Showing posts with label hair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hair. Show all posts
Friday, April 13, 2012
This morning, as soon as my eyes fluttered open, I thought: What. The. Hell.
This is not my usual first thought in waking. Most of the time, it's: Crap! I fell asleep with my makeup on during Andy Cohen and missed the Jackhole of the Day, AGAIN! Large pores, here I come.
And I did fall asleep during Andy's let's-pretend-we're-sneaking-beer-and-hanging-out-in-my-parents'-basement fabulous late night talk show, but this morning, bigger things took precedence.
As in my lip.
My fat lip.
I felt like I'd been in a bar fight and some roller derby queen had punched me in the mouth.
But as far as I know, I wasn't in any pubs last night quaffing down boilermakers with roller derby queens.
I don't take Ambien, so I'm pretty positive on this.
My lip was just slightly swollen, but it tingled and felt a little bruised, so of course I knew I was dying.
I wandered around the house all morning muttering, "This is so weird. Why does my lip feel like Lisa Rinna's?"
And when I say muttering, I mean I followed my family around, obsessing to anyone who would listen.
Oh, who am I kidding! No one listens to me in this house. Except for the dogs. It's why I love them best.
I googled tingling mouth, which is not something you want to google before you've had your coffee. Trust me on this.
And I welled up a little when I realized I had either Hypocalcemia, Hypoparathyroidism, Guillain-Barre syndrome, oral cancer, Elephantitis or The Jumping Frenchman disorder.
Or, in fact, all of them. Probably all of them.
By the time I realized God had appointed me the modern day Job, my husband was the only one left in the house to ignore my hypochondriac hysteria. And that's when it hit me.
Dear God. It was a brown recluse spider.
See, the brown recluse is as common here as the Great White Shark is to Australia. And they're both serious hit men, like Luca Brasi sticking a horse head in your bed, serious.
We have had our fair share of brown recluse bites in our family involving trips to the ER, skin grafts and a dog that almost died. So, clearly these murderers know where we live. And guess where brown recluses are most likely to attack? That's right. In your bed. While you're sleeping.
Just like Luca Brasi.
So, I was all, "FORGET WORK, HUSBAND! YOU NEED TO TAKE ME TO THE E.R. BEFORE THE VENOM REACHES MY HEART. But hang on, let me go blow dry my hair first."
And as I went racing off to my hair products, my hubs said, "Or you know, maybe the tv remote might have hit you. You know. In the face. Or something, I don't know, something like that."
And I was like, "Um, what?"
And he shrugged sheepishly, like he does when I sit in a wet spot on the toilet seat lid and I scream, (in a loving way) asking him if he, perchance, forgot to lift the lid.
He said, "You know the remote is always in the bed because you never put it on the nightstand, so maybe it hit you."
And I was like, "Well duh, that's because I was watching Andy Cohen. And what? Were you trying to teach me a lesson? 'She never puts the remote on the nightstand, so I'm gonna bash her in the face with it. That'll show her.' Is that it, Chris Brown?"
And he said, "No. I felt something under me when I was trying to sleep. I pulled it out, saw it was the remote and I just kind of tossed it over my shoulder and that's when it may or may not have hit you."
And I said, pursing my Lisa Rinna lips, "And just how do you know this?"
He'd been reading the paper when he confessed to battering me and he hid behind it then, as he said, "You might have sat up in bed and yelled, 'What the &@# hell? You just *!# hit me in my #@! mouth with the mother *&#, $#* remote, you mother#@#*!' But then you just lay back down, so I figured you were talking in your sleep again."
Or more like cussing a river in my sleep.
My husband gave me a fat lip. I will never let him live this one down.
And one more thing.
Sighhhh.
An update for all of you on my querying. As you've probably noticed, I haven't been around much lately. It's because I've been writing and revising and reviewing and revising and pretty much riding this crazy roller coaster of trying to make a dream come true.
On my first query go-round, I sent out four queries. This isn't a lot by query standards, but I'm the type who dips my toes in first and then slowwwwly eases into the pool. I'm not a cannonball jumper, by any means. That type of rambunctious nonsense totally trashes a good hair day.
I sent these four queries to my dream agents, the cool girls, the ones who I would die to be invited to sit at their lunch table.
Two days later, one of those agents requested my full manuscript.
See, the way it works is: You query an agent. If they like what they see, they usually ask for a partial manuscript or about three chapters. If they like that, they ask for a full. This agent bypassed that partial and asked me for a full.
I couldn't believe it. I'd heard the stories, how hard this was supposed to be, how 98% of writers get rejected, how many famous writers toiled forever before anyone sat up and took notice.
I sent off my manuscript, elated. In the meantime, two of those agents sent me rejections. But no matter, an agent of my dreams had my full manuscript in her hands.
And then I went to Pebble Beach for a vacation and as I sat at breakfast one morning, I got an email from my number one dream agent, asking me to send her a partial manuscript.
Oh, I tell you, I was in heaven, aspiring author heaven.
We toasted with champagne and I emailed all my writer friends to tell them the big news.
I floated home from that vacation, dreaming about book tours and NY Times lists and Isla Fisher playing my main character, Kel, in the blockbuster movie.
In the meantime, I got back to work because those two rejections were getting under my skin. Because I always want everyone to love me. And those two rejections told me there was always room for improvement.
I sent out four more queries while I waited. But this time, the news wasn't so good. I got one rejection and the other three didn't respond. Many agencies will say if you don't hear from them, it's a no. So I figured I got a no, no, no and no on that go-round.
Still, two agents were reading my words. So I worked and I polished and I revised.
And I stalked those two agents—reading their blogs, buying their client's books, following them on Twitter.
It was a Sunday, when I saw a tweet from the agent who had my full, stating she had big news on her blog.
I raced right over to see what was going down.
And that's when I found out she was quitting the agency. In fact, she was quitting agenting altogether. For a big job, the job of her dreams.
I sent her an email, congratulating her and politely asking about my manuscript. She didn't answer. I spent the next few days, crying, eating all of the chocolate chip cookie dough from my daughter's fundraiser and commiserating with all of my darling, darling writer friends.
Not too shortly after that jolt, the agent of my dreams who had my partial sent me a very kind email, telling me that although my writing was lovely, she didn't think my novel was right for her.
I started on the Keebler Elfwiches.
A few days later I got an email from the agency of the agent who had quit, telling me they were still considering my manuscript.
And I was all, "Yay! Yay!"
And then yesterday, the newest agent at that agency sent me an email, saying that although she was drawn in by my premise and my entertaining and well drawn cast of characters, she wasn't as pulled in as she would have liked to be.
And so . . .
I begin again. And again. And again. If that's what it takes.
Yesterday, it was Costco's chocolate fudge cake that helped me through. And as always, as always, as always, my so patient, talented and kind critique partner, A.B. Keuser.
I was sad yesterday. But I'm back to fighting mode today.
I am polishing and tightening and revising. And next week, a whole handful of new agents will have me knocking on their query door.
And a little over a month from now, I will be attending my first writer's conference. I am excited and shaking in my boots. I've signed up to pitch an agent my novel, which essentially means I have ten minutes of one-on-one time with an agent where I have to try and sell her my work and not babble inanely like I usually do. So, on top of revising and eating cake, I now have to craft a pitch that will knock this agent out of her chair. Figuratively, that is. I hope I don't literally knock her out of the chair. Who knows, I get extra klutzy when I'm nervous.
But the best thing about this writer's conference is my lovely, oh so awesome, writer friend, Ash of Shades of Blue and Green is coming with me. We'll hold hands and brave our first writer's conference together and because of that, I know it will all go as smoothly as peaches and cream.
And so, please forgive me if I'm not around. But this writing gig? It's everything to me. I'll blog here in my usual sporadic way, but know that I'm always thinking of all of you lovely people I consider my friends. Your love and kind comments and support have bolstered me indubitably through this writing journey.
Today's Definite Download: No download today. A very special link instead. When I got the news yesterday, after I emailed A.B., cried and ate cake, I googled rejections. And that's when I stumbled upon Kathryn Stockett's story. Kathryn Stockett is the author of The Help, the novel that spent over 100 weeks on the NY Times Bestseller List and was made into an Oscar nominated blockbuster movie.
Kathryn Stockett wrote about her journey to publishing, her obsession with her manuscript, her constant writing, foregoing everything else in her life to get it right and her 60, that's right, 60 rejections before she got a yes.
Her words spoke to my bruised writer's heart yesterday and it was the perfect balm. Her amazing tale, only a few paragraphs long, is right here.
I will leave you with these words from her: "The point is, I can't tell you how to succeed. But I can tell you how not to: Give in to the shame of being rejected and put your manuscript—or painting, song, dance moves, (insert passion here)—in the coffin that is your bedside drawer and close it for good. I guarantee you that it won't take you anywhere. Or you could do what this writer did: Give in to your obsession, instead."
I'll see you soon. A manuscript is calling to me.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
As I'm writing this, I'm listening to Kevin Costner's sweet and lovely eulogy for Whitney.
I once had the sorrowful honor of eulogizing someone. My father.
It was such a hard thing to write and at the same time, one of the easiest. The words find their own way to you when you've been swallowed whole into an abyss of grief and heartache and lost love. I remember sitting there empty-eyed, still so muddled from his sudden, untimely death and then suddenly there was this pouring out of everything he was, to me, to all of us. I couldn't type fast enough to capture the words.
