to do: make to do list.

I adore lists.

And being Friday, it's time to make the weekend to-do list that will be faithfully ignored until Sunday night when I scramble around to look productive. And then end up falling asleep to SVU reruns on USA.

for the first weekend of december:

1) buy groceries. try to incorporate green things. don't forget dog food. less dog give you wicked evil eye.
2) take long walk in wooded area. preferably holding hands with someone.
3) mail important things. like bills and shoes.
4) attempt to take photographs of goodies for online imaginary (so far) store.
5) try not to wear sweatpants the entire weekend. at least not 15% of the time.
6) finish laundry. put clean clothes away instead of choosing outfits from massive pile on spare bed.
7) give new teapot a test run.
8) finish creating "office in a bag." i'll give you the tour next week.
9) call my mom. and best friend. and sister.

9 being my lucky number, I'll leave it at that. I'd like to cram a little thrifting in the mix, but we'll see. Shit, "we'll see" is mom language for "no." I'm already letting myself down, without realizing it.

Happy Weekending to All.

head over feet

in crazy mad passionate love with this show:

Completely wooed me with its witty dialogue, bright colors and hilarious, hilarious witty dialouge. I do a lot of silent laughter during the show because it doesn't hit me and then it hits me and then it's too late for an audible belly laugh so I just roll around shaking silently with my mouth open.

I'm nervous already---my last true love and I had a very bitter ending for which I am still holding a grudge.

It's sad that once I realize a show like Pushing Daisies is truly smart and funny and clever, I worry for it's longevity. But c'mon--season 11 of The Bachelor?? Seriously?? See? Now doesn't my concern seem legit?

Go watch this show. You'll feel all the smarter and prettier for it.

(images courtesy of abc. thanks abc.)

step one!

We can have lots of fun.

Damn it.

Everytime I say, think or even see the phrase --step one-- NKOTB instantly rushes to my head. Even after 15 years and finally pitching the cassettes and corresponding sleeping bag, they still get to me. Shame.

My first step (there we go....) doesn't have as much to do with re-kindling my love for early 90's cheese as much as pursuing my lifelong dream of cococting the perfect retail haven while working as a temp in my own private human resources hell.

Huh? What? That isn't the dream of every little bright eyed girl?

Are you also trying to tell me that little girls across America don't dream of growing up to become a lesbian and experience a good ol' quarter-life crisis?

Well, I'm shocked.

Thinking back, I suppose it wasn't the dream of the ten year old version of me either...but it's comforting in a way to realize that destiny knows you well enough to keep your white picket fence dreams far away even when you may think that's what you want.

My current dream/hope/plan came out of late night discussions over really bad Chinese food with four best friends. The company alone made up for the poor take out decisions.

The five of us decided, in between finals and salsa dancing and smoking and watching re-runs, that the perfect situation would be in the form of a bookstore. An everything-in-one kind of place where we could teach ballet classes and hold political rallies and host workshops on how to make mashed potatoes sandwiches. Think of it as a storefront smashing all of our passions and dreams together.

The place has fluctuated over the years--as we all have. We've added on plans for a Domestic Violence Hotline---Sewing Classes---and Storybook time for Tiny Toddlin' Feminists. We've dreamt about fancy free trade coffee drinks and a fat cat sleeping on the non-fiction section.

And we return to it every chance we get.

Now understand this---I'm a dreamer, not a do-er. I'm also a bit of a nervous nelly. Oh! And I like things to be predictable.

I found this on the internet:

How to open a store*:

1. Dream, but more importantly: DO.
2. Don't be nervous.
3. Accept the unpredictable.

(*I didn't actually find this on the internet---so to say. I more just made it up. But you get my point. Exactly. I was trying to make a point. You know, by lying. I saw it on Fox News once.)

I could give about ten reasons why this probably isn't the best idea for me to set out to try to accomplish.....but the reasons start to rush together and become a rambling messy pile of poor excuses.

I like to think, that fifteen years ago---my dreams of a white picket fence was (correctly) misinterpreted by my own destiny to a red brick storefront in a little artsy town filled with novels and vintage dresses and handmade goods and strong coffee, bustling with feminists and college students and grandmas and the occasional ballerina or two.

