Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Decisions, decisions
Buying pretty dresses from Anthropologie seems to be all the rage these days. The combination of beautiful, spring-like weather and the fact that my web browser seems to keep finding itself at the store's web site as if by its own free will (or as if I'm constantly directing it there, whatever) has done little to keep me from wanting to jump on the pretty-dress-buying bandwagon.
I have $16 left on a Christmas gift card, and I have a plan. The plan is to find a dress or skirt that I just can't live without and then wait for it to go on sale. This is where the plan starts to break down, because I've identified about seventeen things that I just can't live without, and I'm getting pretty impatient waiting for the inevitable sale.
While checking out the spring inventory at the store shortly after Christmas, this skirt and this one caught my eye--and now they're both on sale. But which one to pick? And why settle for a skirt when I could have this dress? Or this one? Or this one? Or this one (currently my favorite, probably because it's the most outlandish and impractical)? But none of these dresses are currently on sale, which led me to this one, which I saw in the store and fell in love with during my post-Christmas trip. At the time, I brushed it off because I didn't have the slightest idea where I could possibly wear it, but now it occurs to me that I might be able to make it work for Nikki's rehearsal dinner.
Ack! Too many choices! I think what I need to do is make an exploratory trip to Anthropologie to try on the skirts and dresses and see which one fits the best. I'm afraid that this is going to do little to curb my yearning to buy way more pretty dresses than I need or can afford, but it's what must be done.
Buying pretty dresses from Anthropologie seems to be all the rage these days. The combination of beautiful, spring-like weather and the fact that my web browser seems to keep finding itself at the store's web site as if by its own free will (or as if I'm constantly directing it there, whatever) has done little to keep me from wanting to jump on the pretty-dress-buying bandwagon.
I have $16 left on a Christmas gift card, and I have a plan. The plan is to find a dress or skirt that I just can't live without and then wait for it to go on sale. This is where the plan starts to break down, because I've identified about seventeen things that I just can't live without, and I'm getting pretty impatient waiting for the inevitable sale.
While checking out the spring inventory at the store shortly after Christmas, this skirt and this one caught my eye--and now they're both on sale. But which one to pick? And why settle for a skirt when I could have this dress? Or this one? Or this one? Or this one (currently my favorite, probably because it's the most outlandish and impractical)? But none of these dresses are currently on sale, which led me to this one, which I saw in the store and fell in love with during my post-Christmas trip. At the time, I brushed it off because I didn't have the slightest idea where I could possibly wear it, but now it occurs to me that I might be able to make it work for Nikki's rehearsal dinner.
Ack! Too many choices! I think what I need to do is make an exploratory trip to Anthropologie to try on the skirts and dresses and see which one fits the best. I'm afraid that this is going to do little to curb my yearning to buy way more pretty dresses than I need or can afford, but it's what must be done.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
It's not you, it's me
A very wise man (who currently has very pretty toenails, but that's another story for another time and place) told me the other night that job-hunting is a lot like dating. He's not the first to make that analogy, and he probably won't be the last, but that's only because it's oh so perfect.
Today I had to do the equivalent of the awkward post-second-date brush-off. It wasn't nearly as painful as it could have been, because the recipient of the brush-off gave me an out, and he gave me the chance to take it over e-mail. Actually, given those two qualifications, the brush-off was quite easy, although I was left with the nagging feeling that I was performing the job-search equivalent of breaking up with someone over their answering machine. But after only two dates, that's allowed, right? No? Well, it's too late now. The damage is done.
Meanwhile, as I'm dumping one suitor, I'm trying to avoid coming on too strong with another, much more attractive prospect. I fear I'm getting dangerously close to crossing that fine line between "appropriately eager" and "crazy stalker." But again, as with dating, that line is usually drawn by the person on the receiving end of your advances, and its placement is usually determined by how much they're into you.
I really hope they're into me.
Just in case they're not, though, I've been giving my phone number out all over the place, to anyone who looks the least bit promising. Which I guess makes me the job-search equivalent of a big fat whore.
A very wise man (who currently has very pretty toenails, but that's another story for another time and place) told me the other night that job-hunting is a lot like dating. He's not the first to make that analogy, and he probably won't be the last, but that's only because it's oh so perfect.
