illinois Toll Highway Act AND sections 2520.269(e) and 2520.750 of the Illinois Administrative Code! I wouldn't dare!

Then, to further illustrate my stupidity, the notice reminded me of how much cheaper it would have been to just pay the damn tolls in the first place. Oh, what's that? I skipped out on 5 tolls amounting to $3.30, but with the mandatory $20 fine per violation I now owe Land of Lincoln $103.30? I'm no math whiz, but that sure sounds good to me!

All I ask, dear Illinois Tollway, is that you do not spend the entirety of my hard-earned donation in one place. Oh, and if it's for road improvements in an important location could ya do me a solid and like slap my name on a sign or something? Oh, but not my maiden name, my real name PLZ and TANK YOU.

Monday, May 10, 2010

My Current Obsession: Laynce Nix of the Cincinnati Reds

My husband is always obsessed with the Cincinnati Reds baseball team. Actually, I take that back: he's obsessed with all sporting events, but in the spring and summer months, he's completely obsessed with the Reds. I'm from Cincinnati, so I suppose you could say I'm guilty by association. I fondly remember the "Wire to Wire" season in the 90's and I grew up hearing stories about legends like Marge Schott, Schottzie the dog, Pete Rose, Chris Sabo and Ken Griffey, Jr. My father has countless pieces of sports memorabilia and we even have a set of "red seats" from the old Riverfront Stadium in the backyard. Growing up, we weren't a "sports family" but when you live in Cincinnati, you also love the Reds. It's State Law.

As for me, I'm not really obsessed with anything involving sports for a few reasons:

1. I don't understand sports
2. I don't care about understanding sports
3. I'd rather gossip than watch the game

Though the current baseball season has just begun, I've already attended my fair share of games and really have not spent much time paying attention to them. I have actually spent the majority of my time complaining about being in the car for 3 hours.

Things I do enjoy, however:

1. Drinking beer (just one, considering they cost approximately $1,234,158)
2. People watching/critiquing
3. Staring at buff men in tight pants
4. Clapping and giving high-fives

So, each year I choose a worthy player to declare my "Reds Crush" for the season, which gives me a reason to look forward to watching a game I know I will be watching whether I like it or not. This year, I have bestowed the honor upon this fine specimin:

Dreamboat, Ima


His name is Laynce Nix and he is soooo adorable. And cute. And really muscular. And I was there when he hit his first homerun EVER.

The best part of this story is when I broke the news to my husband that I had a teenage-esque crush on another man.


Me: I just decided that I totally have a crush on that guy.
Husband: Who?
Me: Layne Hix.
Husband: Are you crazy?
Me: Yes. Crazy in love.
Husband: No, I meant like are you crazy because you have a "crush" on someone who's name you just completely butchered with your words. It's L-A-Y-N-C-E  N-I-X.
Me: Right. Of course. That's exactly who I have a crush on.

Friday, May 7, 2010

A glimpse at my funny bone

My husband is completely convinced that I have the sense of humor of an 8 year-old child. My affinity for the LOLCats website really pushed him over the edge, I think. Ever visited before? You should. It's hilarious, and completely devoted to captioned pictures of cats doing hilarious things. Did I mention it was hilarious?

Really, anything involving cats doing something human-like makes me laugh until I cry. I don't own a cat and probably never will (the abundance of cat urine in the carpets/sub floor of our home when we moved in really spoiled that idea for me) but I will eternally find them funny.

Here's a sampling of my child-like humor:







Thursday, May 6, 2010

Farm fresh eggs!

I like to think of myself as someone who really is not awkward in the vast majority of normal social situations. Let's just say that I know my way around a normal, average conversation. Things get tricky for me when I'm distracted, busy or approached by a complete stranger. I'm not proficient in stranger relations. I turn into Steve Urkel immediately and begin slurping my excess saliva and snorting when I laugh.

I am, undoubtedly, a creature of habit. I basically do the same 10 things over and over again each day for every day of my life. Why fix what isn't broken, right? One of my 10 daily rituals is taking our dog Rudi for a run around the block when I get home from work. Keep in mind, city folk, this is what we call a "country block" in which each side of the square is 1 mile in length. Also, there are no new-fangled inventions like sidewalks and--AND--the speed limit is 55 MPH.

