All Or Nothing

Reckoner

Project Runway recap is in the works...just wanted to get this one out there while it was on my mind

That title is only loosely related to anything in this post, and that's only if you get pretty creative with your association.  But I couldn't help myself, as "Reckoner" is currently my favorite song by Radiohead, and I am GOING TO SEE RADIOHEAD LIVE IN LESS THAN 20 DAYS.

Yeah, that's right.  Excited doesn't even begin to explain how I feel about that.  But anyway, I'm not writing about Radiohead, not today anyway.

I am writing about my broken ovaries.  Ha!  I just pictured whatever male readership I've got going "oh great, ugh" and clicking the back button rapidly to erase that sentence from their minds.  So, guys, once you've clicked yourself away from here, I'll continue.  Or stick around, I'm totally okay with it.  I mean, I'm not gonna get grossly detailed or anything; this is much more about what my ovaries AREN'T doing rather than what they are.

Namely, my ovaries are not trying, in any way, to entice me into having kids.  And I am seriously beginning to think they are broken. 

Before you try to convince me of my relative youth (27) and how I've got plenty of time to have kids, let me politely interrupt to say I KNOW.  I don't feel old, I'm not worried about all my eggs drying up, and I am not concerned about making sure that I'm young when my kids are young, etc.  So that's not the issue at all.  My concern stems much more from the concepts of "ovaries speaking" and "baby fever" and "biological clock ticking".  Because dudes, I seriously think either my ovaries, biological clock, or both are broken.

You know I live in the south, where it's perfectly normal to get married at 21 and have at least a couple of kids by 24.  I mean, it's fine NOT to do that as well, and I'm certainly not suggesting that everyone here does that or wants that, but I am saying that it's not out of the norm or shocking to meet a 25 year-old mom with two kiddos in tow.  And here I am, going on 28, married for four years (today! happy anniversary, Cody!) with no kids and no real desire for any. 

Actually, that's not completely true.  Every once in a long while, like when I get to hold my best friend Amy's precious baby girl, or when I have a particularly funny conversation with a certain 3 1/2 year old and meet her week-old baby sister for the first time, I have the "I could do this, couldn't I?" thoughts go through my mind.  And occasionally when I see a mom and her kiddo out on the town, doing something fun together, I'll think "that looks nice".  But honestly?  That's as far as it EVER gets with me.  In the next 30 seconds I'm back to thinking about toenail polish, or whether or not I'm about to run out of green tea and should I go to the grocery store for more?  Ooh, and I forgot about these sunglasses in the console, I love this pair!  Oh yeah, and it's 7:30pm and I haven't seen Cody or thought about dinner, maybe I should get on that.  All thoughts of babies and/or having them are gone.

My ovaries never kick, prod, or speak to me, at least not about babies.  Occasionally they'll convince me that eating yet another Dove dark chocolate square at 1am is a good idea, and every once in a while they do horrible things to me, like grow massive cysts which then rupture and put me in a world of pain, but they really never do anything nice and cozy, like suggesting parenthood, ever.  In fact, as I think back on my relationship with my ovaries, not a lot of good memories come up.  They may be trying to kill me.

I've been trying to reconcile this mystery with myself.  I mean, I like kids.  Mostly I think they're funny, and it's pretty incredible to watch them learn things constantly.  They're enjoyable, for sure.  If tomorrow morning I woke up and someone had dropped a baby on my porch with a note saying "you have to take care of this kid!  you're the only one who can do it!" attached to the diaper, then I'd do it.  I wouldn't hate doing it or anything.  So yeah, if you want to get really logical about it, I COULD have a kid (I mean, assuming my Evil Ovaries would cooperate), and I COULD raise the kid and I wouldn't want to kill myself.

But shouldn't there be more?  I mean, is that going to be my decision maker?  "Well, Cody, I'm 35 and I guess it's now or never on the childbearing front.  I still haven't felt any urges, but I can honestly say I wouldn't become suicidal at the thought of a child.  I guess it's time!" 

That seems like a pretty sucky way to bring a child into the world.  Shouldn't I want one?  What gives?

Love's Like A Bump On The Head, When It Comes Down To It

This past Saturday Cody and I went to meet some of our friends over at a house they were house-sitting.  Said house has a pool, and, as you'll recall, we all live in East Texas and it's like a trillion degrees outside right now.  (No really, it is).  So it only makes sense that we would all want to utilize such a welcome, cooling, oasis of water, and we made plans to do just that.  Cody and I packed up our floats and a cooler of refreshments and headed over.  And about three hours later, Cody hurriedly dragged all our stuff back out to the car and went to retrieve his concussed wife, who was dazedly walking around the backyard with a huge goose-egg on her forehead.

I'd like to take this moment to tell you that I am, actually, very familiar with pools, and with swimming.  I started swimming lessons when I was two, for goodness sakes.  I was on the swim team!  I worked every summer as a lifeguard throughout most of college.  I am not a pool retard.  So that makes the incident that follows even LESS impressive. 

And I'd love to explain what happened, getting wordier and wordier as I go, extrapolating similes and metaphors about how swimming can be just like life, man, and how love's like a bump on the head, when it all comes down to it.  But the truth is, I don't remember much of anything.  So, in the tradition of many a great blogger before me, I'm gonna let Microsoft Paint do the talking!

First, Cody and I thought it would be fun to do that thing where one person stands on the other person's shoulders, and Person 1 squats down so that he can then jump up out of the water and launch Person 2 into the air.  Actually, I should say CODY always thinks this will be a fun game; I normally am somewhat ambivalent about playing.  But anyway, that's what we were doing.  Like so!

As you can see, in this pool there is an area of deep water, and then another area where the water is shallower.  Just like every pool in the whole entire world.

Okay, so after a few jumps, I got to feeling pretty good about myself, and decided that I would do a back-dive.  Like this!

I did a few back-dives and they were just awesome.  I got really proud of myself.  And then, unbeknownst to me, Cody moved into shallower water.  He may have mentioned this to me and I, so taken with myself as I was, didn't hear him.  As I mentioned, I honestly don't remember, and, as such, will not accept Cody's version of the story as 100% fact.  I mean, that's like telling a coma patient that you sat beside their bed every day for 10 hours.  You might have....or you might have been out playing frisbee.  They'll never know.  It's pretty low, Cody, lying to a head-trauma victim.  However, whether it came with warning or not, Cody moved into shallower water and I still thought 'OOH, DIVING, FUN!"