Today I had to do the equivalent of the awkward post-second-date brush-off. It wasn't nearly as painful as it could have been, because the recipient of the brush-off gave me an out, and he gave me the chance to take it over e-mail. Actually, given those two qualifications, the brush-off was quite easy, although I was left with the nagging feeling that I was performing the job-search equivalent of breaking up with someone over their answering machine. But after only two dates, that's allowed, right? No? Well, it's too late now. The damage is done.
Meanwhile, as I'm dumping one suitor, I'm trying to avoid coming on too strong with another, much more attractive prospect. I fear I'm getting dangerously close to crossing that fine line between "appropriately eager" and "crazy stalker." But again, as with dating, that line is usually drawn by the person on the receiving end of your advances, and its placement is usually determined by how much they're into you.
I really hope they're into me.
Just in case they're not, though, I've been giving my phone number out all over the place, to anyone who looks the least bit promising. Which I guess makes me the job-search equivalent of a big fat whore.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Break out the waterproof mascara--it's Friday!
Every Sunday while we're waiting for Desperate Housewives to come on, my friends and I usually end up watching the end of Extreme Home Makeover. And every Sunday, without fail, my friend Chris comments, "This show is designed to make you cry, isn't it?" And I say yes, and then we laugh about that instead of actually crying, like the show wants you to do.
Honestly, I've never succumbed to ABC's grand master plan to extract tears. I don't know if it's because I usually only watch the last 15 minutes, but for whatever reason, Extreme Home Makeover just doesn't do it for me. NPR's StoryCorps, however, is a different matter altogether.
Today they revisited a married couple who had originally done a StoryCorps interview two years ago about their first date, on which the husband proposed. They went on to talk about all the sweet things they do for one another, like how the husband leaves his wife little love notes on the kitchen table every morning. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking, "One of them is going to die. They wouldn't be revisiting this couple otherwise."
Yup. The husband has been diagnosed with a terminal cancer, and so today NPR recorded them talking about their love for each other in the face of death. And I. Lost it. You'd think it was my husband of 27 years who was dying of cancer. I bawled for pretty much the last half of my drive, then had to frantically wipe my red-rimmed eyes in the parking lot so people in the office didn't start to worry about me. It hasn't been this bad since the story where the high-school kids interviewed the parents of their classmates who had been murdered. Thanks a lot, StoryCorps.
Two
This is the number of times, in the past two days, that I have eaten cheesecake for dinner. I find this to be an alarming, if not altogether unwelcome, trend. It's probably a good thing that this week is nearly over.
Every Sunday while we're waiting for Desperate Housewives to come on, my friends and I usually end up watching the end of Extreme Home Makeover. And every Sunday, without fail, my friend Chris comments, "This show is designed to make you cry, isn't it?" And I say yes, and then we laugh about that instead of actually crying, like the show wants you to do.
Honestly, I've never succumbed to ABC's grand master plan to extract tears. I don't know if it's because I usually only watch the last 15 minutes, but for whatever reason, Extreme Home Makeover just doesn't do it for me. NPR's StoryCorps, however, is a different matter altogether.
Today they revisited a married couple who had originally done a StoryCorps interview two years ago about their first date, on which the husband proposed. They went on to talk about all the sweet things they do for one another, like how the husband leaves his wife little love notes on the kitchen table every morning. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking, "One of them is going to die. They wouldn't be revisiting this couple otherwise."
Yup. The husband has been diagnosed with a terminal cancer, and so today NPR recorded them talking about their love for each other in the face of death. And I. Lost it. You'd think it was my husband of 27 years who was dying of cancer. I bawled for pretty much the last half of my drive, then had to frantically wipe my red-rimmed eyes in the parking lot so people in the office didn't start to worry about me. It hasn't been this bad since the story where the high-school kids interviewed the parents of their classmates who had been murdered. Thanks a lot, StoryCorps.
Two
This is the number of times, in the past two days, that I have eaten cheesecake for dinner. I find this to be an alarming, if not altogether unwelcome, trend. It's probably a good thing that this week is nearly over.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
In praise of my iPod, part infinity
Yesterday evening, I was sitting in the window seat of a plane, basking in the glow of my iPod, as I watched the man in the aisle seat get up, walk to a nearby overhead bin, take a bag out of the bin, bring the bag back to his seat, pull out a Ziploc baggie full of cassette tapes, shuffle through it to find the one he wanted, replace the Ziploc baggie in the bag, take the whole thing back to the overhead bin, and finally return to his seat.
Which is about when I thought to myself how lucky I was to have 927 of my favorite songs, all organized alphabetically by album, artist, and song title, all at my fingertips, accessible by just a few quick flicks of the click wheel.
