All Or Nothing

Ok, Then What I Want To Know Is, WHO FREAKING PUT IT THERE?

First, let me address the issue of posting pictures of my skinny jeans.  I have thought about it, long and hard, and have decided that I will do it, but only because I love you all, and for no other reason.  Because?  This can't end well for me.

Onto other things.  Please indulge me for a few moments, because what is to follow will be a shameless venting of my annoyance.  I won't get my feelings hurt if you click on over to another site (try Erin!), or kinda skim down to see if I actually come up with anything interesting towards the end (no.  No, I don't).

I have a mystery at my house tonight, folks, and it is bringing out the...errr...well, it's not boding well for a tender and loving domicile this evening.

Allow me to outline the mystery for you and you can see what you think.  Because try as I might (and I probably won't be trying too hard tonight) I am guessing that what I think will come through loud and clear.  I would say ignore me, but I am totally right, so?  Don't ignore!  Agree!  Promote rationale!

5:45 - Elise leaves day job and drives home to embark on an evening of night job

6:15 - E frantically shoves cold pizza into the microwave as she is famished and must eat quickly

6:16 - E notices an unfamiliar red plastic cup languishing idly on the counter.  E investigates said cup

6:16:30 - E lifts contents of cup (orange, slightly curdled) to her nose and sniffs.  Takes one for the team

6:16:31 - E is accosted by a smell that is strangely reminiscent to old orange juice and butter, all swirled together and then steeped in the sun for a fortnight or so

6:17 - E asks Cody what in the hell is the orange juice/butter mixture he has apparently been....drinking?  Ugh, I hope not

6:18 - C examines cup and announces that not only has he not been drinking any such concoction, but also that he has no idea what it is or from whence it came

6:20 - E and C stare, puzzled, at the cup.  E wonders if C, who is somewhat notorious for being absentminded, has actually forgotten his involvement with the mystery substance

6:21 - E voices this hypothesis

6:22 - C is annoyed.  C defends his innocence.  C rolls eyes at inference

6:23 - E decides to IGNORE historical evidence and believe that C does not, as he states, have anything to do with the cup

6:24 - E proposes that since E has no material knowledge of the cup, and since C has no material knowledge of the cup, that perhaps someone ELSE has placed the cup, with it's strange orange liquid, on the kitchen counter

6:25 - C finds this suggestion to be preposterous.  C suggests that E is "out of her mind" and "being completely paranoid"

6:26 - E is understandably taken aback.  E finds that in the same way that 2 + 2 = 4, it follows that (if) E did not have cup + (and) C did not have cup = (then) SOMEONE ELSE had the mother-effing cup

6:28 - E removes pizza from microwave, and does not mention the cup again.  E and C proceed to the library, where E researches story leads and C watches football and folds laundry

                                                *****

11:15 - Football game has ended.  E has lost Fantasy Football in a very close match, and in a heretofore unimaginable way.  E is, again, understandably taken aback.  E decides to broach the subject of the mystery cup again.  Perhaps E is looking for an argument.  WHO COULD BLAME HER, REALLY?  SHE HAS BEEN WORKING NOW FOR ABOUT 12 HOURS AND JUST LOST A GAME BECAUSE OF TOM THE MANSLUT BRADY

11:16 - C seems to find it extremely disagreeable to reopen the discussion of the mystery cup.  When asked what he would think if it could be proven, irrefutably, that the cup was placed on the kitchen counter by a STRANGER, he states that he "would not care"

11:17 - E finds this answer to be unsatisfactory, as she feels that the presence of unauthorized strangers in her house is less than desirable

11:18 - C proposes that E is "just in a bad mood" and instructs her to "not say one more word about the &%*@ing cup"

11:19 - E wonders if this tactic has ever worked on anyone, ever

11:20 - 11:30 - E and C heatedly discuss the various nuances and inferences of finding an unidentifiable cup full of an unpleasant mystery substance on the kitchen counter, and whether or not it matters if random strangers are coming in and out of our house at will.  And, apparently, cooking?  Or mixing drinks?  C continues to blame E's reaction on her alleged bad mood.  E becomes increasingly annoyed at the invalidation she is receiving from C, and continues to refer back to the inherent logic of the situation.  If A and B are true, then so is C.  It's LOGIC.  Isn't the whole thing about logic that you can't successfully argue against it?