 

So I dove, came down forehead-first on the pool floor, and ended up looking like this:

 

And then, for some reason, we went to dinner with friends, then somewhere else, and then to our friend's house, where I apparently fell asleep on the floor.  I remember approximately 5-7% of this.  And then all day Sunday I kept making mention of things I thought we had done the day before:

Me: Hey Cody, those sure were some good nachos we ate last night!

Cody: No one ate any nachos, Elise

Me: That was fun getting to see Friends X, Y and Z!

Cody: We never saw any of those people, Elise

Me: My brother says you called him all sorts of names (ed: he and Cody do this to each other ALL THE TIME - all in good fun) on the phone yesterday, Why'd you do that?

Cody: You TOLD me to call him, Elise. And then you told me what to say!

And that's how I feel about life - it's like you're having a great time, and then you smash your head into concrete (metaphorical concrete, of course), and then it's like the universe allows you to forget how much the concrete hurt and soon enough, you're all recovered and better than ever and can even look back and have a laugh or two about the whole ordeal.  Time heals all wounds, you know? 

Or maybe I'm just a moron who can't judge diving depth.  Either way.

Tact.

The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary defines the word as such:

Main Entry: tact (noun)

1 : sensitive mental or aesthetic perception (converted the novel into a play with remarkable skill and tact) 

2 : a keen sense of what to do or say in order to maintain good relations with others or avoid offense

Implies delicate and considerate perception of what is appropriate. Stresses dexterity and grace in dealing with new and trying situations and may imply success in attaining one's ends.  Stresses self-possession and ease in meeting difficult situations.

Are you good at this?  I mean, are you naturally a tactful person?  Or are you like me, a person who either clams up at the first sign of awkwardness or, conversely, inserts foot so deeply in mouth that a full recovery is almost impossible?

Q: You look great/you've lost weight!  How much do you weigh now?
A (with tact):  Only the scale knows my secret! (winking)
A (without tact): Ummm....what?  I mean, thanks!  So, how much...err...I weigh?...(insert exact amount you weigh and blush unattractively, wondering WHY you just blurted that one out)

Q: What a great job you've got!  How much do you make?
A (with tact): It's never enough, is it? (chuckle knowingly)
A (without tact):  How MUCH do I MAKE?  Really?  Umm, I don't feel comfortable discussing money like that...(and the conversation ends awkwardly)

Q (pregnant-looking woman walks up to you and looks at you expectantly): ....
A (with tact): Hello there!  You look great.  How are you feeling?
A (without tact):  Oh how exciting, when are you due?  (woman who had her baby three months ago looks crestfallen/pissed and snaps "I gave birth IN MAY."  You die of embarrassment)

I have found myself to be miserably lacking in natural tact.  Especially when I am called upon to assess the situation and come up with a sensitive, non-offensive response in lighting speed, as in the examples above.  Sadly, I also find myself with a severe tact deficiency even when I have time to dissect a situation for hours, sometimes days.  I still usually come up with something that at the time seems good, but when put into practice turns out just horribly.

I am coming to the conclusion that those who are blessed with the natural gift of tact are akin to those who are naturally blessed, say, with incredible athletic skills and end up playing professional sports.  Or those who are so genetically blessed that they end up on the covers of magazines all over the world.  Or those who are so musically gifted that they're playing entire concertos, by ear, at the age of six.  It's a blessing, a natural genius, an instinct. 

Still, just like I can improve my medial volleyball skills by playing more than once a year, surely there are measures I could take to increase my tactfulness.  I just don't know what they are.

So tell me, are you one of these naturally tactful geniuses?  Give me your secret!  If, though, you're spectacularly awkward like me, at least give me some empathy.  Commiserate with me in the comments - what's the least (or most) tactful thing you've ever said?

Yogi

I think this post is either going to annoy you, or you're going to be like, OH MY GOSH, I TOTALLY GET THAT.  I would just forge ahead naively thinking that EVERYONE will get it and love it, but I can't, because I am the type of person who, even 6 months ago, would have read this and been like, DUDE, THAT IS ANNOYING, SHUT IT.

So.  Sorry in advance, and annoyed readers?  I feel ya.

This summer has been weird for several reasons, but the main ones are as follows: A) it's the summer and so things are slow at the store, B) all but one of my employees are college-age girls who don't have class this summer and are literally fighting over hours, and/so C) I have not been at the store nearly as much as I am used to.  I guess I kind of have the summer off, in a weird way - I mean, I still have to go to Los Angeles for market out there, and have to attend other, smaller markets and/or meetings, and I still have to do the business side of the business - but I really don't have to be IN the store.  Anyway, I knew that was how this summer was going to be -  that I was going to find myself with a lot of extra time to try and manage well - and I knew I was going to have to really focus on becoming quite a bit more disciplined.

The only thing I suck at more than time-management is discipline.

The four main things I think of when I think about living a disciplined life are (wow, I am really all about the subpoints today) A) eating habits B) exercise habits C) life-maintenance habits and D) spiritual habits.  In an attempt to kick-start my Summer o'Discipline, I decided not to completely overwhelm myself by trying to perfect A-D all at once, and instead chose to focus on B.  Once I got B down to a science, I would move on to another letter.  I felt pretty good not starting with A because of the weird death-flu-stress thing I had going on back in May that got me away from some of my most heinous eating habits.  I honestly think that feeling like I had at least one out of the four Life Disciplines somewhat under control made me more confident in going after the next. 

I have a weird relationship with exercise.  I'm like the douchey boyfriend who woos the girl, Exercise, and pretends to be all committed - and then, for the next 10 years, intermittently ignores and loves her until she's completely fed up and confused.  And then Exercise exacts her revenge on me in terrifying ways, like spin classes and stair-climbers and treadmills.  All of which I HATE.  Passionately.  And then I forget why I ever loved Exercise at all, and I tell her I think we need to break up and Exercise is all "good riddance, loser" and I'm all "whatever, you're just AWFUL anyway" and then we go our separate ways.  That is, until I start feeling lazy and lethargic and gain some weight and see other, healthy individuals jogging by, glowing and looking all in love with MY ex.  And then I want her back.

See?  Just like that dude you used to date!

So when I looked at the list of Life Disciplines and knew I needed to attack Exercise, I was...nonplussed?  No, that might not be right.  Maybe I was equal parts scared, intimidated, frustrated, and excited.   Excited because I knew how awesome a good, healthy relationship with exercise could be, but all those other things because I had never managed to maintain that relationship very well at all.  And so finally, after 27 years of being on this planet, I decided to inventory exactly what it was I liked and disliked about ol' Exercise and stop trying to force all of the things I really, truly hated.

