flickr favorites

i have a nice inherited sewing machine
that sits on a desk unplugged.
and a bathroom cabinet turned fabric holder
hording lots of pretty fabric.
and a stack of sewing manuels from multiple
decades all piled up collecting dust.

trying too hard.

Interesting: I recently found out from a friend that apple cider vinegar is a remedy for the most random of minor ailments.

Take for example, a completely random example of course, dandruff. Not that I would even begin to know what that's like! No. Not at all. It just popped in my head for an example to explain the wonders of apple cider vinegar. I could have used other examples, of course, this one in particular just stuck with me because, well, I mean, come on--dryness of the scalp? That's a pretty nasty ailment, in my book. Not that I would know. Definitely not.

So anyway, back to my friend who wasted countless hours googling "cures for dryness of the scalp that doesn't involve shelling out fifty bucks for head + shoulders in a fancy bottle." She told me about this apple cider viegar concoction---1 part ACV and 3 part H20 (look at me! i'm speaking science!) --mix it up, pour it over your dry disgusting scalp (no judgement!) and let it soak in. Massage it in, talk dirty to it, whatever your preference. Then, wash it out with with shampoo unless you enjoy smelling like a big ol' smelly bottle of apple cider vinegar (again, not judging!).

Got real bad nasty dry scalp? Do it every day! Then do it once a week! Then do it when you feel the need!

If I had a tv show on cable all about the wonders of vinegar, I would totally pull a rachel ray and insist on shortening apple cide vinegar to ACV but then every time I use it would say ACV and then continue to say the full name: apple cider vinegar, therefore really defeating the whole purpose of an acronym.

There you go! Lady Friend's "a la natural" tip of the week. So go take care of those dry scalps of yours. My friend gave her thumbs up on this ACV (apple cider vinegar) trick. She's trustworthy. Not to mention very witty and pretty.

thanks.

this weekend I sold the Kelly Girl Skirt to a girl named kelly.

i also ate a fantastic brunch, played a board game and went out a ghost tour.

it was a lovely, lovely weekend.

*********

i have to say, i'm very thankful + fortunate to have some items listed under the "sold" catagory of my little etsy store. each + every sale has been exciting + nervewracking. i've been so proud to wrap up a little pouch or a warm cardigan and ship it off to its new home in canada or michigan. right before i send something off, usually waiting in line at the post office, i have this flash of insecurity, worried that the vintage something won't be treasured or loved or appreciated. you'd think i was sending puppies through ups.

i have to admit, i'm a bit of a dreamer. waiting in line, sitting in traffic, lying in bed, i concoct great schemes which i safely keep all locked up inside my head--rarely doing anything as drastic as following through (oohhhh....scary). well, this idea of a wee little store online has been nestled up there for a great while now and after some serious stalking, i mean, casually looking + reading about others making it happen, i did it. and regardless of how tempted i am to constantly change directions + start over, i'm moving forward. it might seem small, but to those of us who know much more about the "dreaming" than the "doing," it is an exciting big step to stand in line at the post office and actually follow through with one of those saved up dreams.

eating habits

This past weekend I had three main jobs:

1. Set the Table.
2. Eat what is put on the Table.

3. Clean the Table.

In case you're wondering, my order of preference would be 2. and then 1. and then 3.

I've been told, by loved ones and such, that my eating habits consist of bread and cheese. In the midst of blubbering defenses, I've discovered that, when broken down, pizza, grilled cheese and even pasta can be boiled down to bread. and cheese.

So basically, my eating habits consist of bread. and cheese.

Yum.

I mean, no! I need to diversify (if that is actually a word. i think I saw it in one of my "how to manage money for idiots who are careless with money" books. thinking of it now, it probably has more to do with stocks and important things like bonds and less with broccoli and carrots.)

If I was a cookbook I would not be this:

I would be those oversized shiny recipe cards you get in the mail for free to convince you to pay $3.99 monthly for ten more oversized shiny recipe cards in the mail every single week for the rest of your life until you have piles and piles of oversized shiny recipe cards stacked in your cupboards because you have no desire to cook apricot meatloaf or oreo cream pie.

Ok, so the oreo cream pie wasn't terrible.

People who would be the lovely, simple, Real Simple cookbook don't actually buy the cookbook. It's like the world of self-help. They already grow fresh rosemary and understand the subtle difference between extra virgin and virgin olive oil and have large blocks of exotic looking cheese in their fridge.

Here's my theory (my bias, if you like): It's the people with the pre-packaged American slices & the the three cans of Pam cooking spray (in multiple flavors) that scramble to get this exact cookbook because they know, simple or not, they want to open their fridge and feel an instant lovely calmness like they feel when they look at the cover of this book instead of standing with the fridge door open suspiciously wondering what tupperware is the culprit of that smell.

So yes, I bought this cookbook.