I'm really not sure what this means, but I'd like to believe it's his way of saying he loves me.
We squealed. We called his name. We rapped on the glass.
As I'm writing this, I'm listening to Kevin Costner's sweet and lovely eulogy for Whitney.
I once had the sorrowful honor of eulogizing someone. My father.
It was such a hard thing to write and at the same time, one of the easiest. The words find their own way to you when you've been swallowed whole into an abyss of grief and heartache and lost love. I remember sitting there empty-eyed, still so muddled from his sudden, untimely death and then suddenly there was this pouring out of everything he was, to me, to all of us. I couldn't type fast enough to capture the words.
When I heard about Whitney, we were in the car—six friends driving from Pebble Beach to Healdsburg, California, a tedious, almost four hour trip—when all of our phones dinged. AP breaking news. Whitney was dead. We all scrambled for verification, googling from phones and iPads, hoping that perhaps the AP, for once, had gotten it wrong.
It took a few minutes for other sources to pick it up. I knew it was definitely true when all three of my sisters started texting me.
We sisters don't take celebrity deaths lightly.
It's so sad. Yes, I know she was whacked on crack and she hadn't been the real Whitney for years. But in her day, her voice was unparalleled. She sang the national anthem here in my hometown for the Super Bowl one year. Our country was at war. Peace in America had been my birthright, but now there were bombs and strife and shadowy dangers rising up in a continent that no longer seemed thousands of miles away. Sadly, it was the beginning of some of our country's darkest days. But on that night, Whitney and her heavenly voice reminded us how privileged we are to be here in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Gifts like that are rare and few and now we are left with one less glorious voice in the world.
Now, let's talk about happier, shinier things.
Namely, I've been rubbing elbows with the celebrities these days.
It all started a few weeks ago, when I joined the world of querying writers. I was slacking off checking my Twitter for agent information, when I spotted a tweet from my hot Italian honey, Chef Fabio.
He was tweeting about an upcoming appearance, a cooking lesson he was giving at a Publix in South Florida. So I took the opportunity to beg him to come up to my part of town.
We have better Publixes.
I really don't know if that's true or if, in fact, that is the correct plural spelling of Publix, but . . .
We do have Ernest, the 80-year-old bag boy who sings George Gershwin tunes as he's carrying out your bags. I'd say that pretty much qualifies as the best.
I'm really not sure what this means, but I'd like to believe it's his way of saying he loves me.
After all, who can forget this amazing tweet he sent me, after he asked his fans for input on a T-shirt he was creating for Team Fabio. In a tweet, I told him the letters were a little too high on the shirt and asked if there would be a ladies cut. Here's the gushing sentiment he sent to me that time:
@fabiovivianiFabio Viviani
@joannmannix will def move the words lower and offer lady option
I'll let you know where to send the wedding gifts.
And if that weren't enough to make you jealous, last week I was in Pebble Beach where I may or may not have called golf tournaments, stupid.
I'd like to take a mulligan on that.
Because golf tournaments are not stupid. They are fun, super fun.
Especially when celebrities and vodka and cranberry cocktails are involved.
We were guests of a company my hubs does business with and that fabulous company had this mammoth doublewide trailer with ample seating, wall to wall windows, (hopefully strong ones) overlooking the 17th green, delicious food and of course, the cocktails. I had gone to the tournament begrudgingly, but as soon as we walked into that trailer and I spotted the giant chocolate chip cookies and the luxe bathroom, I thought, "Okay, this might not hurt after all."
The men in our group were sad to hear Tiger had already been to our hole. (Please don't laugh. I am vastly ignorant when it comes to sports terms.) So they decided we should leave our beautiful trailer with the three different types of cookies and wild mushroom risotto and Eric the bartender and traipse around after stupid Tiger.
Since I didn't want to seem all bad sporty, I traipsed with my crew.
This was verrrry good sporty of me because it was sprinkling and a heavy mist hung over us from the Pacific Ocean and I have blonde, kicky hair that turns decidedly un-kicky when wet.
We had umbrellas, but the crowds were heavy and people were giving me the stink eye every time I poked them with my umbrella because clearly people are unbelievably prejudiced against good hair.
We found Tiger which was super un-thrilling. He hit the ball. The crowd clapped. He ignored the crowd. That's it.
He was the only golfer of the day who acted like a jackhole.
The wonderful Phil Mickelson waved and shook hands and eventually won the tournament.
So maybe someone should lose their smug attitude, Mr. I-Love-Me-Some-Pancake-House. I think SOMEONE could use all the good PR he can get these days.
Finally, after having enough of watching Tiger ignore everyone, my friend Lisa and I decided our blonde heads of hair had had enough mist and we poked our way back to the wonderful doublewide with this view:
Wonderful doublewide.
I never thought I'd utter those two words together in my lifetime.
The boys stayed to follow jackhole Tiger around, so we ladies sat in our doublewide, keeping our hair kicky and waiting for some good celebrities.
There were a parade of sports celebrities that I could not tell you about.
The real fun began when Josh Duhamel showed up on our green.
When God smiled upon us and rolled Josh's ball right up to the front of our doublewide, every single dignified woman in that trailer rushed to the giant picture window.
We squealed. We called his name. We rapped on the glass.
He hit his ball into the hole and then smiled and waved. Again. I do not know golf or anything else.
After they all hit their little balls in the hole, they walked around the side of the doublewide to tee off for the next hole.
Our beautiful doublewide's steps were directly in front of their teeing off place.
Thank you, Jesus.
Josh came over to greet our bevy of ladies. And we classy ladies acted exactly like we were 12 and Justin Bieber had just ripped his shirt off, exposing his prepubescent, hairless, girl pecs to us.
Since I was a newbie, I had no idea we would be this up close and personal with such hotness and unlike everyone else, I had nothing for Mr. Hotness himself to sign.
And because I am me and because my doublewide had Eric who was making succulent cocktails, when Josh set his glorious eyes upon me expectantly and said, "What do you have for me?"
I stuck out my arm and said, "Sign me?"
And yes. I know.
My friend Mary has already chastised me for giving him my arm as my best body part.
But I was trying to act dignified, since we were guests of this company.
Oh, who am I kidding! I never pretend to be dignified. The lady who grabbed the president's ass this weekend? That's my kind of dignity.
The truth is when Josh looked at me, all thoughts flew out of my head. And I just poked out my pasty white arm.
I know, sad.
But still, I went back to the doublewide, my arm held high in victory as all the women gathered around, oohing and ahhing and telling me how lucky I was.
I was still saying, "I'll never wash my arm again" when the next crew hit our green.
It was George Lopez and Andy Garcia. And I have no idea who any of the real golfers were except for Pancake Tiger and Gentleman Phil, so do not bother asking me about that.
After they hit their little balls in the hole, I was getting into the groove of things and I flew out the door to get more body parts signed.
Now, here's the thing.
Picture taking was off limits and I got caught more than a few times. The phone police were always very nice about it and would gently ask me to put it away.
Which I would do. Kind of.
I was trying to pretend I was talking on my phone while aiming it at the golfers, when a dude on the course came over to me. I tried to slide my phone back into my pocket, but I wasn't quick enough.
But instead of scolding me, he asked if I would mind making a call for him, since they were not allowed to use their phones while on the course. He then asked me to call the golf course's restaurant, The Tap Room, and reserve a table for George Lopez.
So, there I was, on the Pebble Beach golf course making a reservation for George Lopez.
The harried woman who answered the phone, couldn't quite hear me over the din of the crowd. All she heard was my request for a reservation, to which she told me in a clipped tone, they were not making reservations today.
I said with great celebrity confidence, "But I'd like to make a reservation for George Lopez, the comedian?"
Once again, words I never thought I'd utter in my life.
I have now firsthand evidence that celebrities really are the special people. She said, "Oh George Lopez! Of course. How many?"
And just at that moment, George had wandered over. I stuck out my non-signed hand and said, "Hey George, I'm making your reservation. How many?"
George had a cute little Panama hat on and he smiled and said, "Make it for ten. Thanks, baby."
He signed my outstretched limb and then:
Kissed. My. Hand.
Kissed. My. Hand.
I went stampeding up my trailer stairs and found my whole crew, (the boys had made it back), sitting there.
I said, "I know this sounds really random, but I just made a dinner reservation for George Lopez!"
I am a regular Edie Sedgwick with my celebrity elbow rubbing.
There were also a few others like Chris O'Donnell who also signed my arm and Goldie Hawn's gorgeous son, Oliver, but none of them asked me for a dinner reservation.
So, that was my fabulous tale of mingling with the celebrities. It was like hanging out at Studio 54, back in the day. Except Cher wasn't there. Oh, wouldn't that have been utterly fabulous if Cher was there in one of her Bob Mackey getups?
Although, we did have the fabulous Bill Murray in his camo/cowboy fringe outfit.
After the golf tournament, we spent a few days up in Sonoma valley, where we had a great time. As usual.
I won't bore you with the details. They are the same every time.
We see old friends. We find new ones while discovering new wines.
We see old friends. We find new ones while discovering new wines.
And as usual, there might have been a little bit of nonsense along the way.
This time, our nonsense happened at a little Sonoma bar, stuffed with regulars who made the mistake of thinking they were up for another normal weekend night, that is, until our motley crew walked in the door.