It went a little something like this:

Running?  HATE.  No.
Swimming?  LOVE, but not the most practical discipline unless one has near-constant access to a pool/doesn't mind smelling like a chlorine factory/doesn't travel.  No.
Gym weight training?  LIKE, to a point - but definitely not enough to maintain, and isn't good enough on it's own because you have to add in cardio.  No.
Various gym cardio (think stairmaster, elliptical trainer, stationary bike, treadmill)?
HATE HATE HATE.  No.
Gym classes (think pilates, aerobics, spin)?  LIKE, on a relative basis, but not enough to get up early, take myself to the gym, avoid the talky-talky morning exercisers, and maintain.  No.

In doing that little test, I realized that I pretty much dislike the gym altogether.  I don't like it when I need a machine and I have to wait or, even worse, break in on someone's cycle.  I don't like making conversation with the gym people I kind of know, but don't really.  I don't like having to be on someone else's class schedule.  I don't like the crowded cardio room and I HATE all the cardio equipment.  I guess I'm just not a gym person.  Who knew?  Better question - WHY DID I NOT KNOW?  I've been either going to or studiously avoiding gyms for the better part of the last 12 years.  Why has it taken me this long to realize that I really just don't like them?

Coming to this conclusion sure made it a lot easier to cancel my gym membership, thus getting a leg-up on the financial aspect of Life Discipline C.  Good riddance, gym.

But I still wasn't set.  I knew that I didn't like going to a gym, and I wasn't going to waste time and money trying to force myself into that anymore.  I knew that I HATED running, and let's be honest, there was no way I was going to try and force myself into that anyway.  I have come to terms with my hatred for running a long time ago; for many years I believed those LIES the runners tell you - the lies about how once you "break through your threshold" it all gets better and suddenly, running tuns into this bucolic, euphoric experience - to this I say: LIES, YOU LYING LIARS.  I ran cross-country in high-school and CONTINUED running into college just to try and find this "threshold" and let me tell you - for me, IT DOES NOT EXIST. 

Swimming was out, because even though I really do love swimming (and it's awesome exercise) I knew that I wouldn't religiously drag myself to the local Y or the junior college pool every day to do laps.  There are always weird time-restrictions and swim meets and swimming lessons and believe me when I tell you that the TINIEST kink in my exercise plans will result in me saying "hmm, too bad, guess I'll just go to Starbucks".  Happily.

So no gym, no running, no swimming.  Nothing that requires me to interact with preternaturally chipper morning exercisers or be on someone else's schedule.  Nothing that involves horrible, tortuous cardio equipment.  I felt like I was running out of options so I decided to go back to my roots.  For the first 15 years of my life I was in great shape, well-exercised, and happy about it.  What was I doing?  Ballet.  I was one of those SUPER serious ballet girls; the ones who have one class or another nearly every day and have their own lingo and sit together, chatting, while they tape their broken, mashed feet so that they can shove them back into pointe shoes.  One of those girls who has recitals that literally take over her life, and legs she can lift over her head and enough pairs of pale pink Capezio tights to stock a small warehouse.  I was one of those girls.  And I LOVED ballet.  I never felt like I was going to "exercise", I was going to dance.  It was glorious.  So ballet seemed like a potential option.  But not really.

First of all, I'm not 15 anymore.  And secondly, when I DID do ballet, it wasn't a hobby.  I was pretty serious about it, and I was in some pretty advanced classes with some pretty major plans - until we moved to a town with NO good ballet studios when I was 15.  I always tell people that ballet is the only thing at which I was ever REALLY naturally good.  I once tried (I think I was 19 or so) to go back to ballet, just because I missed it so much, and it was absolutely humiliating.  No longer could I stretch my leg into infinity, all the girls were younger, and when the instructor asked my age she suggested the Adult Ballet class.  Gross.  There was no way.  Even though now, at 27, I seriously doubt I would feel the humiliation as much, I would still be subjected to class schedules, specialized equipment needs, and (worst of all) the chatty fellow exerciser.  So no ballet.  But maybe something LIKE ballet....

And that's how I fell for yoga.  I had practiced yoga before, for almost a year actually, right when I moved back to my hometown in 2004.  The gym I was a member of (again, with that pesky, omnipresent gym membership!) had recently started hosting yoga classes, and I thought I'd give it a try.  I really enjoyed yoga a lot, even the Bikram practice we were doing at the gym, which requires the room to be heated to a minimum of 98 degrees with 40% humidity.  You can pretty easily burn up to 600 calories in a 90 minute Bikram yoga class, and you sweat...umm...a LOT.  Like, you walk out looking like you jumped into a swimming pool.  There are many reasons for the heat (increased flexibility, increased heart rate, increased blood flow, removal of toxins) but suffice it to say, after your 40th downward facing dog "resting" pose, as your hands slide around in the STANDING water (well, sweat) on your mat, you either go to a "higher place" or get the heck out.  I loved it.  But then my gym canceled all yoga classes because of this hilarious story where the owner totally freaked out, busted in on an ONGOING yoga class, and started trying to EXORCISE DEMONS.  Not sure how the demons fared, but the classes were sufficiently exorcised, and so that was the end of my brief affair with yoga.

At least until 5 or 6 months ago, when I had effectively ruled out just about every other type of exercise and decided I was just going to DO it already.  I got on Amazon, researched a bunch of yoga videos, and ordered a couple.  Fast-forward to today, and I have been practicing a mix of Bikram, Hatha, Vinyasa, and Ashtanga yoga and I absolutely love it.  I do it just about every day, and it's totally easy because all I have to do is walk upstairs (where, unless we turn on the air, it's almost ALWAYS above 98 degrees), unroll my mat, turn on the DVD player, and have at it.  I have little to no opportunity to make an excuse for why I "couldn't make it today", and when I travel I just pop a DVD or two into my bag and either bring my own mat or buy a cheap replacement.  I have now incorporated actual studio (teacher-led) classes into my yoga practice, but I honestly don't feel like I have been missing out by doing it at home.  Yoga is such a different type of exercise in that it (cue cheesy Zen music) really does require you to GET INSIDE YOUR OWN HEAD and make your body respond accordingly.  Maybe this actually ISN'T a different type of exercise; maybe everybody who has found their "thing" feels the same way when they are running, or doing spin class or whatever.  But for me, practicing yoga really does give me that whole mind-body connection, where I can THINK about going further in a pose, and then ACTUALLY do it.  When otherwise I would have thought there was no way. 