In order for me to properly start making long lists entitled "Things to Do to Open Store" and "How to Find Money to Open Store" and "Famous People to Invite to Grand Opening Ceremony," I ordered this book off amazon.com after reading an obscure quote regarding it in an interview with a NYC Boutique owner.
Now that I think about it, I probably should have read the rest of the quote before hitting the "Take me to checkout bitches!!!" button. I hope it wasn't along the lines of...."(title of book) is what I ordered. And it's the reason my first store miserably failed. I also blame it for the weight gain."

Hmm.

killing those old habits dead.

Last night I was cleaning and I found an old journal. I had just graduated college. Spending my days at my parent's home, sneaking menthol cigarettes and miserable, apparently, according to the excess usage of the f-word in my short! dramatic! entries.

(just to be clear, I generally like to reserve the four-letter words for worthy outrages, such as our current political administration or when the applebee's waiter forgets my side of honey mustard.)

What struck me after embarrassingly scanning over my old thoughts with one eye closed and shuddering was that I was worrying about the same things that I worry about today. And yesterday. And last week. And tomorrow. Two completely non-important things that keep me awake at night---make me sick to my stomach---give me furrowed brow lines--and make me a tad bitchy. (((( Money and People Liking Me.))))

As much as it concerns me that I'm dedicating years---years--of my life becoming a professional worrywart about my visa bill and if the girl two cubicles down is pissed because I left colored paper in the printer--it concerns me even more that my worries aren't fluctuating with my life.

Now, if worrying is actually one of the few tangible skills I've been actually putting effort into the past few years, it most definitely upsets me to think that I've limited myself to two measly worthless causes. Jesus, what have I missed about worrying about?!?!?!

Things I definitely know that I have not worried about the past five years of my life:

* any illegitimate children being born out of wedlock
* how to tactfully display my homecoming queen tiara
* recycling
* my abs
* what that dream about my junior high arch nemesis actually meant
* how to casually wear my homecoming queen tiara in public
* what I will do if they just suddenly discontinue bagels
* why my eyesight keeps getting worse
* the inappropriate love I have for coffee
* if my mugshot picture will surface if I run for public office
* that I can eat my body weight in bread
* if conservatives have their way and push women back a hundred years and I can no longer wear pants or drink in public
* fashion fads
* the plethora of germs making a happy home under my bathroom sink
* why brad & jen couldn't make it work
* taking the GRE before they change the format to: impossible

It's like this whole other world is opening for me right now. So much worrying--So little time!

No--for serious---I would like to calm down the worrying. Better yet--I'd like to be a productive worrier. I'll have stress--fine! good! (it comes with change, I've learned)---but maybe I could worry, then do something, and then not worry. You know, instead of frantically holding on to it like it's a child sized lifejacket in the middle of the atlantic.

a nice reminder to myself: drink more tea, return loved one's phone calls, read something other than the back of the pop tarts box or US weekly, take the dogs for long walks, make the bed in the morning, be kind to yourself, be honest with yourself and write more dramatic, curse-filled journal entries.

And once in a while, go to this place:

birthday

Dear Sam:

Today is your 2nd birthday.

You're right. Technically, we don't know that for sure. Touche. However--we do know it's Novemberish and we declared the 15th as the day in honor of Maggie, whose made-up birthday had been declared by yours truly as August 15th.

When we decided to start fostering rescue dogs--and Maggie, sweet old Maggie, was placed with us, I thought that was it. I pictured the rest of my days in bliss, driving the old mini van with the even older border collie down Lake Shore Drive with the windows down in the middle of the winter, just to make that old sweet soul happy.

But things come and go out of your life constantly and quickly---and now the mini, Maggie and even Lake Shore Drive are all behind me.

Everyone thought we were crazy when we decided to foster you after officially adopting Maggie.
You had been up for adoption alongside Maggie months before. We were a possible foster family, but alas--you got adopted out to a fancy rich couple and I was bathing a filthy howling collie mix in my bathtub.

The fancy rich couple lived downtown. See? They were fancy. But not good. Five months later, they broke up and as one might treat a toaster, they returned you. Just gave you back.

And then you become an emergency foster. And I received emails with subjects like, "Need Fosters ASAP!" and "Please Help Sam!" and "You with the coffee stained scarf! If you know what's good for you, you will leave work immediately and talk your girlfriend into fostering Sam. Put the coffee down and GO."