There was the big rowdy group of young folks who worked for Amy's Organics, who loved our iPod library so much, they hooked up their speaker to it and whooped at each classic tune. Sam, the grizzled rancher who rescued wild donkeys and brought them to the safe haven of his 800 acre ranch, just down the road. He was there in the bar with his two Australian shepherd pups. I bought handmade beef jerky and those beautiful dogs were my best friends for the rest of the night.
Jonathan, the bartender and ex-police officer who let our friend, Rob bartend all night.
Jonathan's brother, Garth who was there having a beer and keeping his brother company. And Jonathan's girlfriend, I can't remember her name, who sadly confided to me when we became fast friends over a cocktail, that Jonathan and Garth had a pact to never marry. And Pat? I think, who told us he would have left the bar hours ago, if it wasn't for us.
Jonathan, the bartender and ex-police officer who let our friend, Rob bartend all night.
Jonathan's brother, Garth who was there having a beer and keeping his brother company. And Jonathan's girlfriend, I can't remember her name, who sadly confided to me when we became fast friends over a cocktail, that Jonathan and Garth had a pact to never marry. And Pat? I think, who told us he would have left the bar hours ago, if it wasn't for us.
There might have been a bit of this:
And a bit of that:
And a bit of that:
And maybe some dancing:
And more dancing:
And perhaps some dancing on the bar:
And more dancing:
And perhaps some dancing on the bar:
And since I loved this boar and wanted a picture of it, there was also some of this:
When it was time for us to leave, the entire bar walked us out, begging us not to go. But we'd made our mark. It was time to move on.
And that's all I have to say about that.
And one more thing:
I do so apologize for my heavy silence these days. I truly, truly, truly appreciate all the love that has been coming my way. Please know that. But this querying thing along with all of the other major components that make up my day are keeping me a mite busy. My guilt over you, Internet, is one of the things keeping me awake at night. That and the fact that I cannot find my RED iPod anywhere. I'm wondering if it's in one of the Moron Twins stomachs. It's quite possible, since it is a Nano and I've seen them eat much bigger items. I keep putting my ear up to their stomachs hoping to hear Bono, but nothing but churning stomachs so far.
Today's Definite Download: I'm not a big pop music fan, but today I must honor Whitney. Even though, she's known for her big, blustery beautiful songs, this rather low key one is probably my favorite of hers. "My Love Is Your Love." Here she is in concert, with a heartbreakingly sweet, young Bobbi Christina.
"If I should die this day
Don't cry cause on Earth we weren't meant to stay.
And no matter what the people say
I'll be waiting for you after the Judgement Day."
Godspeed Whitney, may you find the peace that always eluded you.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Hey! I'm back. Now come on, line up for your hugs. Oh, how I've missed you, Internet.
Hey! I'm back. Now come on, line up for your hugs. Oh, how I've missed you, Internet.
I finally finished my revisions. My baby is now in the hands of my fabulous critique partner, A.B. Keuser. She has been instrumental in helping me shape my novel and my hugs and kisses and love go out to her for being that kind of partner.
I would also like to thank out loud my unofficial critique partner, a writer whose words always take my breath away. Ashlei of Shades of Blue and Green so generously took the time to read and critique my work and give me valuable input.
These two talented ladies pretty much gave me carbon copy advice and so I reshaped things a bit and hopefully unless I get a hearty thumbs down, (no pressure, Amy), I'll be off and running here very soon.
Now, that's enough about my novel, today. Let's talk about other things. Mainly spreading the love through blog world. I feel like I have not spread the love as I should. I've been more of a taker than a giver. And I've fallen down in reciprocating the love that is so generously sent my way.
So I've decided to change all that.
With every post, I will be pointing you in the direction of one of my favorite blogs. Some old loves. Some new loves. Just great blogs that I know you'll enjoy as much as I do. It's about spreading the love all the way around. Because isn't life better when we share the love?
I know Arnold thinks so.
We're going to call it Fresh Laundry. My college girl came up with the title and I think it's perfect.
I was also wondering if you could help me out with a family dilemma because it's always nice to neglect your friends for weeks on end and then ask a favor of them as soon as you see them again.
I am trying to plan our summer vacation and I need your help. We're very limited in the dates we can take because Olivia wants to be included, so I'm going to make this work around her schedule. Because now that there are only two chicks left under our roof, I revel in the precious moments when we are once again, a family of five.
We can't decide where we should go and I thought you might be able to give me your valuable input.
We can't decide where we should go and I thought you might be able to give me your valuable input.
Here are our options, in no certain preferential order.
Option Number One: New York City. Here's the thing, I love New York. I know, right? Brilliance out of my mouth, once again. Anyway, the thing about New York in the summer is the sidewalks are a bit roomier. The natives all flee the heat for the Hamptons. And I love that because crowds unnerve me. And that, of course, is why you'll find me at Disney World all the freakin' time. And since we are hardy Florida folk, a wussy northeastern heat wave feels quite balmy to us. If it dips below 85 degrees, we call that sweater weather. And forget it if it gets as frigid as 75, we're bundled up in our parkas. So heat, schmeet is what I say.
My family loves NY, especially my girls. It has everything they require in a vacation. Fabulous food, great sights, the subway, taxis, (my girls are highly entertained by transportation), Broadway shows, the best weirdos walking the streets, street vendors with cheap junk my girls love even if it turns their necks green after 20 minutes and Chinatown with its exciting back rooms full of fake purses. And in case any of you are the Feds, I did NOT say that last part. My hands must have had a spasm or something.
Now the thing is, we've done New York many times over. And we may or may not have a LOT of purses. Which leads up to:
Option Number Two: Seattle, Washington and Vancouver, British Columbia.
This one really appeals to me because I've never been to Seattle and I hear it's extraordinary.
But and this is a big Kim Kardashian kind of but,
I'm afraid of Seattle.
I think they're going to be mean to me there.
Just like in Oregon.
And no offense to those of you who live in Oregon. If you're reading this and you live there, then there's a slight chance you like me, you really like me. I know A.B. Keuser kind of thinks I'm cool and she's from Oregon, so I'm not including you nice Oregonians in this rant. I'm talking about all the other people of your land. Not you.
And no offense to those of you who live in Oregon. If you're reading this and you live there, then there's a slight chance you like me, you really like me. I know A.B. Keuser kind of thinks I'm cool and she's from Oregon, so I'm not including you nice Oregonians in this rant. I'm talking about all the other people of your land. Not you.
And yes, I know so many of you love Oregon.
But I'm sure that's because you've never been called derisive names and been treated with utter scorn while there.
See, Oregon is the Jill Zarin of the United States. Oregon likes to act like they've got this super cool vibe going on, but deep down, if you're not like the rest of the grunge folk there, they'll sink their mean girl fangs right into your tender skin.
I've got no problem with the grungy, natural thing Oregon's got going on. So, here's a thought, Oregon: Since I embrace your people, why not accept those who are different from you?
And different I am.
I knew this on my first morning in Oregon when we came down for breakfast at our lovely B&B.
It was the first time I was called Barbie. With a sneer. It wouldn't be the last Barbie flung at me while in Mean Oregon.
I was ready for my day. Makeup and hair done, wearing my heels and an awesome sweater with a fur collar.
And yes, it was faux fur because I would never wear real fur.
I am against animal cruelty, unless it's gator because gators are meaner than the entire population of Oregon and Jill Zarin put together. They deserve to be shoes and purses. Also, goats are pretty much assholes, so I don't care if the world is cruel to goats. Sorry, goat huggers.
Anyway, as I strode into the breakfast area in my heels, the contempt in the room was palpable.
And when I went up to get my coffee, an unfortunately dressed chick bumped into ME. Not me bumping into her, mind you. She practically ran me over, probably couldn't see beyond her heaping plate of cheese danishes. Her, "Oh, excuse me Barbie" was dripping with mockery.
And this woman, like most of the women I encountered in Oregon, totally was feeling the "You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman" thing.
Her hair was wet. Dripping wet.
In my world, a blow dryer is as essential as properly fitting undergarments. You just don't present yourself to the world without hair in place and panty lines nonexistent.
She had on cranberry lycra pants that were too tight and too short WITH panty lines. And she had an overabundance of herself stuffed into those cranberry pants. A faded striped shirt and tennis shoes capped off her ensemble. She embodied natural.
My idea of natural is only one coat of mascara and some casual wedges instead of stilettos. I will freely admit I am not a sensible shoe kind of girl.
My lack of sensible shoes has been a constant source of frustration for my Hubs. Like the time he had to wrap my blistered feet in moleskin after conquering the hills of San Francisco all day. He was foolish enough to say, "I don't understand why you won't wear tennis shoes."
Really? And my answer to that was, "I don't understand why you won't wear skinny jeans paired with a vibrant scarf."
Or the time he kept badgering me to wear tennis shoes when we were hiking in the Lake Tahoe hills. And I was like, "No. I'm wearing my Cole Haan wedges. They're perfect for hiking. They have Nike bottoms."
And as I fumbled and fell off my wedges all the way up the mountain, I kept insisting, "I don't understand why this is happening. They have Nike bottoms AND they're one of Oprah's favorite things!" After my shoe broke from my 400th tumble and my hubs had to give me a piggyback ride down the mountain, I think he might have been the one who was soooorrrrryyyy.
Hey, he dated me for five years. Five years before he put a ring on it. He knew what sort of high maintenance he was going to be spending the rest of his life with.
