a new soundtrack

I've been caught up in a music rut as of late. I think I just need to accept the fact that Kelly's newest CD is just not that good and let it go and move on. Ok, sure, you can pretend you don't love Kelly Clarkson. That's fine.

Thanks to Pandora a couple of ladies have been reviving me from my slump--and I wanted to make note of their loveliness (plus, you know, just throw it out there how much I do enjoy their music and would love to have the ability to listen to their music anytime I wanted, perhaps on a CD that I could you know, own, or yeah, something like that. For anyone out there. Anyone who buys me things this time of the year. Those anyones.)

K has already requested that she be put in charge of all music at my someday store. Which is fine--I trust her and being that at the same time I was alone in my room dancing my heart out to En Vogue, she was smoking to Nirvana--she does has cool points up on me.

I will have demands, however. Heavy on the female artists & producers, heavy on independent musicians, heavy on local bands and after I close and lock the door and triple check to make sure NO ONE is in the store, I can lip synch and show off my Free Your Mind moves.

Add to play/wish list:

a timeline of style

1985: The year my sister came into the world. As if I could already sense her feisty rebellion in her 9lb 4oz full body screams, I put all my efforts in sitting like a lady, dressing like a lady and acting like a lady. I insisted upon wearing a dress every. single. blasted. day. I refused to even acknowledge the existence of pants, let alone wear them. I was three.

1992: 10 years old. 5th grade. At some point during elementary school, I starting collecting pins, because, oh I don't know--I though it was cool? You know, pins--round metal things that say things like "Kiss me! I'm Irish!" or "Over the Hill" or "Kelly Tires Employee of the Month." (and yes, those three examples are all samples from my collection.) Anyway, the pinnacle of my pin collecting fiasco was the day I decided to display my collection by wearing (yes, wearing) all 100+ pins on the same day to school. Yeah, that should give you a good enough visual.

1996: One morning, out of the blue, I could no longer see my toes or pull my tight rolled jeans over my enlarged and swollen hips. Turns out my hips and breasts weren't swollen---they were just gi-normous. And they stayed that way! I was, needless to say, not incredibly excited. Since my vocabulary at the time didn't include words like voluptuous or curvy, I dedicated a couple years of my life to covering up those annoying body parts with baggy Disney t-shirts and over sized Mossimo sweatshirts. To this day I believe I had some really good tactics---who doesn't see someone sporting a life size Tigger on their shirt and immediately think, "They look small boned and petite!"

1999: The year I discovered dELiAs' mail order catalog. Knowing the popular baby doll tees wouldn't accommodate my maturing chest--I opted for shoes. Crazy, crazy shoes. I wore a pair of black oxfords with red flames for most of my junior year. I was Student Council President. I was not flame shoes. (on a side note: a google search for those shoes landed me in gothauctions.com) After the flame shoes a pair of steel gray platforms with an over sized (ridiculously over sized) round toe followed. I stomped all over band practice, prom planning meetings and fundraiser car washes in those shoes. They didn't fit in. I think deep down, as well as I appeared to fit in, it was my way of trying to say: I don't fit in here. You know, in a subtly rebellious teenager angst filled way.

2001: The freshmen 15. ( + an extra 15, you know, just for the hell of it.) I wore baggy sweatpants like it was my job.

2004: About to graduate college, I lived up my last reality/responsibility free days wearing cheap tight black shirts with too much cleavage and too many rum & cokes. Five best friends curling eyelashes and singing Bon Jovi into empty Corona bottles before scattering precious drunken regrets across a dark city on a painful pair of stilettos.

2006: Looking to enlarge my wardrobe on a shoestring budget---my girl and I discover the local thrift store. Most of my homesick feelings today are for that place. Our futon--the dog crate---my favorite sweater --all sweet reminders of our Sunday morning haunt. I started to build a new wardrobe of mismatched vintage pieces and retail rejects. Recently a woman at Nordstorms assaulted me over my multi-colored leather boots. When I told her I bought them used, for ten bucks, I thought for a spilt second she was going to spit in my face. I don't know if she was impressed or shocked that nice looking shoes aren't just hatched from shiny boxes in the back room of expensive stores.