So, it's quite the haul--especially when you own a dog that is only interested in actually running (or sprinting, depending on her mood) when she sees another dog. Or, when I say some non-sensical phrase in my "excited voice" to make her think something earth-shattering is occurring and the only way we can possibly enjoy this thing is to run faster. I usually go with classics like, "Rudi, daddy's home!" or "Are you going to eat those goats?"

We pretty much slowly plod along with our fat behinds dragging on the road run the same route every day and see the same people, corn and farm animals. I always dread running by the house of the guy I've aptly named "Overly Friendly Weird Guy" because it always makes for one of those dreaded awkward situations. He's one of those people that insists upon always screaming (literally) hello to me EVERY time I pass his house. Even if he's not near the road. Even when he's like shoveling goat poop in his backyard with a pitchfork. He's really, really interested in always saying hello. I'm not a "let's stop and have a chat" kinda neighbor, so I always wave and utter an "excited phrase" to Rudi so we can quickly run out of screaming distance.

Roughly a year ago, I was in Awful Superstore (you know, the one that rhymes with "Mall Fart" that I have personally refused to step foot in for the remainder of my non-Alzheimer's days) and was walking down the aisle to get some stupid thing that I didn't need and someone began screaming hello. It was that scary hello from my nightmares, the one that could only be uttered by Overly Friendly Weird Guy. It was. He stopped me, literally, in my tracks to say how nice it was to see me again and that he'd know "that lady who always runs with her black lab" anywhere. Um, what?

BTW, she's a lab MIX, Overly Friendly.

It was that day that I personally vowed to avoid Awful Superstore like the plague for all eternity. I'm holding strong at 1 year. :::throws confetti:::

So let me set up yesterday's mega awkward interaction for you:

It's really, really windy outside. As in, that weird wind that blows so hard you feel like your head is hollow, it's impossible to hear anything and you feel as though it's possible to literally be blown away.

It's starting to drizzle.

We are roughly a 1/2 mile from home.

My 75-lb. sack of potatoes dog is actually interested in running.

I'm wearing all black (even spandex shants, gasp!) and my dog is also wearing all black.

Cars are driving by at 4586154455 miles per hour at random intervals.


Then, whaddaya know, Overly Friendly wants to have a conversation with me. He screams something to me (not HELLO!! he already did that the first time we passed his house) and I cannot hear him. He's at least 20 yards from the road, in a garage, carrying a gigantic tool box. So, I stop running and cup my hand like an old man over my left ear and say, "HUH?!?"

He then moves 2 steps closer and repeats himself.

Overly Friendly: "Can I interest you in some FARM FRESH EGGS???"
Me: "Oh, no thank you."
OF: "You sure? They really are fresh!!"
Me: "That's OK."
OF: "Yeah, it's my son's project. Boy, he just loves those chickens!"
Me, stupidly: "Oh, yeah?"
OF: "YEAH!"
Me: "OK."

Keep in mind that all the while I'm conversing with Overly Friendly about fresh eggs over the rediculous wind, Rudi is becoming increasingly interested in attempting to eat this man's goats. As in, whining like she's dying so she can hop the fence and nom on their legs. It's as though I'm on the cusp of going completely insane.

So, I do what any sane person would do: I mutter "Daddy's home!" and begin sprinting home.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Paddling your own canoe

There is an ongoing tradition in my family involving oars. None of us are sailors or boat owners, (we have a canoe, does that count?) but somehow we got caught up in this paddle-related tradition. Personally, I blame "those" members of the family from Cleveland. It's that lake water tainting their decision-making abilities, me thinks.

It goes something like this: on the eve of the day child is set to be married, their parents present them with a symbolic gift. Hint: it's an oar. The idea is that this is a symbol of both their pending nuptials and independence from the parentals. It's a gentle nudge, if you will.

More than anything, it's a reminder that it's time to paddle your own canoe. Oh, and here's the paddle for your canoe so that you can fight your way upstream! Smell ya later, buddy!

The day before my husband and I were set to marry, I was presented with said canoe accessory. My mother read a fabulous diddy about growing up and turned over the oar. I'm quite ashamed to admit that it has resided in our dark, dank basement ever since. For reference, said event occured in 2007.