So anyway, Oregon doesn't like me for these sort of girly girl reasons and I just feel like Seattle's got the same sort of vibe going on. I'm afraid they just might be as mean as their sister state.
And this time, instead of flinging contempt at just lil ole' me, I'd be bringing a whole family of Barbies. If it were Oregon, they'd be pelting us with Birkenstocks until we fled to a more manicured state, so I'm worried we're too much girl for Seattle.
Although . . .
Here's a very good reason to brave my fear and take my Nike bottom wedges and lip gloss and head to Seattle.
Eddie Vedder lives there. I would brave all the wet haired, bad fashioned, sneering grunge chicks of the world, if it meant I could give Eddie Vedder just one, a-little-too-long-and-too-tight-for-his-comfort, hug.
And the other plus of that trip is, Canada. I do so love Canada and their people because they are super nice up there. Even if they did give us Alanis Morissette, who seems to really not care about getting dolled up or you know, brushing her hair, they're still nice to the girly girls. They also have beaver tails and poutine and English high tea.
I like that in a country.
Our other option is, (Dear God is it too late to be raptured), a cruise.
If you didn't catch my subtle hint there, I really am not a cruise girl. Just like I'm not a camping girl or a tennis shoe wearing girl or a grunge girl or a wet haired, panty lines girl.
My family on the other hand is dying to go on a cruise.
Unfortunately, we live right around the corner from a popular cruise port and we have a veritable wealth of cruise lines right at our fingertips.
And here's why I think cruises are akin to the third circle of hell: You are trapped. On a boat. With people. Lots and lots of people. Loud people. Cruise people. People who enjoy bingo and belly flop and hairy chest contests. People who love magicians and passenger talent shows. People who will hang around the ship in their bathing suits for a week straight. And being exposed to that, mister, would be like the ninth circle of hell or the Kill Me Now circle of hell.
And then there is the dining with the theme song of "Buffets, exciting and new, Come stuff your face, Norovirus is waiting for you."
And should we even mention the close quarters of the cabins? When I say I don't like crowds, that includes my family and the mess that becomes them.
And please don't think I'm trying to discourage you from any of the options. Don't pick the cruise.
So if you could help me out, I'd be much obliged. We've been going round and round on this and I'm starting to feel as sea sick as I would on a big cruise ship because I'm very sensitive to motion sickness. Don't pick the cruise.
And just one more thing: It's so good to be back. XXXOOO
My very first ever FRESH LAUNDRY is: Erin of Tesori Trovati Treasures Found.
Erin is a jewelry designer who creates beautiful works of art out of beads and gems. Every time I'm at Erin's place, I feel like I'm opening up a pirate's treasure chest overflowing with glittering gorgeous decadence. Not only is Erin an accomplished jewelry designer, she's a stellar photographer whose pictures are as incredible as her jewelry pieces. And Erin lives to inspire, her words are chock full of things like DREAM and DO IT and YOU CAN.
During my revisions, it's safe to say I got distracted a lot. I mean, Web MD is just a click away. But one of my happiest distractions was perusing Erin's jewelry, all the gorgeous sparkle.
I have given Erin's pieces as gifts, but I'm finally getting one for myself. Erin has started a line called Simple Truths. She creates these beautiful, rustic pendants and charms with a custom made positive message engrained on each of them. I haven't quite decided what I want mine to read, but I'll show it you as soon as I get it. I'm positive it will be extraordinary.
And guess what else? I'm giving one of you a Simple Truth pendant and necklace, too! I mean, you've been waiting for me for far too long while I wrote a little and checked my symptoms far too much on Web MD. Did you know that all symptoms will eventually lead to Ebola? It's true.
So as a thank you for sticking around while I waited for my eyeballs to start hemorrhaging, I'm giving one lucky reader their own Simple Truth.
All you have to do is leave me a comment, hopefully a comment that can advise me how to meet Bono and then go check out Erin's blog and give her some love. I will randomly pick someone, let's say, on May 30th, that's one week from now.
And just so you know, Erin was fortunate enough to have a buyer scoop up a huge part of her Simple Truth inventory this weekend, so she's a little depleted at the moment, but trust me, it won't take too long for Erin to churn out more beautiful pieces.
Now Shoo, go take a look at Erin's blog of uplifting spirit and go check out her beautiful jewelry, right here. Once you meet Erin, you'll be thanking me forever.
Today's Definite Download: And here's another little gift from me to you for having been gone for far too long.
See, Oregon is the Jill Zarin of the United States. Oregon likes to act like they've got this super cool vibe going on, but deep down, if you're not like the rest of the grunge folk there, they'll sink their mean girl fangs right into your tender skin.
I've got no problem with the grungy, natural thing Oregon's got going on. So, here's a thought, Oregon: Since I embrace your people, why not accept those who are different from you?
And different I am.
I knew this on my first morning in Oregon when we came down for breakfast at our lovely B&B.
It was the first time I was called Barbie. With a sneer. It wouldn't be the last Barbie flung at me while in Mean Oregon.
I was ready for my day. Makeup and hair done, wearing my heels and an awesome sweater with a fur collar.
And yes, it was faux fur because I would never wear real fur.
I am against animal cruelty, unless it's gator because gators are meaner than the entire population of Oregon and Jill Zarin put together. They deserve to be shoes and purses. Also, goats are pretty much assholes, so I don't care if the world is cruel to goats. Sorry, goat huggers.
Anyway, as I strode into the breakfast area in my heels, the contempt in the room was palpable.
And when I went up to get my coffee, an unfortunately dressed chick bumped into ME. Not me bumping into her, mind you. She practically ran me over, probably couldn't see beyond her heaping plate of cheese danishes. Her, "Oh, excuse me Barbie" was dripping with mockery.
And this woman, like most of the women I encountered in Oregon, totally was feeling the "You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman" thing.
Her hair was wet. Dripping wet.
In my world, a blow dryer is as essential as properly fitting undergarments. You just don't present yourself to the world without hair in place and panty lines nonexistent.
She had on cranberry lycra pants that were too tight and too short WITH panty lines. And she had an overabundance of herself stuffed into those cranberry pants. A faded striped shirt and tennis shoes capped off her ensemble. She embodied natural.
My idea of natural is only one coat of mascara and some casual wedges instead of stilettos. I will freely admit I am not a sensible shoe kind of girl.
My lack of sensible shoes has been a constant source of frustration for my Hubs. Like the time he had to wrap my blistered feet in moleskin after conquering the hills of San Francisco all day. He was foolish enough to say, "I don't understand why you won't wear tennis shoes."
Really? And my answer to that was, "I don't understand why you won't wear skinny jeans paired with a vibrant scarf."
Or the time he kept badgering me to wear tennis shoes when we were hiking in the Lake Tahoe hills. And I was like, "No. I'm wearing my Cole Haan wedges. They're perfect for hiking. They have Nike bottoms."
And he was all, "You're going to be soooorrrryyyy."
And as I fumbled and fell off my wedges all the way up the mountain, I kept insisting, "I don't understand why this is happening. They have Nike bottoms AND they're one of Oprah's favorite things!" After my shoe broke from my 400th tumble and my hubs had to give me a piggyback ride down the mountain, I think he might have been the one who was soooorrrrryyyy.
Hey, he dated me for five years. Five years before he put a ring on it. He knew what sort of high maintenance he was going to be spending the rest of his life with.
So anyway, Oregon doesn't like me for these sort of girly girl reasons and I just feel like Seattle's got the same sort of vibe going on. I'm afraid they just might be as mean as their sister state.
And this time, instead of flinging contempt at just lil ole' me, I'd be bringing a whole family of Barbies. If it were Oregon, they'd be pelting us with Birkenstocks until we fled to a more manicured state, so I'm worried we're too much girl for Seattle.
Although . . .
Here's a very good reason to brave my fear and take my Nike bottom wedges and lip gloss and head to Seattle.
Eddie Vedder lives there. I would brave all the wet haired, bad fashioned, sneering grunge chicks of the world, if it meant I could give Eddie Vedder just one, a-little-too-long-and-too-tight-for-his-comfort, hug.
And the other plus of that trip is, Canada. I do so love Canada and their people because they are super nice up there. Even if they did give us Alanis Morissette, who seems to really not care about getting dolled up or you know, brushing her hair, they're still nice to the girly girls. They also have beaver tails and poutine and English high tea.
I like that in a country.
Our other option is, (Dear God is it too late to be raptured), a cruise.
If you didn't catch my subtle hint there, I really am not a cruise girl. Just like I'm not a camping girl or a tennis shoe wearing girl or a grunge girl or a wet haired, panty lines girl.
My family on the other hand is dying to go on a cruise.
Unfortunately, we live right around the corner from a popular cruise port and we have a veritable wealth of cruise lines right at our fingertips.
And here's why I think cruises are akin to the third circle of hell: You are trapped. On a boat. With people. Lots and lots of people. Loud people. Cruise people. People who enjoy bingo and belly flop and hairy chest contests. People who love magicians and passenger talent shows. People who will hang around the ship in their bathing suits for a week straight. And being exposed to that, mister, would be like the ninth circle of hell or the Kill Me Now circle of hell.
And then there is the dining with the theme song of "Buffets, exciting and new, Come stuff your face, Norovirus is waiting for you."