Sometimes it's good to be the kiddie with all the new-fangled gadgets.
Yesterday evening, I was sitting in the window seat of a plane, basking in the glow of my iPod, as I watched the man in the aisle seat get up, walk to a nearby overhead bin, take a bag out of the bin, bring the bag back to his seat, pull out a Ziploc baggie full of cassette tapes, shuffle through it to find the one he wanted, replace the Ziploc baggie in the bag, take the whole thing back to the overhead bin, and finally return to his seat.
Which is about when I thought to myself how lucky I was to have 927 of my favorite songs, all organized alphabetically by album, artist, and song title, all at my fingertips, accessible by just a few quick flicks of the click wheel.
Sometimes it's good to be the kiddie with all the new-fangled gadgets.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Does Elle have all the answers?
Maybe not, but as I discovered this evening, they do have a particularly prescient horoscope for me this month. Witness:
You're not your usual focused self as February moves in. Stop toying with so many ifs and start making definitive decisions. Alluring job options and hot romantic prospects abound, but they'll slip away if you aren't proactive.
Huh. Well, that's certainly...relevant. But just to keep myself grounded in the reality of horoscopes being complete crap, no matter how pointedly accurate they seem, I crossed the page to the numerology forecast. Which said:
Trust your redoubtable instincts. You have an expert eye for quality and opportunity this month--although others may question your ideas. Don't be dissuaded by their lack of vision. You can spot a winner--perhaps a long shot--that others grossly underestimate.
So now I'm wondering--would it be wrong to start basing major life decisions on the Elle horoscope page? Wait, don't tell me. I know it would. Which is why I'm leaving those decisions up to my Magic 8-Ball sucker instead. (Too bad it answers every question I ask it with either, "Rely on it!" or "No doubt!", even when such answers are clearly contradictory. Oh, except when I ask it why it's so stupid. Then it just gives me, "Ask again later." This is not the best year for me with Magic 8-Balls, clearly.)
Maybe not, but as I discovered this evening, they do have a particularly prescient horoscope for me this month. Witness:
You're not your usual focused self as February moves in. Stop toying with so many ifs and start making definitive decisions. Alluring job options and hot romantic prospects abound, but they'll slip away if you aren't proactive.
Huh. Well, that's certainly...relevant. But just to keep myself grounded in the reality of horoscopes being complete crap, no matter how pointedly accurate they seem, I crossed the page to the numerology forecast. Which said:
Trust your redoubtable instincts. You have an expert eye for quality and opportunity this month--although others may question your ideas. Don't be dissuaded by their lack of vision. You can spot a winner--perhaps a long shot--that others grossly underestimate.
So now I'm wondering--would it be wrong to start basing major life decisions on the Elle horoscope page? Wait, don't tell me. I know it would. Which is why I'm leaving those decisions up to my Magic 8-Ball sucker instead. (Too bad it answers every question I ask it with either, "Rely on it!" or "No doubt!", even when such answers are clearly contradictory. Oh, except when I ask it why it's so stupid. Then it just gives me, "Ask again later." This is not the best year for me with Magic 8-Balls, clearly.)
Thursday, February 16, 2006
I feel like my life is on pause
And therefore, for a few days at least, so is this blog. But do not fret, dear readers. (I know you're probably going to fret anyway, but seriously. Don't.) Once life gets going again, I'll hit play. In the meantime, stay tuned for a word from our sponsors.
Oh, wait, we don't have any sponsors. Well, then, try a little channel-flipping in my absence. You'll find plenty over there on the left to keep you busy, I'm sure.
And therefore, for a few days at least, so is this blog. But do not fret, dear readers. (I know you're probably going to fret anyway, but seriously. Don't.) Once life gets going again, I'll hit play. In the meantime, stay tuned for a word from our sponsors.
Oh, wait, we don't have any sponsors. Well, then, try a little channel-flipping in my absence. You'll find plenty over there on the left to keep you busy, I'm sure.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Valentine's message
On this day of expressing love, I would just like to, once again, publicly declare my undying admiration for this girl.
On this day of expressing love, I would just like to, once again, publicly declare my undying admiration for this girl.
Monday, February 13, 2006
A few facts
Fact #1: I currently have three different types of lip gloss in my purse.
Fact #2: They are all made by Avon.
Fact #3: Avon makes really good lip gloss.
Fact #4: I may have a problem.
Fact #1: I currently have three different types of lip gloss in my purse.
