Monday, September 26, 2011
Typically, I enjoy getting mail. I even welcome the familiar stack of "pre-approved" credit card applications that make the bi-weekly journey from my doorstep directly to my trash can. But some days, the awaiting delivery turns out to be my complete undoing, almost as if the mailbox had transformed into Pandora's Box while I was slaving away at a hospital night shift.
And why the sour attitude? Well, every once in awhile, a fashion brochure (how the hell do they find me?) will turn in up the mail, and it's usually not all that threatening. Granted, the floral day dress on the cover of the spring issue will absolutely not go unnoticed (and will probably end up in my closet), but summer catalogs with "perfect" women in their "perfect" bikini bodies on "perfect" yachts rarely tempt me into digging out my credit card. Typically, I throw them out after nothing more than the casual flip through.
Until the fall issue, that is. The fall issue, without proper warning and preparation, can be devastating on my budget.
Fact: I'm a huge sucker for fall clothing. The coats, the boots, the hats, the sweaters...it's all gold. I love the coziness, easy sophistication and simple stylishness of it all. Each article of clothing is meant to wrap you not only in a plush, soft fabric, but also in a feeling of confidence and stylishness. Suddenly, it becomes chic to cover up. The skin-showing overload of summer gives way to the tasteful body-conscious silhouettes of fall. I'm already on the prowl for a long sleeved minidress...
And those damn coats and scarves hanging in store windows...brutal. It's safe to say I'm a ridiculous fan; scarves are indeed my kryptonite, and as such, they belong in my closet, adding to my already substantial collection. I've also been craving a red peacoat since I was old enough to figure out what they were. It's always been a fantasy of mine to be the lone lady in red, walking down a silent street of white. I've had my eye on this one (pictured left) for the last two years.
Not so fast sweaters, you're not off the hook either. Sweaters shout at me from holiday magazine covers, and I feel I absolutely must have one for the upcoming snowed-in nights I'll be spending curled up by the fireplace, on a fur rug, drinking a glass of wine and eating chocolate truffles. See the crazy vignettes my brain creates to justify my purchases? We don't even own a fireplace. Or a fur rug.
And boots...oh don't get me started on boots. In my mind the only reason a leaf would fall from a tree is so it could be stepped on by a fashionable knee high boot. Right now I'm obsessed with anything that's worn and weathered. I don't want a new pair like the ones in the magazines (who am I kidding, I'd never turn them down), but I'm craving something that has a story behind it. A pair that looks as though they were formerly worn by a sheepherder in northern Ireland. Preferably with a heel so I can feel appropriately matched with my 6'5" boyfriend, but I'm not too picky. Oh and straps and buckles, lots and lots of straps and buckles, regardless of their uselessness in the real world.
So while this may be my favorite time of year, it's also my most difficult. We've already canceled the cable and I've gotten a second job, so I'm not about to do something stupid like buy a pair of boots.
God I love a good pair of boots...maybe just one pair...I've been so good...
Focus. I need to get through this. Sorry awesome fall coats, boots, hats, sweaters and scarves, but you're just going to have to wait until next year when I can buy you in a thrift store for 1/10 the price. Of course, I do have a closet swap party coming up on October 14, so lets just focus on that.
So tell me, what do you like about the fall?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
I had a Jerry Maguire moment today. No, not the "SHOW ME THE MONEY" moment you all are thinking of, but a different one. The clip below should explain it pretty good.
Don't you just hate when that happens? When you're so excited you want to shout it to the world but the next best thing is singing at the top of your lungs. So instead, you have to hunt down an awesome song to sing to and it's then and there that every radio station seems to be collectively running their "sh*tty song of the hour" promotion. One of my favorite songs to sing to? 500 miles, by The Proclaimers. I love the "Da Da Da Da (Da Da Da Da) Da Da Da Da (Da Da Da Da) Da Undela Undela Undela la la la" part. And I'm sure that looks wierd but if you know the song you'll get it. And because I also love HIMYM I'll help you out:
And why was I so happy? I have no idea. I was on my way home from the gym, had gotten in a pretty impressive workout, and it smelled like fall outside. Also, I've been working a lot on my new travel/food blog and it's finally starting to come around. Plus I've also heard back from a few writing offers too, so I guess I take that back. I do know what I was having a Jerry Maguire moment:
Because I was having an effin' good day, that's why.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Well just a little update to let everyone know I'll be splitting my blogging time from now on. I'm glad to say I get to be a regular part of the blog associated with the site www.thegoodlifeoncampus.com!
Now typically, when I am asked to blog on behalf of a service or product I run for the hills. Unless, that is, two conditions are present: 1.) I agree with with the premise of the service or product (no one's trying to rip anyone else off or anything), and 2.) I can give my honest opinion. I'm not going to write about how "awesome" a product is if I just threw it out in the front yard and lit it on fire.