And should we even mention the close quarters of the cabins? When I say I don't like crowds, that includes my family and the mess that becomes them.
And please don't think I'm trying to discourage you from any of the options. Don't pick the cruise.
So if you could help me out, I'd be much obliged. We've been going round and round on this and I'm starting to feel as sea sick as I would on a big cruise ship because I'm very sensitive to motion sickness. Don't pick the cruise.
And just one more thing: It's so good to be back. XXXOOO
My very first ever FRESH LAUNDRY is: Erin of Tesori Trovati Treasures Found.
Erin is a jewelry designer who creates beautiful works of art out of beads and gems. Every time I'm at Erin's place, I feel like I'm opening up a pirate's treasure chest overflowing with glittering gorgeous decadence. Not only is Erin an accomplished jewelry designer, she's a stellar photographer whose pictures are as incredible as her jewelry pieces. And Erin lives to inspire, her words are chock full of things like DREAM and DO IT and YOU CAN.
During my revisions, it's safe to say I got distracted a lot. I mean, Web MD is just a click away. But one of my happiest distractions was perusing Erin's jewelry, all the gorgeous sparkle.
I have given Erin's pieces as gifts, but I'm finally getting one for myself. Erin has started a line called Simple Truths. She creates these beautiful, rustic pendants and charms with a custom made positive message engrained on each of them. I haven't quite decided what I want mine to read, but I'll show it you as soon as I get it. I'm positive it will be extraordinary.
And guess what else? I'm giving one of you a Simple Truth pendant and necklace, too! I mean, you've been waiting for me for far too long while I wrote a little and checked my symptoms far too much on Web MD. Did you know that all symptoms will eventually lead to Ebola? It's true.
So as a thank you for sticking around while I waited for my eyeballs to start hemorrhaging, I'm giving one lucky reader their own Simple Truth.
All you have to do is leave me a comment, hopefully a comment that can advise me how to meet Bono and then go check out Erin's blog and give her some love. I will randomly pick someone, let's say, on May 30th, that's one week from now.
And just so you know, Erin was fortunate enough to have a buyer scoop up a huge part of her Simple Truth inventory this weekend, so she's a little depleted at the moment, but trust me, it won't take too long for Erin to churn out more beautiful pieces.
Now Shoo, go take a look at Erin's blog of uplifting spirit and go check out her beautiful jewelry, right here. Once you meet Erin, you'll be thanking me forever.
Today's Definite Download: And here's another little gift from me to you for having been gone for far too long.
"Without Me"—Eminem at his absolute best, when he was wicked and angry and funny and smart. It's an awesome song, an awesome video. But be warned, if you're easily offended, it is Eminem we're talking about here.
And it's such a disaster, such a catastrophe
For you to see so damn much of my ass
You asked for me? Well, I'm back
Fix your bent antennae, tune it in and then I'm gonna
Enter in, endin' up under your skin like a splinter
And it's such a disaster, such a catastrophe
For you to see so damn much of my ass
You asked for me? Well, I'm back
Fix your bent antennae, tune it in and then I'm gonna
Enter in, endin' up under your skin like a splinter
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
I promise I will continue with vacation tales my next post, but before I do, I have a tale to tell you about my weekend and my Valentine's Day and to also give you this news flash: I am peeved by many sorts of people.
Once there was a girl, who grew very sad this weekend because her new baby Macbook Pro got sick and had to go to the Mac hospital.
Everything was working splendidly until last week when my trackpad stopped making an audible click. It still worked, it just didn't make the clicky sound. But then on Friday, I was busyreading TMZ writing when suddenly the trackpad decided it didn't want to do what I told it to do. It was freaky, really. I'd direct the cursor one way, it would go another, opening new windows, minimizing and enlarging things, just totally acting like my kids and not listening to a word I say.
And I thought to myself, "What the hell? There really are little geek dudes living in my computer, just jacking me up for the hell of it!"
But then I googled trackpad issues, or at least I tried to google trackpad issues. It took me about one million attempts to get there. I'm sure the geeks in my computer were having a BALL in between bouts of beer pong and bong hits, saying "Take THAT! You're not googling crap! You're going to Clay Aiken's website, beyatch."
So the Baby had to go to the Apple store.
I called to make an appointment—which have I told you how much I love those hipster folks at Apple? I really do. They're all so nice and laid back and they say things like "wicked cool." And it doesn't matter how big the crowd gets in their store, (and trust me, it looks like the Million Man March on just a normal day there), they are never stressed.
The hipsters just stroll around the store with their iPads and their mini portable wi fi's registers shoved into the back pocket of their corduroys, giving people a head nod and a "Wassup?" (If you've never been in an Apple store, there are no cash registers, just the hipsters with their mini registers in their pants)
I'm thinking they must keep the vending machine stocked with magic brownies. It's the only explanation.
So anyway, I called them up and got a stoner/employee and after he took my vitals, he said, "So, wussup?"
I said, "Well, I think my trackpad needs an exorcism."
And he was all, "Ahhhh, the trackpad."
And I was like, "Yeah, I figured you knew about the trackpad."
And he said, "Totally."
So he set me up with a Genius Bar appointment for that evening.
My hubs and I entered the mall through our gigantatroid sporting goods store entrance.
And here's where I tell you about certain people and their ability to piss me off.
I am like an 80-year-old crotchety man with my pet peeves.
And I put people in categories, categories that peeve me.
Here, I'll give you an example.
As we tried to walk into the store, there was a woman blocking the entrance/exit. She was just standing there, totally immersed in her stupid cell phone, texting right in the middle of the doorway. No one could get around her.
This really pisses me off.
I don't understand how people can be that clueless. It happens everywhere, people just standing there immobile in the middle of a major hub, like the walkway of an airport or the crowded sidewalks of Disney World or the grocery store aisle or moving walkways or a busy city sidewalk or the SMACK DAB MIDDLE of the entrance/exit to one of the busiest stores in the mall. Please! Energize some of your limited brain cells and stand to the damn side. How hard is that?
And even though I get quite peeved at people, I am not a confrontational person. So, what did I do? I sighed very dramatically. Because a dramatic sigh is a good way to handle things. It's just enough to get your point across without people getting too ticked off. No one will confront a dramatic sigh. In all of my years of dramatic sighing, I've never had anyone say to me, "Are you sighing at me?"
And as soon as this imbecile heard my dramatic sigh, she scurried out of the way, like it had never occurred to her that blocking the damn entrance could be a problem.
I classify these people who peeve me as clusterf***ers.
The clusterf***ers might just piss me off the most.
Although, The Moronic Drivers and The Assbags Who Wear Leggings As Pants, come in a very close second.
And just for a clarification, because people seem to be confused especially my dear reader, Duffy Lou, who is most certainly not an assbag, I'm talking when you wear your leggings like this:
This is a fashion don't.
As is this.
And this is a fashion super don't.
So, after I sighed the clusterf***er out of the way, we ambled over to the Apple store which was super packed.
I checked in while my hubby fondled Mac products.
While I was waiting for my Genius, I ignored all the computerly gadgets because my radar for all things Lovely and Fashionable honed in on something on the accessory wall. There in the middle of all the laptop sleeves and briefcases was this exquisite pinky-pink, so utterly girlie laptop bag made by the one and only Marc Jacobs. I fell in love instantly with its pinkness and the little bow knots tied at the corners of its handles and then! Then! As if it wasn't simply exquisite enough, the inside was layered in Mark's trademark kissy lip prints and I was all, "I MUST HAVE THIS BAG!' Oh, I loved it so much.
And I am in need of a new laptop bag, because I'm rather tough on my laptop carriers and the straps on my current leather briefcase are fraying like mad.
Sadly, I cannot find this Marc Jacobs bag's image on Google, but trust me when I say it was just perfect in its pink splendor.
And so, that is why I didn't hear the Genius calling my name because I was in the corner falling in love with a pink laptop bag.
Also because my Genius was pronouncing my name, "Jo Un. Jo Un. Jo Un."
It wasn't until my hubby blasted into my reverie, yelling from across the Apple store where he was busy fondling something Mac, with "HEY! JOANN! They're calling you!"
And so I regretfully put away the Marc Jacobs bit of gorgeousness and headed over to the Genius Bar.
And as it always goes in my world.
Guess who I got?
Not the dude with the plugs in his ears and his big head of fro pulled back by a headband.
And not the other genius with the hipster glasses and the khaki pants that were falling off his flat ass.
No.
I walked up to the Genius with the thick auburn hair and ice blue eyes who said, "Hellow Jo Un. How may I be of service to you today?"
I got the refined English accent Genius. And I'm not talking the, "Ello Govna." I'm talking the polished accent that says, "Yes, I am Prince William's third cousin and my family home is a castle where we spend the weekends fox hunting and having high tea."
Oh and he was just lovely, almost as lovely as that Mark Jacobs bag.
After I finished stuttering like Colin Firth, I told him my trackpad was having a life of its own.
And so he opened up my newest baby and plugged away and the sensory overload from the combination of his blue eyes, his English accent and that Mark Jacobs bag made everything just fly out of my head.
And so when he said, "What's your password, Luv?"
I went, "Uhhhhh. My password. Uhhhh."
I have the same password for everything. It's a word I have branded across my heart. The word that is engrained in me, as intrinsic as Bono's birthdate which is May 10th, 1960, by the way. And don't think if you're trying to break into my life and steal my identity that my password has anything to do with Bono because it doesn't.