Fact #2: They are all made by Avon.
Fact #3: Avon makes really good lip gloss.
Fact #4: I may have a problem.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Wisdom from a hatbox
The other night, as I attempted to put the overstuffed hatbox that holds every card and letter I've ever received back in my closet, the contents began to leak out and rain down on my wardrobe, and I realized it was probably time to do a little selective editing. Somewhere among the letters from high-school friends sent to my college dorm and the cherished missives from my fourth-grade pen pal, I knew there had to be just as many holiday and birthday cards that said little more than "Merry Christmas!" or "Have a great [insert age here] year!" So yesterday, armed with a mug of hot cocoa, I sat down to start weeding through the letters.
Needless to say, I came across some great discoveries. There was the heartfelt, dog-eared letter that my friend Amanda Littlejohn sent me in response to a letter I'd written her in sixth grade, telling her that even though I'd long been nursing a crush on her new boyfriend (who, incidentally, is now her husband), I didn't want that to interfere with our friendship. There was the 18th birthday card from my parents, in which my dad wrote that I had amazed them every day since the day I was born. There was a valentine from Nikki, which she had wrapped in a picture of the Teletubbies, inscribed with the following phrase: "They may be evil, but they love you, Clare!" (Thanks, Nikki.)
My favorite, however, was a letter from my high-school best friend, Amanda, which she sent me shortly after I arrived at college. Her words were inspiring to me then, but they may be even more so now:
I'm prepared to drain life dry, not by accomplishing things or making a name for myself or even leaving a mark. I'm going to be happy as often as I can for the rest of my life. I challenge you to do the same. Be a tease or a whore or a lesbian, for heaven's sake. But BE HAPPY! Please yourself, fulfill your fantasies, buy $5 lip gloss and $40 bras and live it up. We'll be old soon enough, and we'll realize we spent the first half of our lives planning the second half, and the second half reminiscing about the first.
Amen. And you know what? I am happy now, or at the very least, quite close to it. I hope she is, too.
The other night, as I attempted to put the overstuffed hatbox that holds every card and letter I've ever received back in my closet, the contents began to leak out and rain down on my wardrobe, and I realized it was probably time to do a little selective editing. Somewhere among the letters from high-school friends sent to my college dorm and the cherished missives from my fourth-grade pen pal, I knew there had to be just as many holiday and birthday cards that said little more than "Merry Christmas!" or "Have a great [insert age here] year!" So yesterday, armed with a mug of hot cocoa, I sat down to start weeding through the letters.
Needless to say, I came across some great discoveries. There was the heartfelt, dog-eared letter that my friend Amanda Littlejohn sent me in response to a letter I'd written her in sixth grade, telling her that even though I'd long been nursing a crush on her new boyfriend (who, incidentally, is now her husband), I didn't want that to interfere with our friendship. There was the 18th birthday card from my parents, in which my dad wrote that I had amazed them every day since the day I was born. There was a valentine from Nikki, which she had wrapped in a picture of the Teletubbies, inscribed with the following phrase: "They may be evil, but they love you, Clare!" (Thanks, Nikki.)
My favorite, however, was a letter from my high-school best friend, Amanda, which she sent me shortly after I arrived at college. Her words were inspiring to me then, but they may be even more so now:
I'm prepared to drain life dry, not by accomplishing things or making a name for myself or even leaving a mark. I'm going to be happy as often as I can for the rest of my life. I challenge you to do the same. Be a tease or a whore or a lesbian, for heaven's sake. But BE HAPPY! Please yourself, fulfill your fantasies, buy $5 lip gloss and $40 bras and live it up. We'll be old soon enough, and we'll realize we spent the first half of our lives planning the second half, and the second half reminiscing about the first.
Amen. And you know what? I am happy now, or at the very least, quite close to it. I hope she is, too.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Because nothing says love like "fuck me up, steal my records, and screw all my friends"
God love Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon for including Ryan Adams' "Come Pick Me Up" on their iTunes Valentine's Day Celebrity Playlist. The title of this post says it all, folks. And while we're on the subject of Ryan Adams, in case you missed Danielle's and my exchange yesterday, I refuse to believe that he is dating Lindsay Lohan. I mean, remember when everyone said she was dating Bruce Willis? Yeah. This is like that, I'm sure. But if they are dating...well, I hope she fucks him up, steals his records, and screws all his friends. Stupid, stupid Ryan Adams.