11:31 - C vows in no uncertain terms that he does NOT believe that any stranger has entered the house, but if they have, he does not care and will not take any measures to prevent said stranger from entering the house in the future

11:32 - E has a range of thought processes, ranging from hoping to be abducted by the orange juice-toting stranger to hoping for C to come home and find nothing but a note pinned to the middle of his empty floor saying "Ha!  I was here, and I did bring that weird drink!  In the red cup!  Sucker."

11:33 - E decides that since neither of those results are terribly likely, she will just blog about the ordeal, and beg for the sympathies, if not, the commiseration of the Internet

See?  I told you I wasn't going to say anything interesting.  And if you don't see anything new on this site in the next few days?  Well, I probably am sitting at the bottom of a well, listening to my abductor gloat about his stealth and prowess in all things psychotic, and stewing in some weird orange-butter mixture.

Maybe Cody would believe me THEN.

You Can't Tell Me That's Not A Great Headline

I have a confession.  I like my skinny leg jeans.

I know!  Proceed to hate me and call me a hypocrite.  No one could deserve it more.

But really, they're COMFY.  And, as long as I wear a tunic style shirt or at least a shirt that goes over my hips, they are actually quite slimming.  Most of us have thin-ish knees, calves, and ankles, you know?  And that is what is being showcased in the much-maligned skinny jean.

So, you don't have to have skinny genes to wear the skinny jeans!  Ha!  I wonder how many fashion editors, frantically trolling the Internet at 3am, came up with that headline.

Ok, ok, I know this post is eye-glazingly, hair-rippingly, rather-stab-yourself-in-the-foot-edly boring.  I really am sorry.  I would pull the whole "I have SOOO much to do, the store, the new writing gig, Dallas market all day tomorrow, Los Angeles market Wed-Sat" thing but that would be annoying.

I HATE it when people play the "busy and therefore so much more important than you" card.  Don't you find that doctor-types do that more than just about anyone?  It's like, yes, dude, I know you were on-call last night, and technically have been on the clock for 18 hours straight.  But I also realize that about 5 of those hours were spent sleeping in the doctors lounge, 3 pretending to read charts but really gossiping with the ER admissions guy, and 1.5 searching for coffee that isn't two days old.

So, not that busy after all. 

And neither am I.  I will get my time-management together, just you wait.  Soon, I will be posting on this site even more, as a result of the eye-scorching amount of hours I am spending online.  I just need to get the hang of mass posting and we'll be good to go. 

In the meantime, indulge me.  Tell me I'm not entirely crazy to have pulled a Benedict Arnold on the whole anti-skinny jean issue.  Can't they be ok, in the right circumstances?  Or am I just a sucker?

Several Poorly Executed Attempts At "Being Cool" About It

So!  I got a new job.  I am a writer for this site.

The site deals with clothing, style, trends, celebrity culture, decorating, and opinion articles on just about anything fashion related.

Now this new job is not to replace my old job, which is running a small clothing boutique.  Rather, I have now plunged headfirst into the realm of she REALLY has no life now.  Seriously y'all, she's like at the store or online ALL THE TIME.  Boring!

But!  Don't you think the two jobs compliment each other well?  I mean, I get to see all the trends a couple of seasons before they are in stores anyway; I might as well get to write about them at the same time.  Right?  And writing all those posts per month at the new site won't take THAT much time, right?  I'll still have some free time.  Right??  I mean, sleeping!  That should count as free time.  I totally think it's free time.

Right?

At least I get a new laptop.

Go visit StyleDash!

McGasleak

I just drove through a...ummm...common fast food establishment to get my daily medium coffee and a small biscuit ($2.29!  I'm willing to sacrifice the cool quotient of Starbucks for $2.29).  I successfully made it through the give-them-your-money window, and pulled around to the give-me-my-food window.

It was then that I was informed that Mc...I mean, the PLACE, had a gas leak.  Rather, I wasn't so much informed as I was treated to an entire pantomime show, with various employees making faces of extreme surprise and throwing their arms apart as if to indicate an explosion.  Boom!  ¡Ayúdame!