Which is why I can safely say I'm excited to be a part of this project. The goal of the blog (http://thegoodlifeoncampus.tumblr.com) is to help students get the most out of their college experience, and what's the best way to do that? By being yourself! The online store is full of quirky, unique dorm decorations, as well as hilarious toys and trinkets (like light graffiti). I support that. College is about finding yourself and expressing yourself, so I say the more personal touches the better!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Let's get one thing straight here; the dictionary defines the word 'interesting' as, "Arousing curiosity, attracting or holding attention or provoking thought." The media's definition?
Well, not that. Contrary to the brainwashed opinion of the general public, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (or New Jersey, New York, Atlanta, Orange County, Washington D.C., Miami, Fargo, or wherever), are not interesting. Dramatic maybe, but interesting? No.
To me, the definition of an interesting person is someone who has learned life lessons the hard way, by experiencing them. Someone with a passion for life and the guts to pursue it. A story that starts with, "Well I totally wanted those pair of shoes but then my friend was like, 'Those are hideous,' and I was like, 'Ya, but I want them' and she was like, 'My tongue itches' and I was like,'Your tongue is fat...' " really isn't going to peak my interest for too long.
One person who is interesting? My mom. She got married when she was 16 and moved to Montana where she trained horses for a living. My mom's been a florist, a waitress, a dog groomer, a single mother, a teacher, a cook, and still owns her own ice cream truck. She was married twice and divorced twice (once to a diagnosed psychopath for 20 years), but she's still never lost her innate warmth and sense of humor. She's always up for anything and she never takes life too seriously. My mom has been through life's twists and turns. She's an interesting person.
Another of my favorites, of which I'm not as obviously biased, is an 86 year old man with oversized ears and icey blue eyes. For the sake of confidentiality, we'll call him Jack.
Jack and I met when he was admitted to the psychiatric hospital during one of my nightshifts. Even though he was in the early stages of Alzheimer's, at 6'1" he still had an undeniable presence. One day, while handing him a cup of water, he punched me in the side, bringing me to my knees. After taking some time to gather my thoughts (and resisting the urge to give him a swift kick in the shin), I clumsily made my way to the nurses station positive he'd cracked one of my right ribs. I was informed, however, that I should've been more careful. Had I been given a more accurate report, I would've learned that, back in the day, Jack had been a professional boxer known for his killer left hook. Oh really...
Turns out, Jack had been more than a professional boxer. He'd first been a professional baseball player until he was drafted for WWII. Then, while he was in the Navy, he took up boxing. After the war, he went pro (where he met his wife, who was also a professional boxer). His father, mother, and two brothers had all been musicians (violin, cello, saxophone, and piano). According to his wife, Jack himself played a mean fiddle, which he showed when his entire family (among others) performed for president Truman in 1950.
And he was funny. His wit was the inappropriate kind I find so hilarious. Once, when one of his sons visited:
Jack: "Who the hell are you?"
John: "Dad, it's me, John."
Jack: "No, I know my son John, and you're not him. For God's sake man, you have breasts."
John: "Well, you're going blind. And besides, maybe I like them."
Jack: "I can see why. You look good in a 'B' cup."
He also gave me my boyfriend's all-time favorite quote:
Me: "So what did you like more, boxing or baseball?"
Jack: "Baseball, always baseball. A real ball player never likes anything more than baseball. Hell when he can't play anymore he coaches, and when he can't coach anymore he just hangs around and rakes the field. A dirt diamond is the best place on earth."
He told me stories of the games he played in, the crowds he boxed for and the people he fought alongside in battle. He described places he'd been, the foods he'd eaten, the first time he laid eyes on his wife, and the feel of a fiddle that had been handcrafted just for him. He told me of the night he got drunk in an Irish pub and, "...won a fight over a lass that turned out to be a fella." Another time, he won $6,400 on a dog race only to lose it all in a poker game with Doyle Brunson.
Listening to him tell stories, just as listening to my mother tell stories, is an adventure in itself. People like these two, you see, are interesting. The media, however, would probably classify both Jack and my mother as "boring."
So strange that the opinions of pop tarts and reality stars are valued over those who have real life experiences. I know I'll never see the paparazzi outside my mom's house, questioning her about the latest trends in pantsuits, but I'll take her stories over a fake-baked camera-hungry bimbo any day. Real people have been through real struggles and real triumphs, and the emotions that come with those experiences cannot be scripted.
Someday, I hope to be an interesting person myself. Or better yet, I hope to be a "boring" one. "Interesting" people are lame, it's the "boring" ones that are having all the fun.
Who are your favorite "boring" people?