Today: I'm a cross between new and old, confident and insecure, comfortable and awkward. Right now I'm wearing a vintage red dress, a sweater from a high school shopping spree at Maurices and yellow kitten heels from the 80s that a co-worker's compliment, "Nice yellow shoes?" made me doubt for a hot minute. (I love it when people end a compliment with a question mark and still pat themselves on the back for being nice. I guess I should just say "Thank you?" and let it go.)

Like the flames, maybe these bright yellow shoes are just my way of saying, in a subtle rebellious 20-something angst filled way, "I do not belong in this cubicle mindlessly stuffing envelopes for corporate giants."

Style speaks. It can be loud, like the grating noise of hundreds of little metal pieces scraping against the desk seat when the bell rings. It can be quiet, homesick and baggy, invisible in an imaginary popularity contest.

You're on the journey to find your own voice from the beginning. (I was a wise three year old--dresses are incredibly comfortable and easy to wear!) But it's easy to lose yourself amidst fads and the fear of judgement. (For example: buried in my parent's coat closet is a Miami Heat Starter Jacket. I'm from the Midwest and I've always strongly disliked sports and bulky winter coats.)

Regardless of future fashion faux pas moments, I hope that I manage to stay true to my own fashion sense, whether or not it's a language easily translated by the general public. It's worth any embarrassing story--and it's the reason every time my mother cleans house and pulls out a worn shoebox containing flame covered oxfords, I beg her to hold on to them for me, just a little longer.

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.

dumpster diving

A few weeks ago, when walking the dog in front of our apartment, a sketchy looking dress form perched on the sidewalk next to the bags and bags of empty seltzer bottles (I have an addiction) caught my eye.

After I made a big deal about dragging it into the house when no one was looking, K pointed out that it would be a bit uncomfortable when my neighbors (also: landlords) came into the apartment and saw that I had gone through their trash, cleaned it up, and proudly displayed it as my own.

So she made me tell them. Which I did. And then I cleaned it up and now I'm proudly displaying it as my own.

She's a bit rough (and still unnamed) but I think she'll be great for hanging dresses on that don't fit me or randomly sticking fabric and pins on her, you know, like I'm sewing something or something. Whatever, I saw it once on Project Runway.

Anyway.

The spare room/sewing room/cd collection holding room is slowly....slowly coming together. It needs to happen relatively soon because I need to start working on the craft profects that K & I will be passing on this holiday season. Cheap craft projects. Seriously, if my mother doesn't need a pine cone ornament then I don't know what she needs.

At least now I'll have some company*.

*yeah, I should probably try to make some friends. talking to a dress form isn't that far off for me right now.

it makes me happy.

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."

**********
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:

**********
I found a lovely card for my dear best friend, visiting in a few weeks. I think it's only fair that she knows about the potential threat of grimacing bare chested mermaids here in Southern England before she visits.

**********
And my personal favorite. Because you know, despite whatever "postcard norms" are out there--and trust me, they exist, what else is going to break the mold and really make a statement than a postcard of a fire. A fire at an old mill. Now that's a postcard that's going to make you think.
Damn, it was a good night.

the one.

Found: Classy vintage caramel brown leather wallet for good price at overpriced thrift store.

******

Ways it will change my life:

Encourage me to be classy.
Keep my receipts for coffee, bagels, etc in nice ordered fashion.
Help me dress better.
Create budget and pay bills on time.

Look much more prepared when pulling out bus fare versus digging at bottom of bottomless bag purse.
Make me happier.
*******
Ok, granted--high hopes for a wallet. But I've been on a search for some time now (give or take 6 days) and if you could really get a grasp of its enchanting caramel-ness color in the picture, --well, I think you'd feel the same way.

it's the thought that counts.

Last April-ish I accidentally adopted a dog. Along with floppy ears and a curly tail and a funny walk he also has a healthy dose of German Shepherd in all that mix.