We took Maggie and my sister to the boarding facility to see if we all fit together. You wooed us with your clysdale-like walk and your attempts to hide behind a rack of t-shirts.
The first night, we didn't fit. You cried and barked and when all else failed to get my attention, stood next to my side of bed and peed, everywhere, proudly.

Now that I look back on it--maybe that was just your way of saying, "Mine. This apartment and these two women and that old dog are all mine now."

Or, maybe you were just pissed off you didn't get a 2am walk.

We pretended, for a couple of months, that we could adopt you out. A nice young couple even came to meet you. The man adored you. The woman scrunched up her forehead and worried aloud about the funny way you walk. She said "neurological?" as if it left a bad taste on the roof of her mouth.

We told them politely, thank you for your interest, but no--no, thank you at all.

Right after we adopted you, Maggie passed away. It should be in the fine print of the adoption agreement you sign--somewhere, lost in a footnote, should read "...and in the case of loss, your heart will be very broken for a great while."

I still miss her very, very much. You taught her the virture of patience and how to watch the world from the windows and she taught you to move a little slower & a little more graceful and how delicious cottage cheese actually is.

Sam: You have been such an utter joy. Despite the harrowing surgery to remove the ball you swallowed or that one-time incident where you decided that a toddler = the enemy or the period where you mistook my shoes as your personal collection of chew toys.
It is a thankful-time of year--and while I feel as silly writing my dog a thank you letter as I do muttering my adoration into your furry neck, it's things I want somebody to know.

Thank you for forgiving us so easily when we feed you a little late or ignore your silent pleas for tug-of-war.

I will try to not oversleep anymore and jip you on your morning walk.

But mostly, thank you for making my life better. For making me better.

Love,
The woman that doesn't let you on the furniture and sneaks you treats behind the other lady's back.

a portrait of a quilt

Years ago, I accompanied by mother and grandmother to yearly doll and quilt shows. It was their hobby, their passion--and they being my two favorite people, it thus become my hobby.

Along with an impressive collection of designer barbies, I came out of the experience with a ridiculous admiration for the double wedding ring quilt. I would moon over this quilt, lusting over the connected circles and begging my grandmother to promise to make it for me as a wedding present when Dane Meyers, the hottest boy in junior high, finally declared his undying love for me and we sealed the deal with a buffet reception at the local masonic lodge.

Fast forward ten years, I fell for the hottest girl in my post-graduate volunteer program and we've sealed the deal so far with the addition of a floppy eared rescue dog.

Even though I failed miserably to hold up my end of the bargain--my grandma's good like that. And for my 25th birthday, she made my quilt dreams all come true.

I've been brainstorming something as a "thank you" that would express my appreciation. My first choice---(sending her on a Norwegian cruise)---is postponed until I can afford something like a Norwegian cruise.

My 2nd choice: Portrait of a Quilt.

Between my camera and some fancy words, I'd like to try to capture what this quilt means to me and pass that on to my grandmother.

It will be a work in progress, but since I so often have works that never leave the "in progress" bit, I'm putting it out here, to the internet abyss, so I have the motivation to finish it.

I'd like to write a bit about each photograph, but since I nearly peed myself everytime it was my turn in my college poetry class, I'm not sure if I'll have the gumption to make that happen. Plus, my handwriting is too messy. Why yes, I am just trying to think of excuses now.

I do think it's a beautiful thing---when the words "thank you" aren't enough.

She's a little rusty.

This morning I had a re-scheduled jobby interview.

(re-scheduled due to a nasty bout of foodborne illness from a seafood sunday night dinner in which all crustacean chow is suspended until i distance myself from the memory of spending sunday night in the fetal position on the bathroom floor.)

Important things I learned from my 1st RI job interview experience:

1. Invest in breath mints.

Damn it. My hand, my somewhat slightly nervously sweaty hand, shook her hand enthusiastically to overcompensate for the remnants of my caffeinated beverage lingering in the air after my professional "Thank you for meeting with me" phrase.

For the rest of the meeting I leaned back in my chair, trying to put as much distance between my mouth and her nose as possible. My only real accomplishment was creating huge inappropriate gaps down the front of my button down fancy blouse. She probably thought I was trying to seduce her with glimpses of my olga-flatten-big-boobs-down-minimizer bra.