Don't we make the cutest couple?
I had to yell to my hubby who was still fondling Mac gizmos and ask him my password. He gave me the same look as the time I closed my head in the trunk of the car.
And don't ask for that story. I thought my head was out of the way. It wasn't. I am an imbecile. End of story.
My Hubby looked at me with a mixture of fright and astonishment and gave the English Genius my password.
I was all, "Yeah, that's it."
And as I stood there, I managed to say, "I guess these new Macbook pros have trackpad issues."
And my lovely English Genius said, "Really? I haven't heard of any."
I immediately regained my composure and said, "Welllll, the dude on the phone knew exactly what I was talking about and it's all over the Mac forums."
And that's when the English Genius lost quite a bit of luster in my eyes.
He said in his beautiful English accent which I cannot mimic on paper so just imagine it if you will, "You can go on the Mac forums and find just about anything you want to hear. If someone has some weird issue with their D button, you can find enough people to make it a 'D button issue.'" And yes, he did air quote it.
Loyal To A Fault Corporate D Bags. Another pet peeve category of mine.
Really? Is Apple paying you that much money Mr. Genius that you feel the need to lie to me? Are you Steve Jobs's bestie? What?
I mumbled, "Well this is not a 'D Button Issue'. This is a real issue." I wanted to add, "You're the D button." But I didn't.
I signed the release papers, very annoyed and as he took my little Mac girl away, I said, "Bye Baby."
The English Genius did make up a little for his D Buttonness then by winking at me. (Man, I love it when a man winks. Not a creeper kind of wink from some gnarly guy who shouldn't be legally allowed to wink, but a sexy wink from a guy who knows exactly what he's doing.) So he gave me a sexy wink and said, "Want to give it a kiss before it goes?"
And I laughed but I deferred the kiss because I have my weirdness limits.
After I'd made up with the English Genius, I grabbed the Marc Jacobs bag and went in search of my hubs. I found him, get this, on a computer watching some gun video. The man is addicted to gun videos. Anything gun. Shooting, loading, assembling, whatever. Gun videos are his porn.
I interrupted his gun porn to show him this delightful bag. I mentioned Valentine's Day because I've learned to tell him where to buy my gifts and what to buy.
Because I don't need any more bustiers. I could supply a whole tribe of pirate girls with my gifts of bustiers.
And as I showed him the bag, he got that crinkled up expression, like he's smelling a rotting corpse, the same look he gets whenever I show him anything pink or bedazzled or I start talking about feelings.
He said, "That's the worst laptop bag I've ever seen."
And I was all, "Hush! It's beautiful and pink and full of lip kiss prints and it's Marc Jacobs."
And he was like, "It's made out of cloth and has no padding. Your laptop will get smashed the first time you use that, since you swing your briefcase around like it's a football and drop it constantly. (I could not argue with this true fact.) You need something stronger like mine."
His briefcase is this obnoxious thing on wheels with an extended luggage handle with about 4 quatrillion sections to it. And it's black and utilitarian looking with no lip prints whatsoever. It is Ugly with a capital U.
I was like, "But it's so pretty and it's . . . " At that point, I checked the price tag and even me, with my lack of sensibility when it comes to pretty and pink, was a little surprised.
I said casually "Just 358 bucks."
My hubby's crinkled gaze got even crinklier and it was in THAT, THAT very moment when the dude sitting at the computer next to my hubby's snorted and saaaaiiid . . . Are you ready?
"Yeah, he's not going to buy that for you."
This stranger. This FAT stranger was meddling in my business, my Marc Jacobs business!
I gave the fat guy my bitchiest glare as my hubs and he chortled in unified shock over "a piece of pink cloth, ridiculous rip off."
I now have a new number one category. Eavesdropping Ass Bags Who Meddle In My Business.
And because I am non-confrontational, even though I was infuriated, I simply huffed at the two of them, shot that stupid fatty the nastiest look I've got in my repertoire of dirty looks, whirled around and stomped off.
My hubs knew.
He came right after me and said, "Sorry. That guy was dumb. If you want the Marc Harmon bag we'll get it."
I said, "First of all, Mark Harmon is currently a pretend crime fighter and before that he was a pretend doctor. He has never made bags. And no, it's okay. You're right. It's not made for me and my klutzy ways. Besides, I'd rather have the one I already told you to buy for Valentine's Day."
He then looked at me and said, "What are you talking about?"
And that's when I remembered my fatal flaw. I sent him the link to the laptop bag in an email.
He doesn't open up my emails.
He's afraid of what he might find because usually, it's me, writing about my feelings.
And if there's one thing he hates more than talking about feelings, it is me writing about feelings.
After our Apple visit, we left the mall and went to dinner.
I didn't think we could possibly run into any more of my pet peeves categories because we weren't going to the movies where I would run into movie talkers and there wouldn't be a lot of gum snappers because hopefully, gum snappers take their gum out while eating dinner.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Not about the gum chewers, thank God, because that would have been a whole new category.
We had a bit of a wait at the restaurant, so my hubs and I had a cocktail at the bar. When the hostess came to get us, I followed her to our table while my hubs settled the bill.
As soon as I sat down, the woman at the table next to me laughed and it went through me like a bolt of lightning. Shrill and all cackle.
I figured somebody had just told a rip roaring funny joke.
But then she started talking or rather YELLING.
It went like this, "AND I TOLD HIS MOTHER THERE WAS NO WAY IN HELL MY BRIDESMAIDS WERE WEARING COBALT. IT'S SAGE OR THEY'RE GONNA BE NAKED."
And I thought, Who calls them cobalt and sage? It's effin' blue and green. I hate people who are smug with their colors.
I looked over at this obnoxious, smug-color chick. Her, what I assumed to be fiancee, was rubbing his face and most certainly thinking, "Dear God, this is the voice I have to wake up to every day of the rest of my eternal life."
Her two girlfriends were quietly answering her and it was almost like they were trying to lead by example.
She didn't get their example.
It was about that time my hubs showed up. I didn't say a word, hoping he wouldn't notice. Because he's the kind of guy who has no problem saying, "Hey, can you keep it down?"
I choked on my cocktail at that gem.
My hubs turned and stared in complete horror and said, "What in the hell is THAT?"
We both looked over at the loudmouth and that's when I realized she was wearing brick-red matte lipstick, way too dark for her fair skin. This girl could not offend me more if she tried. If it turned out that she was wearing leggings as pants, I was going to have to go over to her table and slap her, just for existing.
Thankfully, she was in a skirt.
She then informed her friends and the entire restaurant, 'WE'RE GETTING MARRIED IN SANFORD FLORIDA. YOU KNOW, LIKE SANFORD AND SONS."
When she started cackling, my hubs closed his eyes and said, "I can't do this."
Our waitress appeared then and we very politely asked her if we could be moved.
We sat at the other side of this restaurant where thankfully people were not cackling and yelling.
At one point during the conversation I noticed my hubby's eyes traveling up to my forehead.
He finally said, "You know your hair is crooked."
I was all, "My hair is crooked?"
And he said, "The hair in the front. What is that called?"
And I shot him his signature crinkled look and said, "My bangs?"
And he was like, "Yeah, your bangs are crooked. They're not straight across. They're . . . choppy."
I had just gotten my hair done that day.
I shook my head at my clueless husband and said, "They're supposed to be choppy. It's a pixie cut. It's all about the choppy."
And he was like, "But bangs are supposed to be straight and I would think for 200 bucks your hair should be straight."
This has and will always be a point of contention in our marriage.
My hubby thinks that shoes need to be sensible, laptop bags should be ugly and made by TV actors, I should be able to get ready in ten minutes just like him and haircuts should border around the ten buck range, because that's how he does it.
He speaks of sacrilege.
My hairdresser is one of the most important relationships in my life. She completes me.
She has special magic. Not only does she cut a kick-ass choppy pixie, keeping me light years away from the standard helmet-head mom cut. She also is the only one in the world who can make my hair this perfect cream, platinum color. I know this, because she got married and moved to Australia for a few years. I spent those years wandering the earth with a golden not cream, helmet head.
But she is back and the world is right again.
And for the record, my haircut is not 200 bucks but my Hubby likes to inflate everything to make it more dramatical, even though I constantly remind him that it is a mere 130 bucks for this kind of wonderful magic and no, I am not supposed to look like this:
After I schooled him on haircuts, the manager came over and asked us if this table was any better. I insisted that we're not picky people, even if we have expensive, crooked hair and that usually we don't complain.
And that's when he told me we were the second table who'd asked to be move away from her yelling.
Can you imagine? How can you go your whole life without anyone telling you, "You know, you've really got to learn how to speak instead of yell."
I know my hubs would have no problem telling me this.
Fortunately, I encountered no more pet peevey people for the rest of the night.
Yesterday was Valentines Day.
My hubs sent me an email.
It said, "I love you, crooked hair and all." Because he doesn't believe in cards. That would take up too much time and energy, plus it would cost him about three bucks. He could get half a haircut for that.
So he sent me this email along with an attachment—a receipt for my new laptop bag. The attachment he'd never opened. He'd also put this in the note, "It's no Mark Harmon, but it'll keep your laptop safe when you vault it across the car."
And then he came home and we had grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches, because Valentine's Day is the ONE day out the year we don't go out to eat. We leave that to the amateurs. And because nothing says love better than bacon.