Today in class we had to do the crow pose, and while it actually isn't that hard, crow is one of those poses with which I really had a head issue.  Let me see if I can find a picture -

 

So that's crow.  Or crane, depending on where you're practicing.  Anyway, if you've done it before, you know it's not that hard; it's much more about balance than strength.  But if you HAVEN'T done it before, like I hadn't, then you look at it and think UMM NO. CANNOT DO. FAIL.  And so that's how I felt about crow.  But after a while (and the privilege of practicing alone) I got over my fear of crow.  And today in class when the teacher called for 5 full breaths in crow pose, I was able to do it the whole time, with no hesitation.  The euphoria of that moment made me nearly not care when, only 20 minutes later, I fell flat on my butt during salamba sarvangasana.

Either That Montage Just Takes Forever Or I'm An Internet Idiot

So I feel like I have a good friend who I haven't talked to in a while, and all these things have happened since the last time we talked, and every time something new and/or crazy happens I think "oh my goodness, I NEED to tell Friend this!" but then I think that I cant tell Friend right now, because I don't have time for a conversation of that length.  I'll call tomorrow.

And then tomorrow comes, and more crazy events transpire, and somewhere around two weeks later I resurface from the insanity and think "AHHH, I still haven't talked to Friend!"  Now the conversation is going to take hours.

Well, you are that friend, Internet.  I have so many things to tell you that I honestly don't even know where to begin.  First of all let me say that this summer has, bar none, been the weirdest time of my entire life.  Secondly, I have absolutely no idea how to fit this into one post so I was thinking maybe I would do bullet points (the lazy person's listmaker) and you can weigh in on subjects you want to hear more about/seem the most interesting.  How 'bout it?  Because otherwise I can guarantee you that this will degenerate into a ridiculously long, rambling, disjointed mess of a post, and I honestly can't even say that I would read that.  

So let's all play along and here are the bullet points of things that have gone on since May that I need to tell you about and haven't (ETA: Now a numbered list with pictures!  Everyone has been doing that Flickr montage and while I wanted to do it too [and still may] at least you now get a numbered list with visual interest!):

1. Lost my appetite completely and with no warning; lost about 14 pounds in two months*
2. Spent a week and a half on vacation in Los Angeles - the first half by myself completely, and the second half surrounded by a whole host of interesting characters doing interesting things at interesting places
3. Quit eating fast food completely
4. Got the Death Flu but it only lasted two days, one of which was handily the date of the biggest event of the summer for my boutique, so that was fun
5. Went back to Los Angeles for work and ended up doing about two weeks worth of social stuff in three days time
6. Quit eating sugar almost completely
7. Met a girl while in LA who is from a tiny East Texas town about 35 miles from where I live - we knew many of the same people and remarked on how strangely small the world can be
8. Cody's dad started having major neck/spine issues, which quickly deteriorated to the point where he was partially paralyzed on the right side, leading everyone to completely freak out and him to get scheduled for emergency spinal surgery, which he had yesterday (7/1/08)
9. Cody's grandpa (his dad's dad) went into the SAME hospital on the SAME night as Cody's dad, because Grandpa BROKE HIS NECK - the neurologist got confused and saw the wrong patient because there were two Mr. Carters in the same hospital on the same night in for largely the same reason - felt like I was living in the Twilight Zone
10. Have become somewhat the main go-to person for Cody's grandpa because obviously Cody's mom and dad have been SOMEWHAT DISTRACTED, what with the partial paralysis and emergency spinal surgery and all
11. Quit eating most processed foods completely
12. Saw Alison Sweeney (Sami from Days of Our Lives, for the non-soap opera crowd) walking to her car and made fun of her because she was all dressed up and from a distance she looked like a teenager going to prom. At 4 in the afternoon on a Friday.  Then I saw who it actually was and thought "oh good, she isn't a skinny little stick!" She looks normal
13. Went to a Death Cab for Cutie concert randomly; it was weird
14. Went on several hikes
15. Missed my friends at home while I was gone; wished that I could intermingle my worlds - move my house and friends out to a big city or move the city here
16. Became hopelessly and totally re-addicted to chips and salsa.  Weight loss of past two months is being reversed almost solely by the power of corn and tomatoes
17. Went out to a whole host of places in and around Los Angeles; some uber trendy, some kind of underground, some in between
18. Have learned an awful lot about neck braces, how they work, and how they DON'T work
19. Have consumed my weight x3 in green tea
20. Celebrated Cody's birthday with a really fun night of live music outside IN MY HOMETOWN, can you believe it?  Because I can't
21. Hosted three (THREE) baby showers
22. Have done yoga almost every day
23. Went to a "recycled" clothing store in Studio City with my sister-in-law and came away with three pairs of high-end shoes, two shirts, a pair of linen trousers, and a pair of straight-leg designer jeans and spent less than $150.  Wow
24. Figured out that my dog ate half a square of Baker's Chocolate, had a mild freak out and then realized it would be yet another item to add to my Vet Bills Spreadsheet - watch out, OPH! (And RA - are you proud of me for having a spreadsheet?)
25. Watched helplessly as my house (both outside and now in) has become inundated with tiny ants - have been plotting and will wage Ant War Strike I this evening
26. Have been doing about 18 loads of laundry and (#27) cleaning house to get ready for our annual 4th of July lake extravaganza where any and everyone we know comes to town to hang out, float in the lake, (#28) drink adult beverages, play volleyball, mess around on boats and jetskis, and have an all around awesome (#29) Texas lake celebration. Come!
27. (Actually #30 - THANKS FOR NOTHING, AUTOFORMAT) Got to see my best friend and her brand new baby girl on the day she gave birth.  So sweet

Want to know details about any of the above?  Let me know in the comments!  I'll be happy to spin a long, rambling tale about any of those events.  Had your fill?  That's fine too - just enjoy the pictures because that montage took FOREVER.  What is with people "not subscribing" to the Flickr mosaic maker?  DON'T THEY KNOW HOW LONG I SEARCHED FOR THAT PICTURE?