It can be a good thing. He's protective! He's intimidating! He's allowing me to freely roam dark alleys!

Yeah, well, about that. Turns out he's convinced that the biggest threats to my safety are trash cans, wheelchairs, and toddlers. And therefore, they must be barked at. Repeatedly and loudly.

I guess if I ever happen to bump into a 2 year old thug in one of those dark alleys, I'm set.

desperate times call for cheesecake.

Before I left Chicago, I paid a last visit to my college career counselor, whose upfront frankness I have a love/hate relationship with.

Sitting before her with my .0001 margin resume, I sweated out my woes of leaving behind the world of steady direct deposit. I fumbled over my carefully paper clipped stack of papers, marked with a bright yellow post it: "Jobs: Applied". I think the word "applied" was underlined, making it clear: See? I've applied for jobs. I'm a go getter. I print out the job descriptions and keep them in a file. I'm very on top of this.

Now that I look back on it, the post it probably tipped her off to my insanity.

After she ridiculed me for trying to take advantage of every square inch of my resume, she gave me this advice:

People do not fall in love with desperate people.
People do not hire desperate people.

Ok then. Thank you.

I've been trying it out as ammunition for raising my spirits---do not feel desperate! feel powerful! feel skillful! feel desirable! And I've had a couple of great fake moments where I smile and walk taller and think about words like "possibilities" and "adventure" and "unknown" without breaking into tears.

But today, in a moment of this so called desperation, I really thought about this advice.

Is it crazy to think that both systems--finding a job and falling in love--are actually set up to create desperation?

"Well, I got laid off, you know, which is difficult in this time of such lousy economy, but I've got to be honest---I really enjoy having this time to pursue want ads and I've especially enjoyed explaining my situation over and over to people. It's refreshing, you know."

Looking for work and love aren't too far off from one another. Interviews and first dates live parallel lives: we shamelessly self promote ourselves while not wanting the other party to know about the time you called in sick three days in a row because you became passionately addicted to Queer as Folk and Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey.

It's ideal to think that in the equation you're always the "people," choosing not to fall in love with desperate people or hire them, for pete's sake.

But the coin flips, and you find yourself looking for that perfect one. The one with a dental plan and a great sense of humor.

A couple of weeks ago me and my girl ate dinner at an outdoor cafe. Behind us sat a middle aged woman and a middle aged man. He sat with a yellow legal pad and sipped tea while she rambled and he scribbled something sporadically. At the end of their conversation, they stood and she awkwardly shook his hand. "Either way, whatever you decide, please, if you can just let me know, well, that'd be great, either way." Her voice shook as bad as her hands.

I hated the yellow legal pad with the notes about the woman that was not going to be hired for this job that she desperately wanted.

I had to resist hollering down the street after her, "You don't need him!"

But it's really what we all need to hear.

The After

is lovely and inviting and warm.

Welcome to my Starfish/French Ivory kitchen, courtesy of me, benjamin moore and martha stewart.

before!

The word "Before" is so exciting.

Just the sound of it naturally implies a drastic and unbelievable change that will make you gasp with inconceivable amazement. This is called the "After."

I think the decorating hoop-la shows really got us hooked on this Before/After phenomenon---3:00pm: Living Room: Beige and Boring. 3:57pm: Living Room: Alive with Flair and Color! And curtains! Really cool, dramatic curtains.

What I forgot is that during 3:10-3:55pm I usually flip channels, nap, rummage in the fridge, nap again, pretend to clean, and rest my eyes. This weekend I learned what I miss in those precious in between moments. Apparently getting from the Before to the After can be a bit of a bitch.

I feel a little betrayed by these decorating wonder shows. When it comes to reality shows--I'm not naive. I know, deep down, that The Bachelor is most likely gay and that Survivor takes place on Disney World's Pirates of the Caribbean.