The End.
Today's Definite Download: I don't watch the Grammy's because the Grammy's are bogus and it pisses me off. I'm pretty sure the Grammy voting panel is made up of prepubescent girls and senior citizens. Seriously. Every year, the winners astound me and not in a good way. I thought I'd made the right decision when my home news page showed Lady GaGa being carried in, inside a giant, translucent egg. I thought the Grammy's had hit a new low.
But I was wrong, only Lady GaGa had hit a new low.
I should have watched because this year, for the most part, the Grammy's got it right.
The amazing Arcade Fire shocked everyone by winning Best Album in a major upset.
It wasn't a major upset to me. That album was beautiful and so layered and so full of extraordinary music.
And then the brilliant and I do mean brilliant Esperanza Spalding beat out the Bieber for Best New Artist.
And shrieking girls around the world were outraged and lost their collective minds, sending death threats? to the poor Esperanza.
These girls are confused, this wasn't a Best Hair contest, it was a Best New Artist competition.
I don't listen to a lot of jazz even though I'm a big fan of that genre. But when I do, I listen to Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong, all the late greats. Except for Esperanza. I heard Esperanza last year for the first time when a friend turned me on to her.
Esperanza is only twenty something years old, a musical prodigy who self taught herself several instruments before she'd made it to kindergarten. She prefers the double bass, not something most women artists play.
Her voice soars, velvet loveliness as she strums her giant bass and gets lost in her world of music.
Here, just take a look for yourself.
"Baby, Baby, Baby Oh..." or Esperanza singing "Tell Him."
The Grammy's got it right.
I promise I will continue with vacation tales my next post, but before I do, I have a tale to tell you about my weekend and my Valentine's Day and to also give you this news flash: I am peeved by many sorts of people.
Once there was a girl, who grew very sad this weekend because her new baby Macbook Pro got sick and had to go to the Mac hospital.
Everything was working splendidly until last week when my trackpad stopped making an audible click. It still worked, it just didn't make the clicky sound. But then on Friday, I was busy
And I thought to myself, "What the hell? There really are little geek dudes living in my computer, just jacking me up for the hell of it!"
But then I googled trackpad issues, or at least I tried to google trackpad issues. It took me about one million attempts to get there. I'm sure the geeks in my computer were having a BALL in between bouts of beer pong and bong hits, saying "Take THAT! You're not googling crap! You're going to Clay Aiken's website, beyatch."
So the Baby had to go to the Apple store.
I called to make an appointment—which have I told you how much I love those hipster folks at Apple? I really do. They're all so nice and laid back and they say things like "wicked cool." And it doesn't matter how big the crowd gets in their store, (and trust me, it looks like the Million Man March on just a normal day there), they are never stressed.
The hipsters just stroll around the store with their iPads and their mini portable wi fi's registers shoved into the back pocket of their corduroys, giving people a head nod and a "Wassup?" (If you've never been in an Apple store, there are no cash registers, just the hipsters with their mini registers in their pants)
I'm thinking they must keep the vending machine stocked with magic brownies. It's the only explanation.
So anyway, I called them up and got a stoner/employee and after he took my vitals, he said, "So, wussup?"
I said, "Well, I think my trackpad needs an exorcism."
And he was all, "Ahhhh, the trackpad."
And I was like, "Yeah, I figured you knew about the trackpad."
And he said, "Totally."
So he set me up with a Genius Bar appointment for that evening.
My hubs and I entered the mall through our gigantatroid sporting goods store entrance.
And here's where I tell you about certain people and their ability to piss me off.
I am like an 80-year-old crotchety man with my pet peeves.
And I put people in categories, categories that peeve me.
Here, I'll give you an example.
As we tried to walk into the store, there was a woman blocking the entrance/exit. She was just standing there, totally immersed in her stupid cell phone, texting right in the middle of the doorway. No one could get around her.
This really pisses me off.
I don't understand how people can be that clueless. It happens everywhere, people just standing there immobile in the middle of a major hub, like the walkway of an airport or the crowded sidewalks of Disney World or the grocery store aisle or moving walkways or a busy city sidewalk or the SMACK DAB MIDDLE of the entrance/exit to one of the busiest stores in the mall. Please! Energize some of your limited brain cells and stand to the damn side. How hard is that?
And even though I get quite peeved at people, I am not a confrontational person. So, what did I do? I sighed very dramatically. Because a dramatic sigh is a good way to handle things. It's just enough to get your point across without people getting too ticked off. No one will confront a dramatic sigh. In all of my years of dramatic sighing, I've never had anyone say to me, "Are you sighing at me?"
And as soon as this imbecile heard my dramatic sigh, she scurried out of the way, like it had never occurred to her that blocking the damn entrance could be a problem.
I classify these people who peeve me as clusterf***ers.
The clusterf***ers might just piss me off the most.
Although, The Moronic Drivers and The Assbags Who Wear Leggings As Pants, come in a very close second.
And just for a clarification, because people seem to be confused especially my dear reader, Duffy Lou, who is most certainly not an assbag, I'm talking when you wear your leggings like this:
And this is a fashion super don't.
So, after I sighed the clusterf***er out of the way, we ambled over to the Apple store which was super packed.
I checked in while my hubby fondled Mac products.
While I was waiting for my Genius, I ignored all the computerly gadgets because my radar for all things Lovely and Fashionable honed in on something on the accessory wall. There in the middle of all the laptop sleeves and briefcases was this exquisite pinky-pink, so utterly girlie laptop bag made by the one and only Marc Jacobs. I fell in love instantly with its pinkness and the little bow knots tied at the corners of its handles and then! Then! As if it wasn't simply exquisite enough, the inside was layered in Mark's trademark kissy lip prints and I was all, "I MUST HAVE THIS BAG!' Oh, I loved it so much.
And I am in need of a new laptop bag, because I'm rather tough on my laptop carriers and the straps on my current leather briefcase are fraying like mad.
Sadly, I cannot find this Marc Jacobs bag's image on Google, but trust me when I say it was just perfect in its pink splendor.
And so, that is why I didn't hear the Genius calling my name because I was in the corner falling in love with a pink laptop bag.
Also because my Genius was pronouncing my name, "Jo Un. Jo Un. Jo Un."
It wasn't until my hubby blasted into my reverie, yelling from across the Apple store where he was busy fondling something Mac, with "HEY! JOANN! They're calling you!"
And so I regretfully put away the Marc Jacobs bit of gorgeousness and headed over to the Genius Bar.
And as it always goes in my world.
Guess who I got?
Not the dude with the plugs in his ears and his big head of fro pulled back by a headband.
And not the other genius with the hipster glasses and the khaki pants that were falling off his flat ass.
No.
I walked up to the Genius with the thick auburn hair and ice blue eyes who said, "Hellow Jo Un. How may I be of service to you today?"
I got the refined English accent Genius. And I'm not talking the, "Ello Govna." I'm talking the polished accent that says, "Yes, I am Prince William's third cousin and my family home is a castle where we spend the weekends fox hunting and having high tea."
Oh and he was just lovely, almost as lovely as that Mark Jacobs bag.
After I finished stuttering like Colin Firth, I told him my trackpad was having a life of its own.
And so he opened up my newest baby and plugged away and the sensory overload from the combination of his blue eyes, his English accent and that Mark Jacobs bag made everything just fly out of my head.
And so when he said, "What's your password, Luv?"
I went, "Uhhhhh. My password. Uhhhh."
I have the same password for everything. It's a word I have branded across my heart. The word that is engrained in me, as intrinsic as Bono's birthdate which is May 10th, 1960, by the way. And don't think if you're trying to break into my life and steal my identity that my password has anything to do with Bono because it doesn't.
I had to yell to my hubby who was still fondling Mac gizmos and ask him my password. He gave me the same look as the time I closed my head in the trunk of the car.
And don't ask for that story. I thought my head was out of the way. It wasn't. I am an imbecile. End of story.
My Hubby looked at me with a mixture of fright and astonishment and gave the English Genius my password.
I was all, "Yeah, that's it."
And as I stood there, I managed to say, "I guess these new Macbook pros have trackpad issues."
And my lovely English Genius said, "Really? I haven't heard of any."
I immediately regained my composure and said, "Welllll, the dude on the phone knew exactly what I was talking about and it's all over the Mac forums."
And that's when the English Genius lost quite a bit of luster in my eyes.
He said in his beautiful English accent which I cannot mimic on paper so just imagine it if you will, "You can go on the Mac forums and find just about anything you want to hear. If someone has some weird issue with their D button, you can find enough people to make it a 'D button issue.'" And yes, he did air quote it.
Loyal To A Fault Corporate D Bags. Another pet peeve category of mine.
Really? Is Apple paying you that much money Mr. Genius that you feel the need to lie to me? Are you Steve Jobs's bestie? What?
I mumbled, "Well this is not a 'D Button Issue'. This is a real issue." I wanted to add, "You're the D button." But I didn't.
I signed the release papers, very annoyed and as he took my little Mac girl away, I said, "Bye Baby."
The English Genius did make up a little for his D Buttonness then by winking at me. (Man, I love it when a man winks. Not a creeper kind of wink from some gnarly guy who shouldn't be legally allowed to wink, but a sexy wink from a guy who knows exactly what he's doing.) So he gave me a sexy wink and said, "Want to give it a kiss before it goes?"