*I wish I could take credit for some incredible measure of self-control I used to quit the sugar, fast food, etc.  Unfortunately for me, I have no such self-control and the only reason I was able to get out of those bad eating habits was because I had already lost my appetite and therefore felt no desire to eat ANYTHING, including my beloved fast food.  Once you get out of the habit it's not so hard, and so thanks to extreme amounts of stress, I have become a healthier eater.  I should write a dieting book.  It could be alternately titled "How To Develop An Eating Disorder".

Hair, By Extension

Have you ever found yourself wanting to look like someone else, even if the person you're wanting to look like has been compared, repeatedly, to a drag queen?  And then you feel kind of weird and ashamed because - really?  Have you been harboring the "hot tranny mess" gene all this time and somehow never noticed?  But finally you look deep within yourself, to the source of your attraction, and realize that you just like the hair.  Whew!  You just want her hair.  But then, sadly, you are made aware that Drag Queen's gorgeous curls come courtesy of some uber pricey hair extensions.  You quickly switch hair models, but every time you find a new head of hair to covet, you learn the truth: EXTENSIONS.  Every last one of them.

So what's a girl to do?  I've been waging a battle royale with my hair for...well, ever since the 8th grade; that's the first time I can remember messing with it.  The summer after 8th grade my best friend and I thought it would be a great idea to use that Clairol Herbal Essences wash-out hair dye to turn my baby-soft, thin, naturally blonde hair maroon.  We waited until the week we were going to camp, followed the simple three-step process, and voila - purplish red hair.  After 14 shampoos or however long it was supposed to take, my hair looked somewhat normal - but with a decidedly mauve tint.  No problem, I thought - I'll just highlight it!  I was always jealous of my friends who highlighted their hair.  All those different colors, and you could even do stripes!  How fun!  It was on that fateful day, as any of you who fight the good fight of hair-color maintenance know, that I screwed myself forevermore.

I've been growing my hair out now for about two years.  Yeah, I'd say either two years or the entire last decade; it all kind of runs together.  Right after college, drunk on excessive freedom, I went through a hair phase best summed up as LET'S CUT IT ALL OFF.  I met a hairstylist friend named Lily, and she and I bonded over our respective goals: she, to achieve the coveted Level 4 Stylist and I, to have as many different haircuts in a year as humanly possible.  After a series of increasingly shorter crops, I ended up with this cut.  And after that had grown out enough to do ANYTHING with, I went back to the Toni & Guy in the mall to visit Lily and her manager told me she had gone to jail.  Surprisingly, Lily is not the only hairstylist I have had who has ended up in the clink.  Is it a hazard of the job?  Hairstylists, what gives?

Now I'm stuck in this stage where I keep thinking that if my hair can just grow another inch or two, it will FINALLY look like I want.  And then it does grow - another inch or two of the fine, straight, flat hair I've always had, and I am consistently shocked.  I think I have hair dysmorphic disorder.  I look in the mirror and see potential for fat, full-figured curls, but everyone else sees the reality - sickly, stick-straight strands.  One of my really good friends, Allison, has been doing my hair for the past couple of years, and the other day as I was leaving the salon, we paused at the check-out desk to chat.  Allison pointed at a picture of a hair model hanging above the desk and said that she would love to grow her hair out and cut it like the model's, but that her hair would never do that.  I looked at the picture, looked at Allison's hair, and said "sure it would! Why not?"  Allison sighed and explained that the hair model had tons of thick hair, and that if someone with thin hair attempted that cut, it would end up looking stringy, scraggly and awful.  It was like a lightbulb of shame went off in my head, and I think Allison could see my wheels turning.  "So, is that why my hair looks stringy, scraggly, and awful half the time?" I asked.  "Half the time?" Allison replied.  "I think that's being pretty generous, don't you?"  Then I drop-kicked her and stormed out of the salon, but not before magnanimously tipping at least 15%.  What?  You don't tip?  How rude.

Really though, I am grateful to have a friend who does my hair, someone who will tell me the truth that NO, ELISE, your hair will never look like this picture you brought in.  At least not without adding in a whole lot of someone else's hair.  And I don't know, I just don't think I can get on board with the idea of a normal, non-celebrity member of society getting hair extensions.  I mean, what would you think, if the girl who works in the cubicle next to you, or the lady next door walked up one day with long, thick, gorgeous curls when just YESTERDAY she had normal, blah, mid-length hair?  I think it could be kind of awkward.

"Soo....umm...your hair looks nice today, Elise."

"Oh!  Thanks!  I...uhhh...curled it!"

"Yeah.  Okay."

or

"Soo....umm...your hair looks nice today, Elise."

"Oh, yeah...errr....it's weird, I know.  I got hair extensions.  I mean, OBVIOUSLY, I did - not like you didn't know that because clearly hair does not grow this fast overnight, and.  Yeah.  I know it seems strange, and maybe like, WOW DOES SHE THINK SHE'S A DIVA, but really, I don't!  I just...thought it would be fun?  And..."

"Yeah.  Okay."

So I guess I'm just going to have to get on board with my boring hair.  Unless you guys think I could pull off extensions.  And trust me, I can't.

Google Search Fail: "Can We Be Friends, Spider?"

It's time for everyone's favorite - Weird Google Search Terms! 

Oh thank goodness, I don't think I could stomach another one of those long-winded emo posts.  Have you noticed she's gone really downhill lately?  I used to think she was funny!  Well, sort of funny anyway.

Hey!  I can hear you.  Shut up.  Everyone gets emo sometimes.

I know, right?  I mean, the whole "why I love Radiohead" short post was one thing - obviously stupid filler, but whatev.  But then she posts some weird reflecty picture and then starts going on about how she wants to do something but she can't do nothing or maybe it was reversed - I honestly just kind of skimmed it because I got super bored and then I clicked through to Perez.  I think Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian now?

Yeah, I totally read that too!  You know who else is funny, it's that What Would Tyler Durden Do guy.  I mean, sometimes he's super rude and says that non-fat girls are actually fat, and they're SO not, and then I start thinking "am I fat?" but I know I'm totally not, so, you know.  I rise above it.

This is spinning out of control.  My hypothetical bored readers are actually turning out to be kind of stupid, and are also taking over my entire post.  I already said we were doing Weird Google Search Terms and you KNOW that's pure entertainment even I can't mess up.  And in regards to LiLo, I think she's just going through a weird phase.  BECAUSE PEOPLE GO THROUGH THEM.  Try to be a little more sensitive.  Jerks.