I want the calmness, the exotic cheese, the simplicity, the muted color palate, the homemade vinagrette, the pantry full of capers and mustard seed and other things edible things I don't really believe are edible. I want to understand what kale is and how to roast garlic and is a radish a beet? is a beet a radish? are they related?

You should know, I've never bought a self help book. And I don't have to--because every single book I buy is self help. How to cook, sew, save money, save the world, etc.... it's really all my way of stacking up an unread pile of "How to Change Me."

While I do think that personal growth is a lovely, lovely thing---I don't think I should be banking my amazon account on my own.

I need to go a little deeper than roasted garlic and homemade marinara. Yes, I want to expand my bread & cheese diet, but I think my cookbook (granted, my new and very pretty cookbook) needs to stay a cookbook & not my personal revelation.

So much pressure for something that is really just trying to get me to steam the cauliflower right.

more love!

One. Two. Three.

Today is my 3 year anniversary with K.

It started off with a serious discussion of whether or not a 3 year anniversary means that we have been together for three years or that we're headed into our 3rd year of bliss together.

I mean, sure, I could see how one could get confused. I mean, really, no, I can't, but I am willing to believe she was still sleeping and instead focus on how cute she is with bedhead.

One thing that K and I have been all about from the beginning of our three years (yeah, we finally figured out that we have actually been together for three years after some intense finger math) is dining out. As far as social activities go, sure we enjoy bowling and walking around cute neighborhoods and fighting for the armrest, I mean holding hands, at the movie theater, but throw us in a restaurant and now we're talking.

We've also been known for doing some early bird specials, if you know what I'm saying. And, if you happen to be under the age of 60 and don't know what I'm saying, well, we like hit up the hot spots at about 4:30 in the afternoon. You know, before the kids come in and make it all loud and such.

We're headed to upstate NY for a little cabin fever this weekend and before we leave we're squeezing in an anniversary dinner at a softly lit romantic place here in providence right after I get off work at 4pm.

It's really the perfect celebration of us---doing something we love with each other at a time where it could seem out of place but really is just absolutely, well, perfect.

Here's to a weekend of rest & relaxation & fresh mountain air.

love.

happy love day to all.

and i hope that somewhere, where ever you may happen to be, you are being loved for who you are by your mom, dog, grandpa, best friend, son, soulmate, partner, brother

or,

if you're as lucky as me,

the girl that knows

just how to hold your hand
soothe your fears

light your fire

support your dreams

fit in your nook

make you laugh
take your breath away

and love you so damn well.

and if you do happen to be just so lucky,

don't ever her go.

the f word.

why i like feminism:

I like to vote.
And wear pants.
And make as much money as my male counterpoint.
I like to drink in public.
I like reading whatever books I choose.
I like to consider certain people enemies.
I enjoy the concept of owning my own body.
I think equality sounds peachy.
I like writing emails and making phone calls to people like this.
I throughly enjoyed going to college.
I believe rape should have serious, lawful consequences.
I think maternity leave is nice.
I like being able to talk about my vagina.
I like having the option of whether or not to reproduce.
And not to mention, my kitchen floor is usually too dirty to stand on with bare feet.
I like to own property.
I enjoy respect.
I think it's nice that my career decisions aren't decided by how fast I can type.

****

You know, just one of those rainy Wednesdays where I like to ponder on this endless list of why I embrace and identify so strongly with this f-word.

her first.

This weekend my best friend S came to visit. S lives in upstate NY and before that in rural Maryland and before that with me in Chicago. We've gone from three feet to a thousand miles to three hours.

I learned that S has never been thrifting---which I didn't really understand. I just blinked at her for a while, trying to imagine what she does every Saturday. She probably reads. She's smart like that.

I was more than happy to drag her out and about, digging in racks searching for the perfect finds. I won't lie-- I'm sure I was patronizing, holding her hand around the store so she wouldn't wander off and talking slowly as to not shock her system with too much information.

Yeah, so here's the thing. S is amazing at thrifting. Once she got over the flashbacks of skorts and junior high, she started pulling out adorable. amazing. priceless. perfect. vintage goodness.

She did go on a bit of an excited rampage near the champagne glasses and we had a couple of casualities (at least she did while I hid safely near the angel food cake pans), but all in all, she was an absolute thrifting partner delight.

Now I just have to lure her back to little rhody every weekend to find more goodies like these.

because i've resorted to watching reruns of reruns.

I'm know I'm about three years behind on the bandwagon---but I just made my pitiful morning so better by signing up for my free trial on Netflix.

Thanks, Netflix, for this free trial.

(And my morning could have been worse. It's not like I don't have coffee. I just didn't have hot water. Therefore, a shower. Therefore, a nice clean awake feeling.)

But anyway, netflix! Lately I seem to have forgotten about movies. Thanks to a gift card stuck in my stocking from my sweetie, I saw a fantastic movie just a couple of weeks ago and since then I've thought: movies! i need to see more movies! It's rejuvenated my movie mojo, so to speak.