And I laughed but I deferred the kiss because I have my weirdness limits.
After I'd made up with the English Genius, I grabbed the Marc Jacobs bag and went in search of my hubs. I found him, get this, on a computer watching some gun video. The man is addicted to gun videos. Anything gun. Shooting, loading, assembling, whatever. Gun videos are his porn.
I interrupted his gun porn to show him this delightful bag. I mentioned Valentine's Day because I've learned to tell him where to buy my gifts and what to buy.
Because I don't need any more bustiers. I could supply a whole tribe of pirate girls with my gifts of bustiers.
And as I showed him the bag, he got that crinkled up expression, like he's smelling a rotting corpse, the same look he gets whenever I show him anything pink or bedazzled or I start talking about feelings.
He said, "That's the worst laptop bag I've ever seen."
And I was all, "Hush! It's beautiful and pink and full of lip kiss prints and it's Marc Jacobs."
And he was like, "It's made out of cloth and has no padding. Your laptop will get smashed the first time you use that, since you swing your briefcase around like it's a football and drop it constantly. (I could not argue with this true fact.) You need something stronger like mine."
His briefcase is this obnoxious thing on wheels with an extended luggage handle with about 4 quatrillion sections to it. And it's black and utilitarian looking with no lip prints whatsoever. It is Ugly with a capital U.
I was like, "But it's so pretty and it's . . . " At that point, I checked the price tag and even me, with my lack of sensibility when it comes to pretty and pink, was a little surprised.
I said casually "Just 358 bucks."
My hubby's crinkled gaze got even crinklier and it was in THAT, THAT very moment when the dude sitting at the computer next to my hubby's snorted and saaaaiiid . . . Are you ready?
"Yeah, he's not going to buy that for you."
This stranger. This FAT stranger was meddling in my business, my Marc Jacobs business!
I gave the fat guy my bitchiest glare as my hubs and he chortled in unified shock over "a piece of pink cloth, ridiculous rip off."
I now have a new number one category. Eavesdropping Ass Bags Who Meddle In My Business.
And because I am non-confrontational, even though I was infuriated, I simply huffed at the two of them, shot that stupid fatty the nastiest look I've got in my repertoire of dirty looks, whirled around and stomped off.
My hubs knew.
He came right after me and said, "Sorry. That guy was dumb. If you want the Marc Harmon bag we'll get it."
I said, "First of all, Mark Harmon is currently a pretend crime fighter and before that he was a pretend doctor. He has never made bags. And no, it's okay. You're right. It's not made for me and my klutzy ways. Besides, I'd rather have the one I already told you to buy for Valentine's Day."
He then looked at me and said, "What are you talking about?"
And that's when I remembered my fatal flaw. I sent him the link to the laptop bag in an email.
He doesn't open up my emails.
He's afraid of what he might find because usually, it's me, writing about my feelings.
And if there's one thing he hates more than talking about feelings, it is me writing about feelings.
After our Apple visit, we left the mall and went to dinner.
I didn't think we could possibly run into any more of my pet peeves categories because we weren't going to the movies where I would run into movie talkers and there wouldn't be a lot of gum snappers because hopefully, gum snappers take their gum out while eating dinner.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Not about the gum chewers, thank God, because that would have been a whole new category.
We had a bit of a wait at the restaurant, so my hubs and I had a cocktail at the bar. When the hostess came to get us, I followed her to our table while my hubs settled the bill.
As soon as I sat down, the woman at the table next to me laughed and it went through me like a bolt of lightning. Shrill and all cackle.
I figured somebody had just told a rip roaring funny joke.
But then she started talking or rather YELLING.
It went like this, "AND I TOLD HIS MOTHER THERE WAS NO WAY IN HELL MY BRIDESMAIDS WERE WEARING COBALT. IT'S SAGE OR THEY'RE GONNA BE NAKED."
And I thought, Who calls them cobalt and sage? It's effin' blue and green. I hate people who are smug with their colors.
I looked over at this obnoxious, smug-color chick. Her, what I assumed to be fiancee, was rubbing his face and most certainly thinking, "Dear God, this is the voice I have to wake up to every day of the rest of my eternal life."
Her two girlfriends were quietly answering her and it was almost like they were trying to lead by example.
She didn't get their example.
It was about that time my hubs showed up. I didn't say a word, hoping he wouldn't notice. Because he's the kind of guy who has no problem saying, "Hey, can you keep it down?"
He didn't even have a chance to sit down.
"AND GUESS WHO'S COMING TO THE WEDDING? MY COLLEGE ROOMMATE, THE FAMOUS JOURNALIST FROM DALTON, GEORGIA, THE CARPET CAPITAL OF THE WORLD."
I choked on my cocktail at that gem.
My hubs turned and stared in complete horror and said, "What in the hell is THAT?"
Coughing, I managed to come out with, "She's planning her wedding. Famous people are coming and the bridesmaid dresses better be sage or the renowned journalist is going to have something to write about besides carpets."
Thankfully, she was in a skirt.
She then informed her friends and the entire restaurant, 'WE'RE GETTING MARRIED IN SANFORD FLORIDA. YOU KNOW, LIKE SANFORD AND SONS."
When she started cackling, my hubs closed his eyes and said, "I can't do this."
Our waitress appeared then and we very politely asked her if we could be moved.
We sat at the other side of this restaurant where thankfully people were not cackling and yelling.
At one point during the conversation I noticed my hubby's eyes traveling up to my forehead.
He finally said, "You know your hair is crooked."
I was all, "My hair is crooked?"
And he said, "The hair in the front. What is that called?"
And I shot him his signature crinkled look and said, "My bangs?"
And he was like, "Yeah, your bangs are crooked. They're not straight across. They're . . . choppy."
I had just gotten my hair done that day.
I shook my head at my clueless husband and said, "They're supposed to be choppy. It's a pixie cut. It's all about the choppy."
And he was like, "But bangs are supposed to be straight and I would think for 200 bucks your hair should be straight."
This has and will always be a point of contention in our marriage.
My hubby thinks that shoes need to be sensible, laptop bags should be ugly and made by TV actors, I should be able to get ready in ten minutes just like him and haircuts should border around the ten buck range, because that's how he does it.
He speaks of sacrilege.
My hairdresser is one of the most important relationships in my life. She completes me.
She has special magic. Not only does she cut a kick-ass choppy pixie, keeping me light years away from the standard helmet-head mom cut. She also is the only one in the world who can make my hair this perfect cream, platinum color. I know this, because she got married and moved to Australia for a few years. I spent those years wandering the earth with a golden not cream, helmet head.
But she is back and the world is right again.
And for the record, my haircut is not 200 bucks but my Hubby likes to inflate everything to make it more dramatical, even though I constantly remind him that it is a mere 130 bucks for this kind of wonderful magic and no, I am not supposed to look like this:
After I schooled him on haircuts, the manager came over and asked us if this table was any better. I insisted that we're not picky people, even if we have expensive, crooked hair and that usually we don't complain.
And that's when he told me we were the second table who'd asked to be move away from her yelling.
Can you imagine? How can you go your whole life without anyone telling you, "You know, you've really got to learn how to speak instead of yell."
I know my hubs would have no problem telling me this.
Fortunately, I encountered no more pet peevey people for the rest of the night.
Yesterday was Valentines Day.
My hubs sent me an email.
It said, "I love you, crooked hair and all." Because he doesn't believe in cards. That would take up too much time and energy, plus it would cost him about three bucks. He could get half a haircut for that.
So he sent me this email along with an attachment—a receipt for my new laptop bag. The attachment he'd never opened. He'd also put this in the note, "It's no Mark Harmon, but it'll keep your laptop safe when you vault it across the car."
And then he came home and we had grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches, because Valentine's Day is the ONE day out the year we don't go out to eat. We leave that to the amateurs. And because nothing says love better than bacon.
The End.
Today's Definite Download: I don't watch the Grammy's because the Grammy's are bogus and it pisses me off. I'm pretty sure the Grammy voting panel is made up of prepubescent girls and senior citizens. Seriously. Every year, the winners astound me and not in a good way. I thought I'd made the right decision when my home news page showed Lady GaGa being carried in, inside a giant, translucent egg. I thought the Grammy's had hit a new low.
But I was wrong, only Lady GaGa had hit a new low.
I should have watched because this year, for the most part, the Grammy's got it right.
The amazing Arcade Fire shocked everyone by winning Best Album in a major upset.
It wasn't a major upset to me. That album was beautiful and so layered and so full of extraordinary music.
And then the brilliant and I do mean brilliant Esperanza Spalding beat out the Bieber for Best New Artist.
And shrieking girls around the world were outraged and lost their collective minds, sending death threats? to the poor Esperanza.
These girls are confused, this wasn't a Best Hair contest, it was a Best New Artist competition.
I don't listen to a lot of jazz even though I'm a big fan of that genre. But when I do, I listen to Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong, all the late greats. Except for Esperanza. I heard Esperanza last year for the first time when a friend turned me on to her.
Esperanza is only twenty something years old, a musical prodigy who self taught herself several instruments before she'd made it to kindergarten. She prefers the double bass, not something most women artists play.
Her voice soars, velvet loveliness as she strums her giant bass and gets lost in her world of music.
Here, just take a look for yourself.
"Baby, Baby, Baby Oh..." or Esperanza singing "Tell Him."
The Grammy's got it right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