And without further delay, from stupid hypothetical readers or otherwise:  May's Weird Google Search Terms!  As always, I remain committed to helping you, dear Internet searchers, who have stumbled your way onto my site with your probing, difficult questions.

****Many of you seem to be concerned about your toes.  154 of you, in fact, found me in the exact same way: by typing "ugly toes" into your browser.  Others had more specific queries:****

is there surgery available to make ugly toes look pretty?

And the answer to your question is probably.  I mean, I don't know, because A) I'm no doctor and B) I don't have ugly toes.  And therefore I don't want or need ugly toe surgery.  In fact, I have pretty toes, and have, upon several occasions, counted them among my favorite parts.  I mean, if I had to give you one piece of advice it would probably be to just have better genetics.  That's really your best bet.

i have ugly toes help

Sorry sweetheart.  Same advice as above goes for you.  Better genetic structure would have been a good idea, but since you're probably too late for that, you may very well be doomed to closed-toe shoes for life.  Either that, or some sort of high-risk cosmetic toe surgery.  I heard the last guy DIED on the table from that though, so, you know.  Do with that what you will.

pulled toenails off will they grow

Sooo.....you PULLED them off, eh?  And your biggest concern, after forcefully and violently removing your own toenails, is whether or not they'll grow back?  Someone has their priorities wrong!

ugly little toenail why

I know, honey, I know.  I feel your pain and despair - the way you threw that "why" on at the end was heartbreaking.  Why indeed, cruel world?  Why must your little toenail be so ugly?  Why do so many suffer needlessly?  I don't have these answers.  But I do have black toenail polish, and I gotta tell you, when my toenail got pulled off by the weatherstripping on the door, that black polish saved me.  I'd invest in some, if I were you.  I mean, if $3.99 could solve all of the world's problems, we would be in such a happier place.

weatherstripping ripped toenail off

Yeah yeah, me too.  Don't be trying to one up me on my own blog, k?

****Spiders and other bugs seem to concern many of you as well:****

a spider that looks like poop

How can you be sure it's not just...poop?  I mean, CAN you?  I'd say if it's got legs, and is moving around, it's more than likely not poop, but maybe just a spider who got covered in poop and is simply trying to get cleaned off.  And there you are, not even sure what's poop and what's not, but going ahead and passing judgment on the poor spider's looks.  Maybe to the spider, YOU look like poop.  Huh?  Yeah, that's what I thought.  Be nicer.

bugs and spiders from the past

Because we don't have enough of them in the present?  I'd venture that NPW would disagree with you, there.

what happens to spiders after they have been put down at the vet

The vet tech scrapes them off the bottom of his shoe. 

little bugs that live in my couch!!!!!!!

Is this a call to action?  It certainly isn't much of a question.  Maybe you're just venting.  If you're really trying to get in touch with the bugs in your couch though, I'm not sure typing to them via Google is the way to go.  Maybe put some crumbs down in the cracks of the couch cushions, let the little bugs know you appreciate them, and THEN go about asking them to do whatever it is you're wanting.

****And finally, the truly random questions:****

7 girls each girl has 7 back packs each back packs 7 large cats each large cats has 7 kitters

Fun, it's either a math problem or a riddle.  Let's see, 7 girls, 7 backpacks, 7 large cats in each backpack, 7 kitte...r...s.  And then we're done.  At my count, we had 147 items, but then you either got bored or realized that you didn't know how to spell KITTENS, so there wasn't much hope for you getting the problem solved.  And for that burst of insight, I commend you.

how do i know if its black tar heroin?

Well, I'd guess if it's kind of black...and sticky...does it smell like asphalt?  That's what I imagine would be a dead giveaway.  For a heroin addict, you seem awfully picky.

skin saver of tornedo

I just have absolutely no idea.  I don't know if you think natural disasters are good for your skin, or if this is simply a case of violently awful spelling.  Or maybe it's something awesome that I haven't ever heard of.  I did a quick search myself and turned up a site about Yo Yo repair.  Does that help?

sleep late is good for the 61 person

I like to sleep late.  Does that make me the 61 person?  If not, how do I BECOME the 61 person, because everyone seems to be on board with that dude getting more sleep.

too lazy to do anything but die

Well, there you have it, then.  I guess your course is all laid out for you.  It may take a while though, if you're truly planning on expending NO effort.  I guess you're okay with that, though?  Yeah, you are. 

i love black tar heroin

Google: taking confessions of all types since 1998.

two penguins in a bathtub one says pass the ketchup

What's the punchline though?  That's what makes me mad, when these jokesters leave me hanging like that.  Does it have something to do with a polar bear?  If this is gross, and I am just totally missing it, email me, okay?

you and me have a better time

Yeah we really do, don't we?

Did I answer your question?  If not, don't despair.  We'll do this again next month, right here at All Or Nothing.  Thanks for playing, and we'll see you soon.

Car Lots, Books, And Music (The Trifecta)

So, the other day while I was in LA, I lost my car downtown and got stranded on a rooftop parking lot for the entire night.  Well, almost.

I have parked in this particular lot many times before, and have never had any problems with it.  It's close to where I work, easy to see from street level (helps with my abysmal sense of direction), and stays open late.  On this particular Monday, the parking attendant took my five bucks when I pulled up, gave me a parking stub, and told me they would be open until 6pm.  Standard procedure.  I grabbed my stuff and said adios, heading out into the wilds of the Los Angeles Fashion District.

A little before 5:30pm, after I had finished working and also managed to convince myself into buying a big, white watch (my friend said, after I finally made the purchase, that he had never seen anyone get buyer's remorse WHILST buying the item), I started heading back to my car.  I easily located my particular rooftop parking structure and took the (unbelievably slow) elevator (that always smells EXACTLY like pee) up to the fourth floor and got out to find the parking attendant.  No dice.

I figured he might be down taking a smoke break or something (although I'm not sure why you would have to get off the roof to do such a thing), and that he'd probably be back fairly quickly.  Plus, anyone who's ever driven much in LA knows that leaving downtown to go anywhere around 6pm is going to be a long, slow process.  So I wasn't in a huge hurry.  However, as I waited, I kept seeing other patrons of this car lot walk out of the elevator with car keys in hand, open their cars, and drive off.  How were they getting the keys?  Where was the magic key guy, handing out keys?  I certainly never saw him.  Was he in the Pee Elevator?  I finally flagged down one of the happily be-keyed drivers to ask him what was up. 