I sat in my car, as the manager ran to the front of the restaurant, shooing out all the customers who were waiting in line, and frantically locking the doors so that no one new could come in.  I watched, as an employee went into a fit of coughing that stopped just short of her having to run to the trash can and puke.

And all I could think was hmmm.....so are they gonna give me my biscuit?  I think I could stand to lose the biscuit, but surely the gas leak won't affect my coffee.  Yeah, I think I could reasonably expect my coffee.

My mother would be SO proud of me today.

I Have A Great Post

But I don't have time to do it justice at the moment.  In the meantime, here are some pictures for your perusal.  These are all from a couple of weekends ago when Cody and I went to the Texas State Fair (a place that is very postworthy in and of itself) and then to the Nana Bar on the top of the Anatole Hotel in Dallas.

Have a great weekend!

*edit - I know the pictures aren't lined up.  Believe me, this bothers me more than it does you.  Typepad is acting crazy.  And by crazy, I mean supremely annoying. 

I think the only solution is for me to write my little captions here in a list and then have the list correspond to the pictures.  So now we have a little counting game as well as picture viewing.  Should make for a rockin' weekend for everyone. 

1) Kangaroo love!  If you don't think this is cute, you might not have a beating heart.

2) Alpacas are possibly the strangest animals on the planet.  But they do make good sweaters! Oooh, I totally said it.  Can you believe me?

3)  The perfect imagery for the Texas State Fair

4) Or maybe an entire scaffolding's worth of pickup trucks, glimmering under the gently waving flag from the Lone Star state is

5)  This is Big Tex.  He talks.

6) Big Tex is terrifying.

7) There are two things that you absolutely must have while at the State Fair.  This is one of them.

8) And this is the other.

9) The perfect nightcap

10) I like dressing up

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Heart the Internet

Well, today has been a really bang-up day, if I do say so myself.

First off, I get some good news, which I will share with you as soon as humanly possible.  Or legally possible, that is.

Secondly, I think I am going to be able to buy one of the things on my list!   More specifically, I think I am going to be able to buy the very first thing on my list.

BUT!

Internet, I have been really loving you lately.  And I have been feeling the love, as well.  So I thought about it, and I feel that I would be remiss in rushing forward in a computer-buying frenzy without first consulting you.

So, I am asking for your help.  Tell me your opinion on laptops.  I need one that is going to be able to travel well, start up quickly, handle plenty of picture/document/music storage, and NOT need debugging and de-virusing and all-around fixing every few months.  Obviously I have a preference, as I might have tipped my hand to in the link above.  But see how much I love you?  I value your opinion over my own!  Especially when dealing with computers, which I may love to play on, but admittedly do not know much about.

Give me your advice!

Much Love To The ATL

I got the email!  Now we just have to wait and see how I feel about my inbox breaching the 189.  I'll let you know.

Oh, things are exciting around here!

In other news, tonight is the finale of Project Runway.  Because I am completely obsessed with this show and would like to take it out for drinks, cover it in kisses, and rub it's foot under the table (with my shoe off!  oooh!), I will allow this post to be about nothing else.

Yes, it is an unsubstantial post about Project Runway.  So what?  The show is genius.  The drama isn't TOO dramatic, the producers really seem to make human, intelligent decisions, and the designers are exceptionally talented. 

So who's it gonna be?  Laura,  Jeffrey,  Uli, or Michael?

Who do you think is going to win?

190. No! 189!

So, I've been checking my email obsessively today.  For some reason* I keep my inbox number at 189.  Gmail - Inbox (189), it tells me, every time I point my little arrow cursor at the minimized box.  5 seconds later?  Gmail - Inbox (189, still. Quit it).   And then I leave the room for what seems an exceptionally reasonable amount of time, come back, and it still says Gmail - Inbox (one eighty-freakin-nine.  Seriously, you JUST checked me).  I sigh and stomp out of the office and Gmail rolls it's eyes when it thinks I've gone and whispers to Yahoo mail "she's checked me like 87 times in the last 10 minutes.  Umm, lady, get a grip - no one is emailing you!" and laughs uproariously.  And Yahoo mail wishes that it didn't suck so bad and tries to think of something clever to say, but just as it comes up with the perfect witty aside, Gmail is unavailable, being checked again.  By me.  189.  My nemesis.