Recently, perhaps when I was on my "I love all things beachy" kick, I unearthed it from the underground crap storage facility basement and located a new home for our oar.

BEHOLD, an oar filling the weird space between the bathroom and master bedroom!



Also, I closed the doors because I'm one of those people who hides all their dirty laundry (literally!) behind closed doors. Judge away, my dears, judge away!

Monday, May 3, 2010

They're the WORST

I deeply and truly, to the core of my being, hate Mondays. They really are the worst. I typically wake up with an awful attitude and require the use of a chair and whip to tame my hair into something socially acceptable. Perhaps it's the fact that I wake up in a sour mood, but the day typically doesn't get any better after I leave the house. Coffee spills, roadkill is created and major appliances break on Mondays. People break into our house on Mondays. Awful, embarrassing zits are born on Mondays. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this day of the week is out to get me.

Today, of course, was no exception to the rule. My hair was literally standing on end this morning, prompting my husband to snicker loudly when he caught a glimpse of the mane atop my head before I located the nearest mirror. I had a large piece of hair sticking straight up, a la everyone's favorite Little Rascal:


I put my hair in hot curlers to tame the mess, only to burn my right ear. It was still awful, so I managed to form some semblance of an attractive 'do:




If a braid-y, hippy hairstyle isn't going to make me feel better today, then I just don't know what will. Actually, I think this might do the trick:

Saturday, May 1, 2010

My Current Obsession: Being Beachy




A vacation just isn't a vacation if there is not a salt-filled body of water and sandy beach nearby. It might as well be a law: all vacation requirements include sun, sand and ocean. End of story. Sorry. This isn't a debate, it's me forcing my preconceived ideas upon you because they are fact.

So, you can imagine my surprise when words began spewing out of my mouth and I agreed to pack up my belongings and attend two vacations this summer that do not involve me planting my bony rear end in a lounge chair near an ocean.

First, I will jet off to Las Vegas, Nevada AKA The Middle of Nowhere for a girl's trip. I've never been to The Middle of Nowhere (although where I live could be referred to by the same name) but I hear it's a good time. I also hear that The Middle of Nowhere has little, if no, water as it is really just a gigantic dry pile of sand. But, like they say, it's a dry heat! My crazy insane curly hair likes the sound of that!

Then, I will Mazda 3 it (yes, driving my car is called that) to Upstate New York with my husband to stay in old houses and drink wine by the Finger Lakes. Oh, and also to fulfill my life's dream of attending the Baseball Hall of Fame!!!! All those exclamation points are to further reinforce my actual, not faked, excitement about spending 12 hours meandering through a gigantic shrine to all things baseball!!

%$@#!!

So, it's safe to say that the closest to sand that my rough heels will come this summer is when I get a pedicure at the nearest salon. I have accepted this fact and have attempted to offset it by adoring my body and life with beachy items that allow me to pretend I am still in Miami, Florida. As a reference, the last time I was in Miami was 2005.

So, to make up for it, I recently purchased THIS super adorable starfish-adorned necklace:


Photo from target.com


 Then, because I am incapable of buying just one thing, I also bought these swoon-worthy kicks:


Then, as if the fashion gods themselves were commanding me to purchase even MORE beachy stuff, a White House Black Market catalog arrived in the mail yesterday and I began squealing with delight. It was totally beachy and awesome. If it didn't cost approximately one arm and half a leg, I would have purchased this last night:

Photo from whitehouseblackmarket.com


For serious, wouldn't I be the most charming person on earth with that necklace? People would stop and stare at me, thinking I had just returned from my annual trip to the Hampton's, no?

No. Not really. Everyone would think I'm weird because I would realistically be wearing it to some awful chain restaurant or mega superstore where everyone else is either wearing a.) Camo gear, b.) Shorts with words on the butt region or c.) A t-shirt with an illustrated wolf howling at the moon.

"...I tend to think of myself as a one man wolf pack."


So, if you need me for anything I'll be pretending that this wasn't nearly three years ago. Oh, and dreaming about how awesome The Baseball Hall of Fame will be:

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