Here's a rundown of that conversation:

Me:  "Excuse me, sir?  Umm, sir?  Sorry...I just...umm, I can't find the parking attendant, and I saw you had your keys...where did you get them?  Is the guy downstairs?"

Him:  "....."

Me:  "I mean, you know.  Your KEYS?  Did someone down there give you your keys?  THE KEYS, WHERE DID YOU GET THEM?"

Him (shrugging):  "ehhhh....I not know?"

Me:  "of COURSE you don't speak English, okay, whatever, whatever."

I am, at this point, getting more than a little concerned about my car.  I decide that probably the best plan of action is walking frantically around the top of the building, looking everywhere for signs of parking attendant life, and appearing (I'm sure) insane.  Finally someone who looks like he MIGHT work for somebody around there walks up, and I nearly jump on him.

Me:  "THEKEYS,OMG,WHEREISTHEGUYWITHTHEKEYS, (breath) ICAN'TFINDHIMANDWHEREISHE?"

Him:  "....keys?"

Me:  "YES.  The keys to my car?  It's right there?  And I have to leave?  And I have no keys?  And the parking lot guy, he isn't up here?"  For some reason when I get upset, I end everything with an upward inflection.  It's totally involuntary, and I hate it because I KNOW it does nothing but immediately label me as Crazed Emotional Woman.  Frustrating.

Him:  "Ahhh....yeeees....I think he is left.  I think he is left, ehhh...around 5 or 5:30?"

Me:  "No.  No, that can't be true, because he TOLD me 6pm; it's always 6pm, and it's NOT 6PM."

Him (shrugging):  "Huh.  I don't know.  Maybe you check on third floor?"

Me:  "Why?  What is on the third floor?  What am I looking for?  Wait!"

Him (walking away):  "Good luck!"

These two conversations very neatly sum up my view on Los Angeles, which is something I get asked about a lot since I'm out there at least half of my life these days.  Do I like it?  Do I hate it?  Is it all superficial and golden bronzed and beautiful on the surface?  Underneath is it crime-ridden and totally scary?  Sure, I guess it's all of those things, in some measure.  But what it really is is apathetic.  That's the one and only word I've ever come up with that succinctly and accurately describes Los Angeles, in its entirety.  Apathetic.  No one cares about you, and they don't even have the heart to make that a mean thing.  They just really don't care.  If you're doing great, well, that's great for you.  Whatever.  If you're doing badly, say you're stuck on a rooftop, alone, in downtown LA, with no appreciable escape plan, well, too bad.  Best of luck.  Whatever.  Now of course both of my brothers and several of my good friends live in and around LA, and so OBVIOUSLY the apathy thing is a generalization of the greater population, and not a personal indictment on each and every Los Angelean.  So don't get all up in arms about how you live there and you are the OPPOSITE of apathetic and how dare I.  I'm sure you're a lovely person, and I do wish you would have been on the roof with me this past Monday.  But you weren't!  On with the story.

So after the exceptionally helpful advice from the even more helpful man, I ran down to the third floor, and started looking around.  Of course there was nothing but closed office doors and...well, that was all. Lots of closed and locked office doors.  I ran back up to the fourth floor, thinking how frustrating it would be to miss the freaking parking attendant while I was running a wild goose chase across the third floor (again, SUCH helpful advice!) and to my disappointment, no one was there. 

At this point, I seriously started considering my options.  Would I call someone?  It would take any person I knew out there at least an hour or two to get to me, and what would I do in the meantime?  I could call a taxi, but at rush hour, that would possibly cost me more than chartering a helicopter to do a rooftop pickup.  Either way, leaving my car up there meant that I would have to A) return downtown the next morning during normal business hours to pick my car up, B) force the unhappy friend/family member to give me a ride back downtown the next morning OR pay the taxi/helicopter the rest of my life savings to do so and C) absolutely miss both my car rental drop-off time (thus ensuring another full day's cost) AND my flight.  So.  I was unhappy.  And really, I kind of started Freaking Out.  And when I say Freaking Out, I mean my version of such, which involves a lot less crying and lot more...furiousness?   I mean, how DARE the parking attendant just leave?  What in the world?  Who DOES that?  What am I supposed to do?  And it STILL wasn't after 6pm!

I stalked around angrily until I had the bright idea to walk down the parking ramp and see if I ran into anyone on my way.  Around level two, I saw an empty parking attendant cage, but upon closer inspection saw that a man, wearing an employee shirt, was sitting in a parked van nearby.  I walked (with purpose!) up to the van and demanded to know where my keys were.  Sure, I realized that he had no idea who I was or what I was talking about, but I am pleased to report that I apparently had SO much purpose in my voice, that the poor man jumped out of his van, walked over to the lockbox, opened it, and handed me a set of keys.  The only problem was, they weren't keys to my car.  In fact, they were keys to a much, MUCH nicer car, a car parked on level two, which I guess is corporate parking or something.  Anyway, after a second of moral relativism (hmm, what could I do with this car?) I informed Parking Lot Man that those were NOT my keys, and that I needed MY keys, immediately.  He didn't seem to understand me (again, with the no English), and kept pushing the other keys at me, as if to say "here, crazy!  Keys!  Take the keys!  Leave me be!"  But I wasn't having any of it.  I dragged Parking Lot Man all the way up to level four, pointed at my car, and said "KEYS.  I NEED KEYS TO THAT CAR".  And after a series of phone calls, all in rapid Spanish, another parking attendant came back to the lot and gave me my keys.  Not to worry though, he hadn't "left" as in "left downtown".  He had only "left the premises, to go to the other lot".  OH GOOD, BECAUSE THAT MAKES A BIG DIFFERENCE TO ME, THE ONE WITH NO KEYS.  Leaving is leaving.  And had he not been summoned by Scared Parking Lot Man, he wouldn't have come back until the next morning.  Again, with the apathy.  Too bad for me!  He had to go to the other lot.

Ugh.

So, let's segue.  I need book suggestions, stat.  I am out of good books and I am in a definite reading mood and yet I have nothing that I know of that I must read.  Note:  I don't think I am up for something REALLY deep and soul-searching.  I mean, kind of deep is okay.  Like I could handle some death and depression, but nothing where I feel like I must immediately go to Darfur and what about my carbon footprint and how dare I be such a horrible human.  I'm not really ready for that at the moment. 