I actually do get emails on a pretty regular basis.  They give me a slight reprieve, because I'll frantically dash back into my little office in between customers to see if the magic number has changed, and hey!  192!  And then I maniacally click on the box and see that...nope, not the email I'm waiting for.  And so, instead of doing the sane and normal thing, which would be minimizing the box, remembering that now 193 means a new email, and going back to my customers, I have to read each email RIGHT THEN, and make sure that my inbox once again only contains 189 unread emails.  Because 189 is the number I have to see; 189 is the number that still allows me hope, 189 is the number of eternal promise. 

Sadly, this has not been going on for only one day.  Or even one week.  No, I have been doing this for approximately three weeks now, the obsessive checking, the frenetic hasty reading and then deleting, the demented practice of maintaining the mystical 189.

I am thinking, somewhere in that part of my brain that tries to rationalize my insanity, that once I receive this email I am waiting for, I won't have to keep my inbox on 189.  But there's no guarantee of that.  No, for all I know I may be sitting here next year, posting about hey, remember last October, when I thought it was weird that I felt it necessary to keep my Gmail inbox on 189?  Hahaha, that was funny, because OBVIOUSLY IT HAS TO STAY THERE.  189.  Duh.

Someone help me.

*I'd venture to guess that you might have figured out the reason by now.

And Now For Something New

I'd like to try a little game.  I'll give you a scenario, and you vote your opinion.

I walk into our bathroom to see my countertop covered with little hair stubs.  I then note the electric razor, still plugged in, also covered in hair.  I find this to be annoying.

I alert Cody (who is sporting a brand new haircut) to this observation, and request that he clean up the mess.  He alerts me that I, in fact, am what is annoying.

Now, this was quite a surprise, let me tell you.  What a turn of events!  At first I felt annoyed, and then, mere moments later, I became the annoyer!  I tell you the truth, I did not know it was possible.

So what do you think?  Was the hair all over the countertop annoying, or was I?  Register your vote below.  And don't worry about taking sides.  Cody is busy dumping the entire contents of his soccer bag (read: sweaty and dirty socks, sweaty and dirty shorts, sweaty and dirty jersey, shoes full of the little ground-up tire pieces they use for the field turf) onto the kitchen table.  So he won't be reading this.

Rising In The Ranks

Why be a half-assed stalker when you can be upgraded to the real thing?

In honor of my undying love for and obsession with Finslippy's writing, I am going to post this entry from her archives in its entirety.  Yes, I was reading her archives.  See what I mean, with the stalking?  See?

This post made me laugh out loud, and I NEVER do that.  That's right, I am a mean, unhappy shrew, and this made me laugh.  I therefore feel completely confident that it will do the same for you.

 

"Henry has a couple of toys that, I'm sorry, are just really dirty. This could be my undertaxed imagination at work--or it could be a conspiracy led by a covert league of perverts.

My parents recently gave Henry a ring-toss toy that my nephews used to enjoy. The center of this thing, the object upon which the rings are tossed, is a large, flesh-colored stalk, topped by a red bulb with a smiley face on it.
My Mom hauls this device out, thwaps it on the floor, and calls out, "Henry! Come say hello to Mr. Penis Head!"

And that's my Mom who made that observation. My Mom, who once, completely innocently, asked Scott and me what a "boner" was.

Mr. Penis Head is a giant phallus, and I can't see how he can be viewed in any other way. I don't think he could look any penis-ier (I made up a word!). Not if his head squirted when rubbed vigorously. Etc. He's a penis.

Henry loves Mr. Penis Head. We snap pictures as he gums its smiley noggin, but I think I can't print them out without risking jail time. Even making such an observation is probably a federal offense. Hey, Feds--I'm just saying! Sheesh.

Also!

Henry has this pony. Not a real pony. A rocking-chair pony that we purchased from Toys 'R' Us. The wily people at Toys 'R' Us made the store very, very loud, so that we couldn't hear what the pony sang when his ear was tugged.