Anyway. I'm a little bit miffed that iTunes didn't ask me for my Valentine's Day Celebrity Playlist. Maybe it's because word has gotten around that I hate Valentine's Day. It might also possibly be because I am not actually a celebrity, nor am I dating or married to a celebrity. But that's a trivial concern, really. And while it's true that I hate Valentine's Day and its cliched commercialization of love, this does not mean that I hate love itself. As a matter of fact, I think love is pretty swell. And love songs (well, a select number of them) are fairly awesome as well. So, even though iTunes didn't ask, and probably none of you really care, here is my very own Valentine's Day Celebrity Playlist:
"Such Great Heights," Iron & Wine
"Feels Like Home," Chantal Kreviazuk
"The Luckiest," Ben Folds
"Falling Is Like This," Ani DiFranco
"One," U2
"Kingdom Come," Coldplay
"All I Want," Joni Mitchell
"Love's Recovery," The Indigo Girls
"Forever," Ben Harper
"Just in Time," Nina Simone
"Falling Free," David Gray
"More Adventurous," Rilo Kiley
"Ice Cream," Sarah McLachlan
"Grace," Me'Shell Ndegeocello
"God Only Knows," The Beach Boys
30:25
This was my time today in my first (and probably only) 5K. According to someone who knows, this is a "solid" time. But the time is not important to me. These are the things that are important: I finished. I finished without stopping to walk. I finished without the help of my iPod, although I was singing "Stronger" and "Since U Been Gone" to myself pretty much the entire race. I dug in at the finish line and was able to pick off that random guy in the blue jacket that I suddenly decided I had to beat. It's over now. I never have to run again, unless next year I get some crazy idea that I want to try to do a 10K. (It's a slippery slope, this running thing, I'm afraid.) And, most importantly, I am sitting here right now in my free T-shirt. Really, that's what it's all about, isn't it?
God love Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon for including Ryan Adams' "Come Pick Me Up" on their iTunes Valentine's Day Celebrity Playlist. The title of this post says it all, folks. And while we're on the subject of Ryan Adams, in case you missed Danielle's and my exchange yesterday, I refuse to believe that he is dating Lindsay Lohan. I mean, remember when everyone said she was dating Bruce Willis? Yeah. This is like that, I'm sure. But if they are dating...well, I hope she fucks him up, steals his records, and screws all his friends. Stupid, stupid Ryan Adams.
Anyway. I'm a little bit miffed that iTunes didn't ask me for my Valentine's Day Celebrity Playlist. Maybe it's because word has gotten around that I hate Valentine's Day. It might also possibly be because I am not actually a celebrity, nor am I dating or married to a celebrity. But that's a trivial concern, really. And while it's true that I hate Valentine's Day and its cliched commercialization of love, this does not mean that I hate love itself. As a matter of fact, I think love is pretty swell. And love songs (well, a select number of them) are fairly awesome as well. So, even though iTunes didn't ask, and probably none of you really care, here is my very own Valentine's Day Celebrity Playlist:
"Such Great Heights," Iron & Wine
"Feels Like Home," Chantal Kreviazuk
"The Luckiest," Ben Folds
"Falling Is Like This," Ani DiFranco
"One," U2
"Kingdom Come," Coldplay
"All I Want," Joni Mitchell
"Love's Recovery," The Indigo Girls
"Forever," Ben Harper
"Just in Time," Nina Simone
"Falling Free," David Gray
"More Adventurous," Rilo Kiley
"Ice Cream," Sarah McLachlan
"Grace," Me'Shell Ndegeocello
"God Only Knows," The Beach Boys
30:25
This was my time today in my first (and probably only) 5K. According to someone who knows, this is a "solid" time. But the time is not important to me. These are the things that are important: I finished. I finished without stopping to walk. I finished without the help of my iPod, although I was singing "Stronger" and "Since U Been Gone" to myself pretty much the entire race. I dug in at the finish line and was able to pick off that random guy in the blue jacket that I suddenly decided I had to beat. It's over now. I never have to run again, unless next year I get some crazy idea that I want to try to do a 10K. (It's a slippery slope, this running thing, I'm afraid.) And, most importantly, I am sitting here right now in my free T-shirt. Really, that's what it's all about, isn't it?
