i have a huge e-crush on someeards.com.
they are wholly inappropriate and just strikingly, breathtakingly hilarious. 
i have a friend who loves e-cards and another friend who loves amy sedaris and it's like the two of them had a brilliant, beautiful love child that is making me pee a little in my cubicle.
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.
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.
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:
Lately I seem to spend countless hours wandering around the ridiculously large hallways of places like Home Depot and Lowe's.
Last night our fruitless search for an area rug was comforted by multiple slices of pizza. After we wobbled on stools at the counter, pretending like we'd have pizza left for a to-go box, we headed over to the 7-11 to finish the night off with swedish fish and lottery tickets.
And it was there that I found what could possibly be the best postcards in the entire world. Now, please remember--the images that you are about to see are postcards. Yes, those things that you write on the back of--phrases like "wish you were here" or "weather couldn't be better" or "tulsa is much bigger than I thought it would be."
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Maybe one wouldn't at first guess that another-such-someone would be interested in sending a loved one a forever memento of the fully first automated Post Office, but! that somebody wouldn't know that this such someone has a retired postmaster general in her family and yes, this former postmaster general would love to receive a postcard of, um, this fully automated Post Office:
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