Then we got home, and we listened. And here it is.

I'm a pretty pony
Clippity-clop, clippity-clop
Such a pretty pony
Clippity-clop, clippity clop
I love to have my coat brushed underneath the old oak tree
So jump and run
We'll have lots of fun
When you come and play with me.

The lyrics are maybe not so creepy when you read them. (Although I think the phrase "I love to have my blank blanked" is going to be really dirty, no matter what you put in there.)
But they're intensely creepy when you hear them. They're sung by a breathy tenor whose voice positively trembles with anticipation. I can't help but picture the recording of this little ditty. The producer pushing Mr. Pretty Pony--a middle-aged, moist-palmed, slightly balding guy, with an eerily high-pitched giggle and a predilection for Hello Kitty paraphernalia-- for "more pedophile."

The pony's other ear, when tugged, elicits the following: "I like it when you brush me!" and "Let's go for a ride!" Strangely, these comments are purred by a woman, which either indicates that it was too creepy when the guy tried uttering the same comments, or that the manufacturers of this pony ride are suggesting that the pony is some kind of pansexual hermaphroditic love-beast.

Know what I just figured out? Know what? Do you? Bet you don't.

"Covert League of Perverts" = CLOP.

As in clippity-clop.

Is your heart beating as fast as mine? I'll be up all night, trying to decipher what "clippity" could mean.

Anyway, Henry really likes his pony."

This post compliments of www.Finslippy.typepad.com

"Henry has a couple of toys that, I'm sorry, are just really dirty. This could be my undertaxed imagination at work--or it could be a conspiracy led by a covert league of perverts.

My parents recently gave Henry a ring-toss toy that my nephews used to enjoy. The center of this thing, the object upon which the rings are tossed, is a large, flesh-colored stalk, topped by a red bulb with a smiley face on it.
My Mom hauls this device out, thwaps it on the floor, and calls out, "Henry! Come say hello to Mr. Penis Head!"

And that's my Mom who made that observation. My Mom, who once, completely innocently, asked Scott and me what a "boner" was.

Mr. Penis Head is a giant phallus, and I can't see how he can be viewed in any other way. I don't think he could look any penis-ier (I made up a word!). Not if his head squirted when rubbed vigorously. Etc. He's a penis.

Henry loves Mr. Penis Head. We snap pictures as he gums its smiley noggin, but I think I can't print them out without risking jail time. Even making such an observation is probably a federal offense. Hey, Feds--I'm just saying! Sheesh.

Also!

Henry has this pony. Not a real pony. A rocking-chair pony that we purchased from Toys 'R' Us. The wily people at Toys 'R' Us made the store very, very loud, so that we couldn't hear what the pony sang when his ear was tugged.

Then we got home, and we listened. And here it is.

I'm a pretty pony
Clippity-clop, clippity-clop
Such a pretty pony
Clippity-clop, clippity clop
I love to have my coat brushed underneath the old oak tree
So jump and run
We'll have lots of fun
When you come and play with me.

The lyrics are maybe not so creepy when you read them. (Although I think the phrase "I love to have my blank blanked" is going to be really dirty, no matter what you put in there.)
But they're intensely creepy when you hear them. They're sung by a breathy tenor whose voice positively trembles with anticipation. I can't help but picture the recording of this little ditty. The producer pushing Mr. Pretty Pony--a middle-aged, moist-palmed, slightly balding guy, with an eerily high-pitched giggle and a predilection for Hello Kitty paraphernalia-- for "more pedophile."

The pony's other ear, when tugged, elicits the following: "I like it when you brush me!" and "Let's go for a ride!" Strangely, these comments are purred by a woman, which either indicates that it was too creepy when the guy tried uttering the same comments, or that the manufacturers of this pony ride are suggesting that the pony is some kind of pansexual hermaphroditic love-beast.

Know what I just figured out? Know what? Do you? Bet you don't.

"Covert League of Perverts" = CLOP.

As in clippity-clop.

Is your heart beating as fast as mine? I'll be up all night, trying to decipher what "clippity" could mean.

Anyway, Henry really likes his pony."

This post compliments of www.Finslippy.typepad.com