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Blame Sienna
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the few ills of the world that can't be blamed on Ben Affleck can usually be blamed on Sienna Miller. Actually, much like Affleck, I only blame Sienna for one (albeit one MAJOR) offense: bringing back leggings. Oh, there was an idyllic time during which I held onto the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, The Fashion Powers That Be would finally give up their obsession with Sienna and see her for what she truly is--a repeat fug offender. But I knew it never could be. These are, after all, the same people who worship at the altar of Chloe Sevigny for reasons that remain unknown to those of us who are...well, sane.
Tonight, however, what little remained of my dream was completely dashed. I was at the mall and, walking past Express, I saw the horror of all horrors: leggings, front and center. Sure, Express tried to disguise them as the "Sexy Slim Knit Pant," but their not-so-clever euphemism wasn't fooling me for a second. They even included an astounding amount of verbiage on the display window to explain why the leggings (oh, sorry, "Sexy Slim Knit Pants") are hot and sexy and hip and cool and TOTALLY not the same pants you wore in 1987 with an oversize sweatshirt and high-top L.A. Gears. This was accompanied, of course, with a photo of a girl bearing a striking resemblance to one Miss Sienna Miller having the time of her life in a club.
This just can't happen. Sienna Miller must be stopped. Oh, sure, now you're saying, "What's the harm in leggings, really? I think they can look kind of cute under a short skirt with flats, and maybe a little cardigan on top." I'll admit, I've had these very thoughts myself, but it's not the leggings so much as it is the principle. Today it's leggings, but what's next? Will we all blindly follow Sienna Miller as she decides to revive puffy-paint sweatshirts? Hypercolor? Scrunchies? We're in dangerous territory here, people. We're treading on the edge of a slippery slope, and one false move could send us straight back into 1991. And no one wants that.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the few ills of the world that can't be blamed on Ben Affleck can usually be blamed on Sienna Miller. Actually, much like Affleck, I only blame Sienna for one (albeit one MAJOR) offense: bringing back leggings. Oh, there was an idyllic time during which I held onto the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, The Fashion Powers That Be would finally give up their obsession with Sienna and see her for what she truly is--a repeat fug offender. But I knew it never could be. These are, after all, the same people who worship at the altar of Chloe Sevigny for reasons that remain unknown to those of us who are...well, sane.
Tonight, however, what little remained of my dream was completely dashed. I was at the mall and, walking past Express, I saw the horror of all horrors: leggings, front and center. Sure, Express tried to disguise them as the "Sexy Slim Knit Pant," but their not-so-clever euphemism wasn't fooling me for a second. They even included an astounding amount of verbiage on the display window to explain why the leggings (oh, sorry, "Sexy Slim Knit Pants") are hot and sexy and hip and cool and TOTALLY not the same pants you wore in 1987 with an oversize sweatshirt and high-top L.A. Gears. This was accompanied, of course, with a photo of a girl bearing a striking resemblance to one Miss Sienna Miller having the time of her life in a club.
This just can't happen. Sienna Miller must be stopped. Oh, sure, now you're saying, "What's the harm in leggings, really? I think they can look kind of cute under a short skirt with flats, and maybe a little cardigan on top." I'll admit, I've had these very thoughts myself, but it's not the leggings so much as it is the principle. Today it's leggings, but what's next? Will we all blindly follow Sienna Miller as she decides to revive puffy-paint sweatshirts? Hypercolor? Scrunchies? We're in dangerous territory here, people. We're treading on the edge of a slippery slope, and one false move could send us straight back into 1991. And no one wants that.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Looking for love in all the wrong places?
Among the many benefits of listening to my iPod while running, I have found that it's also very helpful in highlighting new discoveries in my never-ending string of misheard lyrics. Here are a couple of the eye-openers that I've come across:
From The Killers' "Somebody Told Me"
Actual lyric: Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my moonlight
Lyric heard by me: Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my blue light
From J.Lo's "Love Don't Cost a Thing"
Actual lyric: Saw you later in the corner booth, raising up a toast so I would notice you
Lyric heard by me: Saw you later in the carnival, raising up a toast so I would notice you
I don't know what to say here. Apparently I thought discount stores and carnivals were where all the glamorous people were meeting and hooking up. Perhaps this could explain why I had such bad luck with guys in the past.