Maybe I'm blatantly missing these moments, but I've yet to watch Trading Spaces and see someone stub their toe, the same toe, over and over on the ladder. No matter where the ladder was. Or knock over a cup of orange paint, spilling it all over the floor, the wall, and the new wire shelves with fun little rivets. Really tiny, little rivets. Or paint a wall fourteen times because it looks "spotty." Or paint the doorway and then lean against it. Am I that lazy? I can't stand up for fifteen minutes?

I give you my before: Our lovely unique 2 room kitchen. And since I live for suspense (and because I'm working on time management skills and opted for showering instead of taking pictures this morning) the "After" will be released sometime this evening. And trust me, the After was worth my sore toe.

thanks, craig.

I'm going to state the obvious here when I say: Moving is expensive. I know---you know. It's like saying: The sun is bright. --or-- Ice cream is delicious --or-- That time, in my infinite 5th grade wisdom, I decided to proudly show off my pin collection by wearing all 102 somewhere on my tight rolled jeans or my XL Guess t-shirt--yeah, that time was definitely a mistake.

I'm on this recent kick of getting financially organized--which, can be seriously challenging when you're basically just alphabetizing the numerous receipts stuffed in the bottom of your purse and ignoring the pile of bills near the front door.

Obviously--I need a new approach. I've become the person that finds themselves sitting at the red light, scoffing at the radio commercial spouting off debt consolidation assistance and then flipping to the AM station quickly so I don't have to think about my own debt let alone admitting that I would need something as extreme as consolidation. It's like the dentist. Maybe I don't floss as much as I should, but it's not like for that they'd give me a root canal. Right?

Or maybe I'm playing a game of denial.

I've been looking for a book/article/blog of someone who has been here--honestly considering charging three dollar tacos--and has moved forward and up and away and out of it.

So far all I have found are books on amazon like:

"I have money. I've always had money. I'm incredibly smart about money. Have been since birth. Let me share my secrets with you."

"I've never missed a credit card payment in my entire life. And if you have, I judge you. Put this book down and step away."

"My credit score is 780. Sucker."

"Bad credit will ruin your social life, lovers will leave you, and you will never find a job you're passionate about. Read this book before you take out a credit card, school loan, car loan, loan from your parents, store credit card, or debit card and you MIGHT have a chance!"

Why is it that I can't find anyone out there that admits to learning by experience and a lot of mistakes? Maybe there aren't too many people that would put their 401Ks in the hands of an admitted former shopaholic, but I'd like proof that the folks here with the low credit scores don't all end up at the mercy of visa for the rest of their days.

The past couple of months have been a whirlwind--and now that the dust is settling, I need to learn the art of stretching this temp salary far enough to cover the bills, the necessities, and the occasional frozen pizza.

Thankfully---I do believe that I'll get out this money muck business and learn some stuff along the way. Trust me, I don't have an excess of optimism or perkiness---but I figure the good thing about the bottom is you've got to start going up somehow.

Lesson 1:

My kind of Ethan Allen: Craigslist. New apartment means new, big spaces to put new things. New things aren't really in the category of "necessity" these days. But! Looking for character--uniqueness--adaptability---look no further than for used furniture. I adore the potential, the treasure hunt, the feeling of success!!

The ladderback chair above is a recent conquest of my girl's. I never thought I could love a kitchen table so much.

And that new interest free for thirty six hours department store credit card was completely unnecessary.

the best thing

about junior mints is that one or two usually end up sticking to the bottom of the box so even when you think it's empty, it's not. you just have to pound the end of the box to get them out. or, in dire circumstances, rip the box open lengthwise so you can get your hand in there.

life updates:
1. I'm not in Chicago. I'm in Rhode Island. In a sunroom. On a futon from Chicago.
2. I am unemployed.
3. Most of my life is still in cardboard boxes.
4. I spent money I don't have on a shower curtain. An adorable patchwork shower curtain.
5. I'm a little obsessed with Carrie Underwood. I'm probably just bored.

I need to do some laundry, find a job, brush the dog and my teeth and put my clothes on hangers in the next forty-five minutes to prove to my girlfriend that I did not waste the entire day looking for a matching rug for my shower curtain and starting a blog.