And, if you don't have a great book suggestion (or even if you do), then how about a song suggestion?  I have been totally loving all the mixes that have been passed around the ol' Interwebs these days, and stemming from a fun email conversation I had yesterday with Tiff, thought it would be awesome if everyone could just give me one song that they feel I must listen to immediately, right now.  Your mantra song of the moment, if you will.  I'd absolutely love to listen to the suggestions.  And bonus points if you want to tell me WHY it's your mantra right now. 

So, there you go.  You guys get a long, rambling story about how I almost lost my car in downtown LA, and in return I get awesome book and music suggestions.  Sounds about right, doesn't it?

Full-On Randomness

When I notice that something's running out, I get really nervous and turn into Hoarder Girl.  For example, the other day I walked into the bathroom and saw that we had one square of toilet paper left, clinging to the empty cardboard roll.  And my first reaction wasn't "ugh, why won't Cody just put a new roll on when the old one runs out?" or even a light-hearted and less-naggy "hmm, hope I have a extra roll in the cabinet up here".  Rather, my brain immediately turns into some sort of high-tech toilet paper calculator, frantically tabulating every spare roll of toilet paper in the house, where each roll is located at that very moment, and how much longer we can last on that much toilet paper without running out.  I have to have at least a 3 roll comfort zone, so that means subtracting 3 from the total.  If, at the end of these intensive calculations, I am anywhere near ZERO TOILET PAPER, I have a mini-panic attack and vow only to pee until I can make it to the store.  Once I obtain a brand new pack of toilet paper (or whatever it is I was running out of), the countdown begins anew.  And my brain does all of this on its own, without any conscious effort or acknowledgment from me.

Lydah is getting spayed tomorrow.  Cody has been incessantly referring to this as her "vagectomy".  (Oh, the creepy Googlers who will find my site now.)  I am somewhat concerned about this surgery, as we have what you might call a "doggy diva", who yelps and flinches at the slightest thought of pain or discomfort.  Some people have to worry about keeping their pups from running around all crazily and trying to rip their stitches out.  We have to worry about Lydah's precarious mental state, and whether she's about to fall, head over heels, into a full-fledged canine depression.  I've heard they make Doggy Prozac.  If this is true, I may be their next (ridiculous) customer.

My brother and I were chatting online and he said he wanted me to bring him my parents' camping tent the next time I came out to visit.  Because he is my brother, and some things never change, my gut response was to tell him that I was keeping the tent for myself, although I haven't been camping since I was about 9 years old.  I just didn't want him to have it without me being difficult, even though I could easily borrow any number of tents if the urge suddenly struck me to go set up camp in the woods, surround myself with bugs, drink nothing but stale, warm canteen water, eat something scraped out of a can, and eventually degrade myself to the point of using the bathroom behind a tree.  Camping.  Why do people VOLUNTARILY lower their standard of living for vacation?  It's like hey, I live in a HOUSE, with a ROOF, and RUNNING WATER.  And for the privilege of all these things, I work every day so that I can pay my bills.  And now that I have worked hard all week and have some time off, I know what we should do!  We should pack up a tent, take it out to some secluded area, work really hard to set up a campsite, and then sit in the dirt all weekend.   It reminds me of that scene in Office Space where Peter Gibbons is talking to his neighbor, Lawrence.  Peter is considering the question "what would you do if you had a million dollars", and after some thought, he says that what he would like most is to do absolutely nothing. 
"Nothing?" Lawrence asks.  "Hell, you don't need a million dollars to do nothing.  Take a look at my cousin, man - he's broke, don't do sh*t." 
That's how I feel about camping.  If you REALLY like camping, then why are you working anywhere at all?  Why do you have a bank account, or a car, or a mortgage?  Why not just quit everything, buy some supplies, and go live in the woods in a tent?  Wouldn't that be easier?

And with that, I'm out.  Not to go camping though.  No, I'll be taking full advantage of all the modern-day luxuries I have on hand this weekend, like flushing toilets and that big metal box they call the refrigerator.

My Habits. Let Me Show You Them*

Well, that was embarrassing.  Honestly, I kind of thought if I threw my kitchen habits (or lack thereof) out there, everyone would be like, "you think that's bad? we eat off the floor, like pigs!" or "don't feel bad about not cooking, we switched to all Pop-Tarts all the time over here".  Instead, I found that you guys (with the exception of a few, who were probably just being sweet - love you!) are like, KITCHEN PROS.  With recipes, and fancy online grocery delivery and menus planned out each week.  And, you organized people aren't even OLD.  You're like, my age!  Or even younger.  So this is really a sad, sad state of affairs.

However, as a result of posting about my kitchen disarray, I received so many good tips and suggestions in the comments that now I can hardly help but become more of a kitchen success.  I mean, let's say I implement two suggestions (maybe RA's recipe binder and Deb's Amazon grocery-ordering) and with that I'm already halfway to victory.  So, with that in mind, I am pleased to formally announce that I am going to make the Kitchen Habits post part one of a whole series of posts about my incredible sense of disorganization.  Subjects to be covered will include but not be limited to: Laundry Habits, Sleep/Wake Habits, and House Cleaning Habits.  Suggestions for other topics?  Kindly leave them in the box or drop me an email.  Is there some habit in your life you're particularly guilt-ridden about?   Ask me to address it.  I can almost promise you'll feel positively giddy about your performance after you read through my dismal failure.

In other news, here are the noteworthy Decision Fights held in my life over the weekend:

Setting and keeping a 1:30am curfew so as to not be exhausted all day Saturday
vs.
Sitting on the back porch with friends late into the night laughing hysterically about the weirdest possible revenge tactics

Spray tan to look pretty (rather than ghostly) for fancy wedding Saturday night
vs.
Sleeping later on Saturday morning

Dressing like a respectable, clean human while out running errands before wedding
vs.
Staying in bed until five minutes before I have to leave the house and then grabbing whatever is balled up on the floor and wearing that

Buying shoes only for friend, as instructed, and wearing shoes I already own to wedding
vs.
Buying one pair of shoes for friend and one pair of shoes for self, because they were really cute and also on sale

Painting every toenail with dark polish in order to disguise horribly disfigured toenail
vs.
Playing Guitar Hero until it's time to leave

Getting up early enough for church Sunday morning to take a shower and wash hair and last night's makeup off
vs.
Sleeping later on Sunday morning and deciding that it's really a great time-saver to not have to re-apply makeup

As usual, my sense of responsibility, decorum, and aesthetic took a sound beating.  But I did have fun.

*Sorry, OPH, I totally and unabashedly stole that from you.  I hear imitation is the highest form of flattery though....right?  Right?