Among the many benefits of listening to my iPod while running, I have found that it's also very helpful in highlighting new discoveries in my never-ending string of misheard lyrics. Here are a couple of the eye-openers that I've come across:
From The Killers' "Somebody Told Me"
Actual lyric: Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my moonlight
Lyric heard by me: Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my blue light
From J.Lo's "Love Don't Cost a Thing"
Actual lyric: Saw you later in the corner booth, raising up a toast so I would notice you
Lyric heard by me: Saw you later in the carnival, raising up a toast so I would notice you
I don't know what to say here. Apparently I thought discount stores and carnivals were where all the glamorous people were meeting and hooking up. Perhaps this could explain why I had such bad luck with guys in the past.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Bring on the fat
I've always been a bit wary of fat-free food. There's just something unnatural about it. Certain foods, particularly sweets and dairy products, are supposed to have fat. Low-fat I can handle, since at least a little fat usually remains, and it's enough to assure me that what I'm eating is not a completely alien substance. In fact, I often prefer low-fat dairy products, such as milk (1 percent), sour cream (low fat), whipped cream (light), and cream cheese (1/3 less fat). The only exceptions to this rule are cheese (reduced-fat cheddar and I had a pretty good run for awhile, but we eventually decided to part ways) and yogurt (for some reason, I've never been attracted to low-fat yogurt, although I wouldn't rule out a future dalliance).
Given my general avoidance of non-fat items, it's often easy for me to forget exactly why I'm avoiding them. When I go to the grocery store and they are out of my preferred low-fat item, I then have a daunting choice to make: full fat or no fat? This week I chose no fat. As it turns out, this was the wrong decision.
The offending item, in this case, is non-fat whipped cream. For the life of me, I cannot tell the difference between regular whipped cream and light whipped cream. Therefore, I assumed that the same would hold true for light vs. non-fat. It doesn't. I'm not sure what this stuff is, but I'm pretty sure it has never seen the inside of a cow, and therefore I'm not sure how they can classify it as "cream." It tastes like whipped artificial non-dairy coffee creamer, which is just something I never wanted to put in my mouth. It's not quite so horrible when eaten with strawberries, but standing in front of the fridge and squirting it directly from the can into your mouth is just out of the question. And really, what is the fun of having a can of whipped cream in your fridge if you don't have that option?
I've always been a bit wary of fat-free food. There's just something unnatural about it. Certain foods, particularly sweets and dairy products, are supposed to have fat. Low-fat I can handle, since at least a little fat usually remains, and it's enough to assure me that what I'm eating is not a completely alien substance. In fact, I often prefer low-fat dairy products, such as milk (1 percent), sour cream (low fat), whipped cream (light), and cream cheese (1/3 less fat). The only exceptions to this rule are cheese (reduced-fat cheddar and I had a pretty good run for awhile, but we eventually decided to part ways) and yogurt (for some reason, I've never been attracted to low-fat yogurt, although I wouldn't rule out a future dalliance).
Given my general avoidance of non-fat items, it's often easy for me to forget exactly why I'm avoiding them. When I go to the grocery store and they are out of my preferred low-fat item, I then have a daunting choice to make: full fat or no fat? This week I chose no fat. As it turns out, this was the wrong decision.
The offending item, in this case, is non-fat whipped cream. For the life of me, I cannot tell the difference between regular whipped cream and light whipped cream. Therefore, I assumed that the same would hold true for light vs. non-fat. It doesn't. I'm not sure what this stuff is, but I'm pretty sure it has never seen the inside of a cow, and therefore I'm not sure how they can classify it as "cream." It tastes like whipped artificial non-dairy coffee creamer, which is just something I never wanted to put in my mouth. It's not quite so horrible when eaten with strawberries, but standing in front of the fridge and squirting it directly from the can into your mouth is just out of the question. And really, what is the fun of having a can of whipped cream in your fridge if you don't have that option?
Monday, February 06, 2006
I am not crazy
For the past few years, every time I've left my car at the airport to go on a trip, I've parked it in the same place--Level 3, Zone G. It's not too far from the entrance, and I'm almost always able to find a spot, which cuts down on a lot of fruitless parking-spot-searching time (a luxury I don't usually have, since I routinely arrive at the airport in barely enough time to catch my flight).
Yesterday, I was doing my usual walk back to Zone G, when suddenly I noticed that the walls that should have been color-coded purple were now blue. I looked at the nearest sign, which revealed that I was in Zone F. I whirled around to double-check that I had indeed just passed through Zone A and found it just where it had always been. And yet Zone G was conspicuously missing. Had it fallen into a vortex? Was I losing my mind? The latter possibility was seeming increasingly likely when I happened to see a small purple overhead sign, the only remnant of Zone G to survive the vortex. Which is when it dawned on me that there was no vortex at all, but rather the airport had decided to overhaul their entire zoning and color-coding parking garage system in the four days I was gone. Thank God I always park in the same place, because it doesn't do a whole lot of good to memorize your parking coordinates if the airport is going to switch them around on you before you get back. Good one, airport.