I have to say, I've got a bit of greedy queue fever right now. You'd think it's my new job to watch movies, the way I'm throwing 'em in there, left & right. I want them all! drama, indie, comedy, foreign, award winning! whew! Now I do need that cold shower!

If you have any suggestions for movies that have changed your life, please do share. (and if it didn't change your life, did it make you laugh really, really hard? hard enough to pee a little? that'll do too.)

I'm trying to re-learn to knit. Which, is going to happen while Netflix and I become very, very close. Now, if you excuse me, I think I need to re-re-re-re-rearrange my queue. Again.

8 for 2008 (aka: The 8 Things My Blog Will Most Likely Be About)

1. Burn flavorless things more often. I mean, cook. more often. yeah, cook.

2. Ultimate goal: read a book a week. Starting next week. 52-3=49 books for 2008. More realistic goal that I actually have a shot at obtaining: Read a book a month. Starting next week. 12-1/2= 11 1/2 books for 2008. People magazine does not count. Ok, it can count as the half book.

3. Be kind to the planet. I'd like to investigate how to "go green with less green." In other words, I'm cheap. And broke. And I'd still like to eat organic cucumbers and wear organic cotton sweatshop free sundresses and use cruelty free lemongrass lavender infused bath oils. Being that I'm a paper towel junkie, I've got a ways to go--but I signed up for these delightful daily emails and I'm gonna start a passionate love affair with distilled white vinegar and public transportation.

4. Answer my phone. Call my mother back. Keep in contact with loved ones--maybe (I say maybe) even write a letter or something like that. Maybe.

5. Although I know organization is the general theme of a new year--I feel like somebody I live with is planting these in the magazine rack in the bathroom to tell me something:


Ok, I get it. You want me to start a hip, young magazine that features young hip caucasian women on the cover. Hmmm....OR you want me to read the organization features and actually organize the multitude of "stuff" that slowly is taking over the nook and crannies of our home sweet home. '08 is it: the year that I simplify & organize & stress out less about the piles of unopened letters and unused hangers that live in the corners of the spare bedroom. There. Now cure me of my clutter madness Blueprint & Domino Magazine!

6. Dig a little deeper. Granted, every journal/diary I've ever found makes me cring and partially want to rip it up quickly to guarantee that no one will ever find it, but when it comes down to it, I'm a true believer in writing as a form of creativity & really cheap therapy. I'm talking cheap--steal a pen from the bank, find a cereal box, and go. to. town. On that note, this digging that I'd like to embark on encompasses creativity----I'd like to plug in my sewing machine (although it does look adorable as a table decoration) and cut up some scraps and make some sort of something that I can force my girl to use everywhere as a sign of her love & support of me. I'm a fan of this lady for personal reasons (as well as for her love of fried chicken & hollywood gossip) and I signed up for her free (free! my favorite word!) 12 steps for the soul e-mail e-course. Being that the first question instantly made me think "pizza!" I probably haven't gone that deep yet.

7. Pay Attention! To what these fancy politicians are saying! To what filmmakers are saying! To what women are saying! To what my neighbors are saying! To what journalists are saying! To what the historians/social activists/foreign countries/authors/world leaders/grandmothers are saying!

8. Start a store on Etsy. Ok, you got me. I'm completely the type of person that, when making a list-to-do, writes down things that I've already done for the satisfaction of crossing it off. It's true, Lady Friend did go Etsy, but it's my resolution to keep it going, adding new vintage goodness and making it something that I enjoy and does good for me and other corners of the world.


happy 2008 everybody & all.

warmly,
lady

a love letter of sorts

Dear Chicago,

It’s been four months since I left you.

Four and a half, if we want to get exact.

I feel like in the past four and a half months every memory I’ve had with you from the previous seven and a half years has floated up from my sub-conscious, surprising me with remembering pangs while I’m performing the most mundane tasks—brushing my teeth in the morning, checking my email, blinking.

I think about moments that were never important enough to resurface. Mediocre minutes spent in a downtown grocery store----waiting for the bus on Broadway----sharing the sidewalk with strangers.

I wonder sometimes if I’m getting close to running out of my memories—and in desperation my mind is reaching far back for anything related to you.

So far, in my life, seven and half years is the longest relationship I’ve had. It may sound strange, crazy, to think of our anything as a “relationship,” but I knew before I left it was the end of whatever word you can use to describe what we had. It felt different.

It feels very right, here, in my new home—my new city. It feels very hopeful, to be corny.

I do think about you often---and it’s familiar, this fresh break-up ache of loneliness and anxiety and fear of running into you at the post office and smiling brightly while my stomach sits on the top of my shoes.

Thank you for keeping me warm and safe for seven and a half years. And for teaching me a couple of things about living and life.

Take care of yourself.

Love,
Me.

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.