2. Wear something you feel ultra-comfortable in.

Granted, after my indulgent weekend, the only comfort I could find in my closet was in the form of something elastic. Lots and lots of elastic. But still--there was no need to shove myself in a already too-tight skirt and be forced to take deep, gutteral breaths during the interview in fear of actually passing out Scarlett style right there at the end of the conference table.

3. After you say something funny, don't laugh until the interviewer laughs and you know that they thought it was funny; therefore, granting you permission to laugh at how witty and pretty you are.

I think you can see where this can go so, so wrong.

4. Do your homework. Pie graphs are not necessary.

Preparation is a good thing. But remember that it is not a final exam. When the expected question "What do you know about Organization X" popped up, I started reciting the historic timeline found on their website. When I saw the interviewer's eyelids starting to droop, I schoolhouse rocked that shit into a fullblown melody. Ok, I didn't. Worse: I just kept going. I bored myself. If I had the room in my red skirt to take a deep breath, I probably would have nodded off myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Do I want the job?

I don't think so.

Do I want to be friends with woman that interviewed me?

Yes.

Would I go back for a 2nd interview, if asked?

Yes.

Do I know what I want right now?

No. Hell, no. No, not at all.

Oh, screw it. I'm unzipping my skirt. I'm freaking miserable here. For the love.

online gamblin' and swappin'

I've heard, from a friend, that online gambling is seriously addictive.

And I believe them. My friend.

You start with a simple game of blackjack and pretty soon you haven't moved away from your computer for 34 hours except to refill on doritoes and mountain dew, your credit card is maxed out and you've become incredibly sensitive to natural light.

I for one, have never tried online gambling simply due to the fact that with my addictive personality, I'd become that person swearing and struggling to shut the blinds at 8am with serious Cool Ranch breath going on. So wrong.

So, in order to save up for this savings account I'm planning on opening, um, tomorrow, I've become addicted to other online delights. Blogs! Flickr! Stalking innocent people to stare jealously at their completed handmade projects and their organized studios and their unique effortless fashion sense!

One of my own reasons for starting a bloggy thing was to be inspired to attempt to finish a project and wear more than 3 staple items from my overflowing closet.

And now, to add to the list, I found a group on Flickr that is all about swapping. While that could definitely go towards a distinctly, um, uncomfortable direction, it's less "secret lives of the rich and famous" and more "online thrifting and trading between regular people who don't swap signficant others." So, yeah.

Becoming addicted to thrifing creeps up you. I don't think I even truly realized how deep it runs until I bought a dress at Target for twenty five bucks last week and lost sleep over the amount of money I spent. And then, to top it all off, I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about where our clothes come from....the company and people behind them....how much stuff is floating around this world...the product quality and markup...damn that jesuit education.

I feel like during college the jesuits (yeah, that's right: priests. catholic priests) implanted a tiny little social justice chip in my arm so that no matter how far I go away or how old I get, I still flinch at the idea of my sweatpants coming from sweatshops. Granted, it starts as a flinch, but a constant tick becomes something you can't deny or ignore and pushes you to the point where you have to do something.

While I don't know what my something is just yet--I do know that I can appreciate the idea of trading and swapping my stuff for more than one reason.

And it's like that pesky Christmas truth--granted, I love the idea of getting--but I'm more excited that my dear little mod dress is finally going to have a good, safe, warm home:

color my world.

I'm still on the job hunt -- but I think I found my true calling. I want to be the person in charge of naming paint colors. It sounds dreamy.

So far, in my own apartment--we have a Blissful bedroom, a Starfish Kitchen, and an Expresso living room. After this weekend, we will be relaxing in a Pomegranate den and I just finished the Lincolnshire Olive sunroom (see above.) Lincolnshire Olive! How romantic! The name even managed to make a difference when I fell backwards off the ladder, smacking my head on the doorframe and knocking over the precariously perched can of paint. After all, how could I really be that upset spending two hours cleaning up something that sounds as pretty as Lincolnshire Olive? Green? Yeah, now, green paint would have been a bitch--but Lincolnshire Olive is a different story.

If I did have this fantastic job--I would spend days in Home Depot, delighting in hearing couples argue over whether "Juniper Leaf" or "Sunday Brunch" is the perfect color for the kitchen. My colors! God, what satisfaction.

Although--I have a feeling I'd be fired after I came out with the color: "Pizza Sauce" or used the word plum in way too many names just because I like saying it.

So, back to the drawing board.