Wait, maybe I am
So remember that 5K that I've been training for for months (against my better judgment) and finally signed up for last week? Yeah, I just checked the weather forecast, and apparently it's supposed to be cold and rainy on the day of the race. You'd think I might have factored in potential coldness and raininess when signing up for a race in February, but I of course did not. It occurs to me now that March or April probably would have been better racing months, but it's too late. I am running this race on Saturday, no matter how much water I have to slog through to do so, because the knowledge that my brief time as a runner is almost over is just about the only thing getting me through this week. And hey, maybe the nasty weather will be a good thing, in that I'll be spurred on by the the desire to get out of it as fast as I possibly can.
Then again, maybe I'm just crazy.
For the past few years, every time I've left my car at the airport to go on a trip, I've parked it in the same place--Level 3, Zone G. It's not too far from the entrance, and I'm almost always able to find a spot, which cuts down on a lot of fruitless parking-spot-searching time (a luxury I don't usually have, since I routinely arrive at the airport in barely enough time to catch my flight).
Yesterday, I was doing my usual walk back to Zone G, when suddenly I noticed that the walls that should have been color-coded purple were now blue. I looked at the nearest sign, which revealed that I was in Zone F. I whirled around to double-check that I had indeed just passed through Zone A and found it just where it had always been. And yet Zone G was conspicuously missing. Had it fallen into a vortex? Was I losing my mind? The latter possibility was seeming increasingly likely when I happened to see a small purple overhead sign, the only remnant of Zone G to survive the vortex. Which is when it dawned on me that there was no vortex at all, but rather the airport had decided to overhaul their entire zoning and color-coding parking garage system in the four days I was gone. Thank God I always park in the same place, because it doesn't do a whole lot of good to memorize your parking coordinates if the airport is going to switch them around on you before you get back. Good one, airport.
Wait, maybe I am
So remember that 5K that I've been training for for months (against my better judgment) and finally signed up for last week? Yeah, I just checked the weather forecast, and apparently it's supposed to be cold and rainy on the day of the race. You'd think I might have factored in potential coldness and raininess when signing up for a race in February, but I of course did not. It occurs to me now that March or April probably would have been better racing months, but it's too late. I am running this race on Saturday, no matter how much water I have to slog through to do so, because the knowledge that my brief time as a runner is almost over is just about the only thing getting me through this week. And hey, maybe the nasty weather will be a good thing, in that I'll be spurred on by the the desire to get out of it as fast as I possibly can.
Then again, maybe I'm just crazy.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Hi, my name is Clare, and I am a cake addict
Look, I know I have a problem when it comes to cake. This is nothing new. Anyone at work who's seen me rush to the kitchen to be the first to grab a piece of sugary-frosting-covered cake left over from a photo shoot knows as much. But usually, I'm sort of able to keep it under control. This week that hasn't been so easy. I think my friend Robyn started it on Friday afternoon when she shared samples of a cream cheese pound cake she'd received from a customer. Then on Sunday, it was this delectable tale that renewed the cake jonesing. Today's the kicker, though, as I'm sitting here shortly before lunch, reading an entire book about cakes as research for a similar project I'll be working on soon. Now my tastebuds are literally aching for something sugary. This book is my Pavlov's bell, and I cannot stop the salivating. And even though I know that there will be lots of cake in my future (I think I've even managed to wrangle myself a slice of CakeLove), it's not enough. This is torture.
Look, I know I have a problem when it comes to cake. This is nothing new. Anyone at work who's seen me rush to the kitchen to be the first to grab a piece of sugary-frosting-covered cake left over from a photo shoot knows as much. But usually, I'm sort of able to keep it under control. This week that hasn't been so easy. I think my friend Robyn started it on Friday afternoon when she shared samples of a cream cheese pound cake she'd received from a customer. Then on Sunday, it was this delectable tale that renewed the cake jonesing. Today's the kicker, though, as I'm sitting here shortly before lunch, reading an entire book about cakes as research for a similar project I'll be working on soon. Now my tastebuds are literally aching for something sugary. This book is my Pavlov's bell, and I cannot stop the salivating. And even though I know that there will be lots of cake in my future (I think I've even managed to wrangle myself a slice of CakeLove), it's not enough. This is torture.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]